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Chapter Text

“I’m home!” Harry sang tunelessly, opening up the door to the shared flat. “And today was the worst, Tom, you wouldn’t believe it.” 

His sweet, beloved husband called back from the kitchen, speaking loudly over the sound of pots and pans. “Did Spinnet show you up on a raid today again, dear?”

Harry scowled in the doorway at his petty, bullying husband as he kicked off his shoes and watched them float towards their shared shoe-rack, even knowing that Tom couldn’t see his face. “Not much even Spinnet could show me up on, is there? Stuck behind a desk doing bloody paperwork all day. Even Kingsley looked ready to tear out his hair, and he doesn’t have hair to spare!”

The smell of something delicious was wafting out of the kitchen, and as Harry stepped in and gave his snarky, ridiculous husband a kiss, he felt the stress of the day begin to melt off of him. “What’s for dinner tonight? Smells amazing.”

Tom hummed, pleased, but always making Harry work for his answers. With a wandless twist of Tom’s wrist, the straps of Tom’s apron came undone, the ribbons loosely blocking Harry’s eyes. “What does it smell like to you?”

Harry and Tom both had grown up without enough to eat. In Harry, as an adult, it had led to him willingly eating whatever was put in front of him, no matter how it tasted. But as soon as Tom had become an adult, he refused to let the contents of his meals stray out of his control – he sourced his ingredients himself, painstakingly preparing every meal, constantly improving his culinary techniques to create what he and Harry had deserved as malnourished children at the mercy of cruel, thoughtless adults.

Harry may not have turned out the same, but he understood nonetheless, and who was he to complain about wonderful home-cooked meals? He definitely wasn’t picking up on all of the intricacies of what they ate the way Tom encouraged him too, but he tried his best, and Tom really wasn’t that hard to please as long as Harry took him seriously. 

“Meat roasting, definitely.” Harry answered out loud, eyes screwed shut behind the ribbons, pausing thoughtfully. “It smells a bit like alcohol - brandy, maybe? There’s something fruity, too. Figs?”

“Very well done, dear, though not fully correct,” said Tom, sounding genuinely impressed. Harry pushed the ribbons away from his eyes, grinning widely. “Tonight’s dinner is spit-roasted pork loin stuffed with Armagnac-soaked prunes and pistachios, with Tokyo turnips, buttery Savoy cabbage, and straw potato cake on the side. Huckleberry ice cream for dessert, if you’re good.” 

“You spoil me,” Harry sighed, the last of the tension leaving his body. He shrugged off his Auror robes and rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt. “Need any help with the final touches?”

Dinner was incredible, as it always was. Harry’s lunches were messy, hurried bites of whatever Tom had packed for him, but their shared dinners were special. As always, Tom watched Harry take his first bite before beginning to eat himself, watching Harry chew his first cut of pork with a proud gleam in his eyes. Harry gave him an appreciative nod at the absolute explosion of flavor, mouth too full to speak, and finally, Tom began to cut into his own meal.

But after they both had started eating, their conversations turned to the mundane day-to-day of a lead Auror and the most in-demand mind-healer in all of Britain. 

“Sorry for bitching about my day first thing,” said Harry, cutting up another bite of pork loin. He wasn’t really very sorry – Tom would’ve cut him off mid-sentence without guilt if Harry’s rambling and whining was actually bothersome, so Harry would continue to complain about his work as often as he wanted. “How was work for you?”

Tom lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Today was a client’s final session with me, which is rewarding. She’s doing leaps and bounds better than she once was, and I’m optimistic she won’t need to return. But another patient continues to be so…”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Obsessive? Again?”

“Yes,” Tom sighed. “Neurotic, anxious, overly agreeable, fixated on how others perceive him. I don’t believe he thinks he needs mind-healing, though it’s undoubtedly necessary; he wants these sessions for the sake of bragging about our acquaintance to the pureblooded crowd he wishes to emulate. And yet he feels the need to be invasive into my personal life, to try and take my own interests and preferences as his own. It’s in quite poor taste.”

“Sounds like a wackjob,” Harry agreed, tentatively trying the cabbage. It was delicious, of course, a far cry from the boiled cabbage he’d made with Aunt Petunia’s old cookbooks. “Daddy issues, maybe. Or maybe mommy issues, actually. What is this, the third fanboy this year?”

“Unfortunately, people who sign up for mind-healing often do need mental help,” Tom said wryly. “The other two are doing better than they were, from what I see. I’m encouraging them to channel their focus in some more productive ways.”

“Like ceramics or scrapbooking or something?” 

“Or something. And why were you doing paperwork all day?” Tom asked, diverting the conversation. “Another snag in the Umbridge case?”

Harry frowned. “Please don’t say her name. I wasn’t supposed to tell that to you, and Kingsley will Crucio me if he finds out I’ve mentioned any case details to you.”

Tom rolled his eyes, looking predictably offended. “As if I’d give up your secrets to the likes of Kingsley. Perhaps I'd cave to Spinnet, though. I hear she’s quite the talented Auror.”

“She shows me up one time, and you’ll never let me forget it,” Harry sighed. “But yeah, it is the Umbridge case. We found more evidence linking her to the suffocation killings, but that whole thing is being monitored by another department that she’s got her fucking thumbs in, and now we need to get the damn Minister’s approval to move forward on this if we don’t want to let her know we’re onto her.”

Tom tilted his head sympathetically. “I do see the importance of doing this by the book, though it certainly isn’t preferable. Imagine if she got off on a technicality after all the harm she’s done.”

Harry stabbed at his cabbage. “Of course we need an ironclad case here, but every day wasted is another opportunity for her to fuck up more people’s lives. She’s evil, Tom, really.”

Harry was leading the investigation into the most recent string of political assassinations, unusual in their cruelty when magic allowed for quick, easy deaths. Outspoken political opponents of Umbridge, from creatures rights activists to Muggleborn education campaign leaders, were being found with their mouths and noses sealed over by their own skin, slowly suffocated in their offices.

There had been six victims so far. One had been in the year below Harry at Hogwarts.

The whole thing was miserable to work on, and it took all of Harry’s self-control to not take matters into his own hands and stop Umbridge himself, whether it meant illegally smuggling her to Azkaban or strangling her with his bare hands.

“Oh, and don’t know if I told you,” Harry added. “Kingsley’s been driving me crazy with another case. He’s dead certain that it’s a Voldemort kill.”

Tom’s eyes shot up from his plate immediately, eyebrows raised. “You did not tell me.”

“Same markers, same staging, same killer, according to Kingsley,” said Harry with a nod, punctuating each point with a wave of his knife. 

“And what do you think?” Tom asked, sounding almost eager. Harry grinned despite himself. 

This was part of why they got along so well. Tom seemed all prim and proper on the surface, but they were both cut from the same cloth, both fucked up orphans who’d been exposed to too much violence to be normal, drawn to intense careers with intensely high stakes. Neither wished for violence, obviously – they’d both gone into careers that tried to fix things instead of break them, though Tom’s job played more into his control-freak tendencies in contrast to Harry’s Auror job complementing his recklessness – but humanity’s potential for darkness remained a shared morbid fascination.

“I think he’s full of shit,” answered Harry conspiratorially in a voice near a whisper, laughing at the playfully scandalized look Tom responded with.

“Pray tell me more, dearest,” said Tom, leaning forward and grinning. “Amaze me with your insight.”

“Well,” started Harry, putting down his silverware and preparing for a lecture. “This new kill has a lot of the markers of a Voldemort kill on paper. There’s no magical signature that we can trace, and it’s clean by Muggle forensics, too. There are the traditional trophies taken from the victim, with key missing organs. The transfigurations are precise. The killer clearly tried to storytell the way that Voldemort does, too – there’s a whole staging element going on, and it’s even got some of that classic Voldemort snake imagery to tie the whole thing together.”

“Sounds like Kingsley has some pretty strong evidence,” hummed Tom playfully.

“On paper, ” Harry agreed, acquiescing with a nod. “But everything else is just wrong. ”

Outside of their home, Harry would never speak this openly about Voldemort – he knew how he came across, knew that his passionate opinions on Voldemort’s precision and artistry came across as admiring, knew that it was completely inappropriate for a member of the Auror force to ever come remotely close to complimenting one of the most prolific serial killers of their time. 

But Tom wouldn’t hold it against him. Tom would understand.

“I mean, let’s compare tableaus,” said Harry. “The latest Voldemort kill, at least in my opinion, would be Romilda Vane. Do you remember that one?”

Tom nodded. “Found in Hogsmeade? With the water motif?”

“Exactly! She was found with water lilies and alligatorweed growing out of her scalp and woven into her hair, and a living, transfigured watersnake in place of her tongue. Her eyes were kept in place, but the irises were replaced with freshwater pearls. And the setting of it was precisely, masterfully done – everything below her knees was gone, but Voldemort set it up so it looked like she was just stepping out of the water, with ripples and reflections in the cobblestone around her. That’s more than murder and staging at that point.” 

Harry’s voice had risen in pitch, but he didn’t care enough to slow down. “Voldemort paints a scene that he’s in complete and utter control of, with nothing left to chance. His command of magic is incredibly precise on a level we’ve never seen from any other killer. And his tableaus are artistic, at least to some extent – he glorifies his subjects, even as he punishes them. He elevates his victims to something greater than what they were in life – he sees something in them, some spark of potential that would shine best if they were dead and in his hands rather than living their own separate, uninspired lives.”

Tom tilted his head, processing. “And what was Romilda Vane elevated to, in his eyes?”

“A naiad, I think,” Harry responded. “Kingsley doesn’t agree – he thinks the river theme throughout this kill is political, that it’s a statement about River Whitlock becoming head of the Muggle Liaison office.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly like seeing and creating beauty,” said Tom skeptically. “I can see how you and Kingsley have been in conflict.”

“Yeah, total bullshit,” said Harry. “Politics are too pedestrian for Voldemort – if he wanted to make a statement, he’d do that on his own time away from his serial killer shtick, but his kills are meant to be a performance .”

Tom raised a brow in distaste at the word “shtick,” probably disapproving of Harry’s cavalier attitude, but Harry continued on.

“Vane was made into a river god, beautiful and inhuman. Every modified part of her is tied with freshwater, almost as if she’s been baptized and reborn. The focal point isn’t the green algae around her wrists – Kingsley thinks that it’s some sort of handcuff to imprison her in death, but to Voldemort, it’s a bracelet. It’s further adornment, meant to be worthy of a mythological deity.”

“Organic accessorizing,” mused Tom out loud. “A curious habit for a river god.”

His eyes were intent on Harry, perpetually fascinated by seeing his mind at work, always proud of Harry’s instinctual understanding of the most extreme cruelties and unforgivable sins. Harry would have struggled to hold this job without Tom encouraging him to lean into the darkness that came to him so naturally – he had once feared that his intuitive comprehension said something awful about him, that only a monster could understand other monsters, that it was only a matter of time until his understanding of evil morphed into becoming something evil himself. Without Tom, Harry probably would have left the Auror force long ago, switching to politics or teaching, something sanitized and soul-crushingly boring.

“What do you see as the focal point, if not the bracelets?” asked Tom.

Harry hesitated before speaking again. He had already shared far too much confidential information, and somehow, speaking so openly about what he saw in Voldemort’s work felt vulnerable, as if speaking honestly meant revealing something raw and depraved. 

But Tom hadn’t failed to understand him yet, and part of Harry thought that Tom might see the beauty in Voldemort’s work, too.

“I think the focal point is the eyes,” Harry continued quietly. “In life, Romilda coveted something that wasn’t hers. Voldemort appreciated her eye for beauty, even if he didn’t think she deserved whatever it was she desired. He killed her for her greed, but he replaced her eyes with the pearls so that she could only see beauty, so that her view of this world and all of its dirtiness would only be in the reflections of a pearl’s iridescence.”

Tom listened with quiet satisfaction, nodding in encouragement.

Harry continued on, encouraged. “In transforming her to a naiad in her river, Voldemort also ensured she can never covet something that’s not hers again. Everything beautiful about her is from her own river. She’s been given her own world to control, a world with both loveliness and danger, where everything she sees is hers to take — in return, she’s unable to ever leave her river.”

“Does Voldemort see himself as a noble vigilante?” asked Tom, face unreadable. “Finding sinners and deciding upon the proper punishment for their crimes?

Harry dismissed that with a shake of his head. “His moral code isn’t that strict. Whatever Romilda wanted was something Voldemort was protective over, or it was something he wanted for himself. He has nothing against avarice himself – it’s the slight against him that’s so offensive.”

“Fascinating,” whispered Tom in response, voice reverent. 

Harry felt his face grow hot, somehow still flustered by the clear devotion in Tom’s words despite having been married to him for years.

“Meanwhile,” Harry continued, clearing his throat and trying to will the blush off of his face. “The other killer’s victim was found with scales that melded her hands to the floor of their home, and our autopsy found she was missing her uterus. The killer had grown a tail on the victim, too, and had fed it into her mouth like an Ouroboros.”

“It seems more akin to a hate crime than one of Voldemort’s kills,” said Tom, looking distinctly unimpressed. “Was the victim in some sort of job that necessitates spending time with repressed younger men?”

Harry was sure that Tom would thrive on the Auror force, even if Tom was content with his private practice. “Got it in one. She was a prostitute at the Griffin Gentlemen's Club. I think the killer got too attached to her, got rejected, and lashed out at her. Honestly, the staging requires magical skill, but no forethought at all – I think it was done after the fact to make it seem like a Voldemort kill.”

“Might as well,” said Tom. “The crime has already been committed. Why not throw off suspicion?”

“The most horrible thing is that it’s working,” Harry groaned, slumping. “Kingsley’s not completely gone mental – he acknowledges it could definitely be some spurned club visitor – but he’s really set on this being a Voldemort kill, and that’s absolutely his priority path. On top of the whole Umbridge thing, I feel like all day, I’ve just been wasting my time going down the most unnecessary avenues.”

Tom frowned, concerned. “If the word gets out that the Auror force is attributing an unsophisticated kill to Voldemort, I imagine he would see that as an insult. I hope Kingsley can keep this under wraps to avoid provoking the real Voldemort.”

Harry grimaced. “I think it’s already too late for that. Kingsley’s planning on holding a press conference – thinks he can spur Voldemort into some sort of response that would let us catch him, whether he killed the prostitute or not.”

“Tasteless,” muttered Tom darkly, looking disconcerted. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Harry smiled sadly, reaching his hand across the table to hold onto Tom’s own. “That’s the job. At least we’re putting real resources towards this last one – it’s the Umbridge case that’s more frustrating.”

With a shake of his head, Tom squeezed Harry’s hand. “I’m sure the Umbridge case will be resolved soon, dear.”

“You think?” asked Harry, tilting his head playfully. “You’re an expert on the Ministry bureaucracy all of a sudden?”

Tom scoffed, letting go of Harry’s hand and picking up his silverware again. “Just a gut feeling,” he said. “But no more talk of Umbridge and her idiocy. Tell me more about how Kingsley’s been – perhaps we should have him for dinner sometime soon.”

Harry rolled his eyes, endeared. Tom and his dinner parties. 

After the insanity that was his workday, Harry took a second to acknowledge the real relief of always having his loving, stable husband to anchor him in typical domesticity at the end of the day.

It was a night like every other.

***

Umbridge lathered Sleakeazy’s Overnight Hair Serum through her hair, humming absently under her breath. She had plans to set up a meeting with another nasty little man who had a bit too much to say to Skeeter in the press about Umbridge’s “dubious credentials,” claims that Umbridge would love to be buried six feet under as soon as possible. But between killing her political opponents and working very, very hard as the Undersecretary for the Minister, she so rarely had real time for herself, and she had decided that tonight was to be a self-care night. 

Fluffing up her bathrobe, Umbridge walked out to her living room, met by a cacophony of mewls from the kittens painted on her walls. She would never own a cat, of course — the real deal required far too much upkeep, and she heard they could be so temperamental and destructive — but as a bit of noisy decor, they never failed to brighten her day. She wasn’t quite sure how to spend the rest of her night. Perhaps she would read a fashion magazine, or read one of her newest smutty paperbacks. She hadn’t been able to score a date in a while (which was increasingly grating — how were so many of the handsome men at the Ministry already in relationships? ), but the chiseled young man who winked and smirked at her on the cover of The Warlock’s Wildest Temptation had been on her mind recently…  

Yes, it was decided – she would do some light reading. She picked up the book from where it was resting on her coffee table, enjoying watching the man on the cover tear his shirt open, getting more dramatic with his movements now that Umbridge was watching him.

She had only made it through the first few chapters when the sound of something shattering in her kitchen startled her out of her chair.

Must be one of those damn dancing teacups, thought Umbridge, throwing her book down onto the seat in frustration. They had looked sweet in the owl-order catalogue as they pirouetted across the pages, but upon purchasing them, her teacups had been more inclined to tap-dance off of her counters with all the grace and self-awareness of blind, suicidal madmen on the edge of a cliff instead of sweetly spinning into her hands.

Sure enough, as she stormed into the kitchen, a porcelain teacup was shattered in front of her kitchen sink, the handle vaguely twitching as if still trying to muster the energy for another infernally self-destructive dance.

Umbridge patted her robe’s pockets, feeling around for her wand to vanish the shards – had she left it in the living room? 

But before she could turn around, she felt the tip of a wand press against her neck, and with a muttered incantation from behind her, she dropped to the floor in a dead slump before even registering any fear.

***

Umbridge woke up to strong hands cradling her face and the drop-dead gorgeous celebrity mind-healer Tom Riddle looking deeply into her eyes.

Her heart fluttered weakly in her chest. The Tom Riddle, holding her so carefully, with such loving concern in his eyes? She couldn’t quite remember how she had gotten into this situation, but Tom Riddle must have saved her from whatever strangeness had knocked her out. She had once requested to be one of his patients, eager for the status boost his associates experienced and confident she could angle her way to a personal connection through the doctor-patient weekly sessions, but she had been turned away, sparking a simmering resentment of the man. But somehow, the sight of him so close to her had filled her with nothing but lust – now this was a man worthy of her, far more than any fictional paperback heartthrob.

“Are you awake?” murmured Tom Riddle quietly, glowing wand tip shining a soft light into her eyes. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him, as he dropped his hold onto her face and stepped back. “Good evening, Madame Umbridge.”

“Good evening, Mr. Riddle,” replied Umbridge automatically. “Thank you for checking in on me.”

At that moment, she realized a few things.

She was in her bedroom, in the privacy of her own home.

She had no recollection of letting in Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle was holding her wand, twirling it carelessly between his gloved fingers.

And she was strapped down to her own armchair, the wooden arms and legs of the seat spiralling around her limbs to hold her firmly in place.

Something was very off.

“What’s going on?” said Umbridge, unable to suppress the panic from her voice. “Did someone break in? Are you here to help me?”

Tom laughed out loud at that. “Not at all! And honestly, I’d rather not spend any more time than I have to in your atrociously decorated bedroom, with its poor collection of trashy literature and embroidered pink kittens on every throw pillow. No, I’m here because I’d like you to send a message to a few people.”

Umbridge nodded frantically, very alarmed. “I’m a very clear communicator. I’m sure I can send off the messages you need to your satisfaction! There’s no need for the restraints, please.”

Tom ignored her, pacing slowly in front of her, Umbridge’s stolen wand looping lazily through his long, slender fingers. 

“Firstly, I’d like to send a message to the Ouroboros killer, who’s delusional enough to think he could try to assume the feared name of Voldemort with his pitiful attempts at murder. I’d like for him to see that he’s dramatically inferior to the real thing, and make it clear to the idiots who run the Auror department that the fool who banally murders whores and dresses up their corpses in scales cannot compare to Voldemort’s thoughtful artistry and unprecedented magical control.”

Umbridge blinked rapidly. She wasn’t quite sure how she was supposed to contact the Ouroboros killer even to save her life, and seeing the distinguished Tom Riddle wax poetic about the crazy serial killer Voldemort made her question if she was actually awake.

“And,” said Tom, his voice softening. “I’d like your help in sending a message to my dear husband, Harry. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”

Umbridge nodded wordlessly. She had heard of him – first as a romantic rival from when she had entertained hopes of seducing Tom Riddle, then as a political rival who found time to speak against her legislation in the Wizengamot, and most recently as a very real threat to her little murdering spree whom she had been idly contemplating how to deal with for weeks. 

“I love him so much,” said Tom fervently, dropping to his knees in front of Umbridge and holding her face in his hands once again. “I love him. I live for him. Nobody has ever understood me the way he does. He gives me purpose. He challenges me. He is brilliant, and I will never deserve all of the love he has given me.”

Umbridge watched on in horror. There was something truly manic in Tom’s eyes, something perverted and sick and twisted, something that had every single primal instinct in her screaming that she needed to get away right this second.

“He does not deserve to have a husband who hides anything from him,” Tom continued. “You will help me show him who I am.”

“And who are you?” whispered Umbridge, voice cracking. A drop of sweat slowly, torturously ran down her back, but she felt that if she made any move to dispel it, the man might just snap her neck for the slight.

Tom smiled too widely. “Lord Voldemort, of course.”

It was unbelievable. It was such a ridiculous premise that Umbridge futilely tried once again to wake herself up from this insane nightmare, refusing to believe that this could be real.

“I’m going to kill you, Madame Umbridge,” said Voldemort. “And through your death, my darling Harry will see Voldemort even more clearly. And with every subsequent death, he will be one step closer to finding me out, until the day comes when he discovers that his husband has been Voldemort all along, and there will be no more lies between us.”

“He’s an Auror,” gasped Umbridge, incredulous. “He’ll arrest you! Please, you don’t have to do this!”

Voldemort hand-waved that away. “Did you know that he’s never called Voldemort a monster to me? Never mourned the lives lost, never expressed any hatred of him? No, he finds my work beautiful , and I know that one day, we’ll create beautiful work together. ”

Umbridge stuttered over a response, but Voldemort wasn’t listening anymore. One hand stroked Umbridge’s hair lightly, as if soothing an animal before the slaughter.

“He loves Voldemort already, even if he doesn’t know it yet,” he whispered. “And he is so beautiful in his love.”

It was the last straw for Umbridge. She began to cry, great heaving sobs, her vision clouded over and oh god, would her last moments be a torturous death at the hands of a madman? It could not end here – there were so many things she wanted to accomplish, so much she had hoped to experience. She could not die alone at the hands of an insane serial killer in her own bedroom. It would be too unfair.

“I think I’ll eat your heart,” said Voldemort, pointing Umbridge’s stolen wand towards her forehead.

And Umbridge knew no more.

***

The crime scene had stopped Harry in his tracks.

He had been told by Kingsley during their initial briefing that the victim was Dolores Umbridge (sending a horrible flicker of joy through him that he had immediately felt ashamed of), but he never would have known without the forensic verification of her identity. After all, the body had no head.

All that was present on the scene was an older woman’s naked torso, arms intact but without legs, left in a marshy field of puddles and dirt. 

As he watched, the torso dragged itself from puddle to puddle, torturously slow, arm muscles straining and twitching as they grabbed onto the damp soil to propel their body forward. The muscles seemed to be tiring with every movement, getting increasingly taut, but they could not cease in their struggle – the weary fingers scrabbled for purchase in the muddy dirt, pulled their heavy body forward, and continued, leaving discarded clumps of earth behind. 

Upon reaching a puddle, the hands would desperately cup the water, tilting it towards their missing neck as if to drink the only source of water in a barren desert, only for the water to drip down the body’s naked torso and leave the ground even muddier beneath it.

As puddles began to slowly repopulate, Umbridge’s torment seemed never ending, and Harry imagined that even when the body’s muscles tore and became unusable, her fingers would still be twitching forward, still desperately trying to pull the dead weight behind her. 

It was grotesque. It held none of the glamour of the Romilda Vane tableau, with no shiny baubles or underwater flora to give the scene any appearance of attractiveness.

But fuck, it was beautiful in its starkness , and Harry was embarrassed to come back to himself and find his cheeks wet with awed tears.

“I know,” said Kingsley grimly beside him. “It’s horrible.”

Harry wiped the dampness off of his face with the sleeve of his robes, nodding and ducking his head. “Yeah. Really awful stuff.”

Kingsley patted his shoulder awkwardly, never really comfortable with Harry’s emotional outbursts at Voldemort’s scenes. “Tell me what you see when you’re ready. Take your time.”

Harry shut his eyes firmly, focusing. Behind his eyelids, Umbridge’s body continued its hopeless search, frantic and despairing. 

“He’s not elevating Umbridge, that’s for sure,” said Harry. “But he really doesn’t care for her enough to truly hate her, either. She’s a vessel for him.”

Harry had predicted this motive from a mile away, from the second Kingsley had entertained the idea of the Ouroboros killer and Voldemort being one and the same. “He hates whoever killed the Griffin’s Club prostitute, though, and he hates that you spread the narrative that such an inexperienced killer could be Voldemort. He thinks you’re desperate to catch Voldemort, but you’re not capable of doing anything with any of the evidence you work so hard to obtain. You tear yourself apart for this case until your muscles fall from your bones, but you don’t even have a head to drink the water you pull yourself towards. You’re Tantalus, punished to always reach for what you need and never obtain it.”

Harry opened his eyes to glance towards Kingsley, feeling confident in his reading of the scene. The man’s shoulders were slumped, his lips pale — he looked like a completely different person compared to the confident man who had met him at the crime scene. At Harry’s continued silence, Kingsley straightened himself up, as if sensing the pity behind his scrutiny. “Tell me more about Tantalus?”

“Er, he’s from Greek mythology,” said Harry quickly, feeling a bit discomfited at Kingsley’s clear agitation. Voldemort mocking the man assigned to catch him was not unexpected or new, but as Harry relayed his message, he felt almost complicit in the taunting. “He fed the gods his dead son, and he was punished by being sent to Tartarus. He stood in a pool of water that would recede when he bent to drink, directly under a fruit tree with branches that would raise themselves out of his reach when he tried to eat.”

Kingsley shook his head, disgusted. “You’re sure it’s Voldemort? There’s no snake in this scene, and we know that’s a traditional marker of his tableaus.”

“Absolutely sure,” said Harry, voice firm. “There will be a snake when you do a full autopsy of the body. In place of her heart, I think – to tell you that you’re heartless for announcing the most recent kill as a Voldemort kill when it should have been clear that it would only inspire more murder, that your desire to find Voldemort has surpassed your empathy.”

Kingsley deflated in front of Harry’s eyes. “It had so many of the same markers. It would have been the closest thing to a slip-up from Voldemort, if it had been him. It could have been a breakthrough.”

“But it wasn’t him,” Harry said, a bit more bluntly than he’d meant to. “Look at the difference in skill here. Voldemort has automated a fully dead corpse and given it a complicated mission that it executes without him here to maintain the spell. That’s an amazing display of magic.”

Kingsley shook his head violently. “I don’t see anything amazing about it, Potter.”

Harry cringed, immediately regretting the slip of tongue. “Sorry, sir. Voldemort is a more proficient magic user – that’s all I meant.”

“Head back to the office,” ordered Kingsley, upper lip curled. “I need a report with your profile on this ASAP. Get out of here.” 

Kingsley marched away, leaving Harry alone next to the body. He gave it one final glance before he would be left with nothing but photos and autopsied limbs to appreciate, preserving its image in his mind while the body was still fresh.

It is strange, though, thought Harry, tilting his head and frowning at the scene. Is the body crawling in the shape of a cartoon heart?

It was too strange to consider deeply – something so childishly cutesy and lovey-dovey was very much out of place at the sophisticated scenes that Voldemort left behind.

Refusing to think on it any further, he apparated away a few moments later, mourning the many pages of paperwork in his immediate future.

Chapter Text

Barty Crouch Jr.’s tongue flicked out of his mouth, licking up the spittle that had escaped during his crazed rant. Tom watched on silently, a vague sense of detached amusement warring with his initial disgust. 

“It seems your father is quite resistant to your aspirations, then,” said Tom, voice soothing and comforting. “How does your mother feel?”

Barty shook his head violently, an effect that looked more like an uncontrollable twitch than a typical expression of disagreement. “She won’t be honest with me, not in front of him. She barely even talks anymore, not since the last time Father cursed her for speaking up about me.”

“I want you to try what we’ve been practicing,” interjected Tom, cutting off Barty before another rant could begin. “Try to tell me about how you feel as if you were your father. Try on his demeanor. Speak in his voice. Mimic his mannerisms. You’ve been making great progress, Barty.”

Barty twitched violently again, then nodded. 

As if a switch had flipped, Barty changed his energy completely. His jitters and tics seemed to wash away, his hunched posture suddenly straightening into something cold and regal. His tense, furious expression faded into an impersonally authoritative sneer, all within only a few seconds.

This was what Tom enjoyed most about Barty. Despite having such distinct mannerisms, Barty could shed them completely when properly encouraged, stepping into someone else’s skin with shocking ease.

Tom had very grand plans for how Barty could use this talent – all for the sake of Barty’s effective therapy, of course.

“Father is a mindless, blathering fool,” said Barty, his voice clear and cold. “His cruelty to Mother and me has become increasingly public, and yet his Ministry peers deign to blindly treat him as a paragon of virtue. When even his associates in law enforcement seem disinclined to act in our defense, I struggle to see a reasonable solution, short of taking matters into my own hands.”

Tom tilted his head. “Well done, Barty. Does it provide a bit of clarity to speak in his voice?”

Barty hunched again and gave a crooked smile, returning back to his real self. “Clarity, yeah. I’m very clear on how I feel about him.”

Tom smiled graciously. “If you wouldn’t mind, Barty, would you open your mind for a moment? I’d like to see the most recent incident with your mother.”

Barty leaned forward, opening his eyes wide. Carefully, Tom rested his fingers on Barty’s temples – the physical contact was far from required for a Legilimens of his skill, but he found it made others feel less suspicious about Tom reading their minds without their knowledge – and dove into the boy’s mind.

The scene Barty projected was mundane – though Barty’s fury and terror came across quite clearly, Tom simply did not have it in him to care about what humiliating curse Barty Crouch Sr. had placed on his wife this time. No, Tom was only here to make a few tweaks – to feed the fire of Barty’s rage, to twist his familial love for his mother into something a bit more perverse, to lower his inhibitions towards violence and deceit. Perhaps feeding into the fanatic devotion that Barty felt towards Tom a bit, too. 

Barty’s becoming would be glorious to witness, Tom was sure, an Oedipal myth come to life.

“That does certainly seem like a troubling escalation,” said Tom evenly, pulling out of Barty’s mind. “I worry about how quickly your father seems to be turning to violence compared to only a few months prior.”

Barty’s eyes flashed with something dark and mean. “Ah– speaking of violence, I almost forgot to mention! Riddle, you can’t report anything I say during these sessions if it’s about an event that’s already passed, right?”

Tom nodded, a bit put off by the changed direction of their session, but also entertained with Barty’s passionate diversions.

Sat so far forward he seemed about to fall out of his chair, Barty leaned in towards Tom. “I know who the Ouroboros killer is.”

Tom suppressed the very real surprise he felt. “Oh?”

“He’s my friend,” whispered Barty gleefully. “A close friend from Hogwarts. I never would have thought he had it in him! And to try to make it look like a Voldemort kill, ha – how ballsy!”

At this, Barty broke into uncontrollable giggles, cackling and gasping for air. “You’ve probably heard of him, Riddle? Regulus Black, from the Noble and Ancient House of Black? Reggie’s always been such a pathetic thing, such a pitiful excuse for a pureblood, but he’s finally living up to his family legacy! Mad as all the rest of them!”

Oh, fate truly did favor Voldemort. How blessed was he to have the fraud’s identity exposed to him so easily?

Behind his still expression, Tom filed away the Ouroboros killer’s identity for later. He had heard of Regulus Black – he knew a fair amount about the Black family, just as he knew of all other pureblood families. 

And the crime of such unflattering mimicry could not go unpunished.

But this was Barty’s mind-healing session, and though his vision of success may have differed from the average mind-healer’s, Tom truly did care about ensuring his patients succeeded. 

“How does that make you feel, Barty? Knowing a friend you had previously looked down upon as spineless is capable of such bold violence, even as you find yourself the victim of violence within your own home?”

And he let Barty ramble on about bravery and blood and crime, his own thoughts straying to just how he’d need to deal with this interloper.

***

The Umbridge case was baffling.

Harry had not been crazy – the corpse had been crawling in the shape of a cartoon heart, with the wetness of the torso serving to carve deeper grooves into the earth and make the shape unmistakably distinct.

But there had been even more to the scene – below the soil, Voldemort had planted seeds, and Umbridge’s damp corpse had spread water over those seeds. By the next day, with Voldemort’s magic speeding their growth along, the cartoonish heart had filled with flowers, blooming with daffodils, yarrow, and honeysuckle. Harry couldn’t wrap his head around it – Voldemort’s scenes were never easy to understand, with multiple layers of symbolism and motives behind each decision, but this was an incredibly strange departure from his usual work.

The rest of the Aurors had thrown out plenty of suggestions. Dawlish, rather stupidly in Harry’s opinion, had suggested that perhaps the flowers were a clue to Voldemort’s identity, as if Voldemort was a dull Herbologist who had been unable to resist giving away the truth of his profession. Always far cleverer in comparison, Spinnet had made a strong case for the flowers being part of a punishment for Umbridge’s predation towards the younger men who worked for her, a mockery in that the only romantic flowers she’d ever receive would be literally over her dead body. Kingsley, of course, had always seen a political edge in Voldemort, and though he wasn’t necessarily pushing his opinion as fact, he had discussed the possibility of the flowers as a way of deriding Umbridge’s anti-conservation efforts within the Ministry.

Harry hadn’t voiced his own opinion yet. He couldn’t bring himself to speak his thoughts – he knew they were ridiculous without needing to verbalize them. 

It was illogical, and totally out of character with what they all knew of Voldemort, but something in Harry’s gut was convinced that the kill was a love letter. 

But to whom?

He turned it over in his head even as he worked on the case of the Ouroboros killer – now that Kingsley had publicly and privately agreed that Voldemort was definitively not the perpetrator of the prostitute, they were enduring the mindless task of logging every attendee of the Griffin Gentlemen's Club, flagging the individuals that matched their profile. Surely, logic would prevail, and Harry would be able to cut through his strange initial hypothesis to the real motivation behind the odd flower heart.

By the time he had arrived home to the delicious scent of his husband’s cooking, however, Harry had only become more sure of his original instinct. 

“I’m home, Tom!” called out Harry, sliding to the kitchen in his socks. 

Tom turned to face him with a spoon in hand, bemused. “Welcome home, dear.”

Harry didn’t even bother to look at what was cooking behind Tom, flinging his arms over Tom’s steady shoulders and letting the rest of his body weight hang off him in a dramatic flop. 

He heard the clatter of Tom’s spoon as it fell to the counter, Tom immediately dropping it to wrap his arms around Harry’s waist. 

“What’s this about?” asked Tom, a smile in his voice. His hand began to thread through Harry’s hair, lightly brushing out the tangles, and Harry burrowed his head deeper into Tom’s shoulder. His fingers scratched gently against Harry’s scalp, rhythmic and soothing. It was as if Harry had died and gone to heaven. “Long day at work?”

Harry took a moment just to breathe in Tom’s scent. “Voldemort is already confusing enough, but he just went even weirder in his last kill. I have no idea what to say in my report.”

“There’s a new Voldemort kill?” asked Tom mildly, hands never pausing in their slow movements. “You’re sure this time? No copycat killer?”

Harry scoffed, finally moving back to support his own weight and look Tom in the eyes. “I knew the last one was a copycat, and I know this new one is Voldemort.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re right for a minute, dear,” cooed Tom, pinching one of Harry’s cheeks playfully. Harry slapped his hand away, failing to keep the reluctantly endeared smile off of his face. “Perhaps we can discuss it over dinner?”

“Please,” sighed Harry. “What’s for dinner?”

“I went with Peruvian cuisine, though it’s nothing too fancy for tonight,” said Tom with a pleased smile, turning back to the stovetop and picking up a pair of tongs. “We’ll be having anticuchos de corazón, with a simple red onion salad as a side.”

“Anticuchos de corazón?” repeated Harry, peeking over at the skewers on the stovetop. “What’s that?”

“Beef heart kebabs,” answered Tom, his back to Harry. “I’m sure you’ll love them.”

Harry couldn’t help the startled laugh that escaped him. “Heart? Seriously?”

Tom glanced back at Harry, an expression of mock offense on his face. “Too good for my cooking all of a sudden? After all of my hard work in the kitchen?”

Helplessly, Harry giggled again. “Oh, it’s not that, Tom – I’m sure it’ll be delicious. Hearts are just eerily central to the latest Voldemort kill.”

Tom visibly froze. “I’m sorry, dear – I had no idea. Do you want me to prepare something else for tonight if it’s a bit off-putting so soon after seeing the scene? I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no,” said Harry, hand-waving away Tom’s apologies. “Honestly, if there was ever a Voldemort victim who deserved to lose a heart, this would’ve been the one. I promise it won’t bother me.”

Tom stared blankly at Harry for a moment, and Harry briefly felt a panicked twinge of regret about his horribly unkind treatment of a murder victim, no matter how much he had hated her. Sure, Umbridge may have been a nasty, psychotic, murderous bitch in life, but Tom was a mind-healer — his whole job was to help rehabilitate some of the most fucked-up minds out there. Harry’s cruel dismissal of Umbridge would seem incredibly harsh to someone who believed so strongly in everyone’s ability to remake themselves for the better. 

But as Harry watched, Tom’s expression shifted completely – his eyes crinkling, his cheeks beginning to show a dusting of red, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards in a dorky, lopsided smile. He looked besotted, utterly caught off guard, as if Harry had somehow charmed him so thoroughly that he hadn’t even thought of controlling his facial expressions.

It was such an endearing look that Harry couldn’t help smiling back, completely losing his train of thought.

“Of course, dear,” said Tom after they had spent far too much time just staring at each other with lovestruck, dopey expressions, leaning in to give Harry a sweet, soft kiss. “Anything for you.”

As Tom had made the final preparations for their meal, Harry had launched into a full recounting of Umbridge’s death and staging, leaving out none of the gory details. Tom could handle it, just as he had handled every previous retelling of Harry’s usually distressing day-to-day.

“And now, on one hand, the Umbridge case is closed for us,” said Harry as he finished his summary, taking his first bite of beef heart. The meat was tender and flavorful with a delicious spicy kick — Tom had outdone himself, as usual, and Harry didn’t suppress his satisfied hum at the meal’s taste. “But on the other hand, I’m still working through a bunch of theories on why Voldemort did that whole heart thing with the flowers at the end.”

Tom watched him chew and swallow before speaking, watching with pride as Harry enjoyed his cooking. It was sweet – Harry loved everything that Tom cooked, but without rhyme or reason, it seemed his enjoyment of some meals more than others sparked disproportionate joy in his husband. 

“How does that make you feel?” asked Tom, ever the mind-healer even in his off-hours. Harry began to scoff, but a strict look from Tom stopped him. “I’m not asking for the sake of hearing my own voice, dear. You can be honest with me. I’m sure this is complicated for you, emotionally.” 

Harry sighed, resigned. “It’s horrible of me, Tom. I don’t want you to think less of me.”

“I’ll love you regardless,” said Tom simply. “No matter what.”

To his horror, Harry felt his eyes threatening to well up, and he blinked furiously in embarrassment. He was being ridiculous, but Tom’s unconditional love meant everything to him. 

For the first time since he’d stepped foot onto the crime scene that morning, Harry let himself speak honestly.

“I think that in life, Umbridge was a horrible person, who grew up with a silver spoon and yet still felt the need to push others down to get ahead. We’ve got proof she orchestrated those Ministry killings, we’ve got multiple complaints about her perving on the summer interns, and the damage she’s done to so many disadvantaged groups is so vast that it’s impossible to articulate,” said Harry. “But that’s what the law is for. The law is meant to keep that behavior in check and mete out appropriate justice. Voldemort’s interference may have honestly saved some lives, but it’s definitely very wrong. No crime justifies the way that she was killed so brutally.”

Tom nodded, eating silently.

“And yet,” said Harry, mouth twisting. “When I saw her body, my first thought was that she deserved it. I thought that the sight of her legless, beheaded corpse was a more beautiful contribution to the world than anything Umbridge had ever done in life.”

“A fitting punishment for her crimes?” asked Tom softly. “Retaliation for the harm her work has done to others. More tailored to her sins than any Azkaban sentence could be.”

Harry smiled grimly. “I don’t think Voldemort killed her because of any of her crimes, to be honest. He doesn’t care about her politics, or her sexual harassment record, or any of that shit. It would have been for something personal. For whatever reason, he just didn’t like her, and he felt she’d be an appropriate vessel for the messages he wanted to send.”

Tom thought on that a bit longer. “The beauty isn’t in seeing justice served, then?”

“No,” sighed Harry. “The beauty is in the staging, in the storytelling. It’s in the precision of his magic, the myths he references, the way his scenes always trigger a raw, emotional reaction. Even when it’s as bleak as his staging of Umbridge, the simplicity is intentional. It’s art to Voldemort, and I’m just the only one on the Auror force who’s fucked in the head enough to understand what he wants us to see.”

Tom frowned. “You’re perfectly sane, dear. Trust me – I would know best.”

“Isn’t it horrible of me, though?” said Harry pleadingly. “Doesn’t that make me freakish?”

“Never,” said Tom, his voice cold and intense. Harry felt himself shiver involuntarily at the harshness of his gaze. “You cannot let the Dursley’s words infiltrate your own view of yourself. You are no freak. Your understanding is a strength, and those who don’t recognize it are fools.”

Harry swallowed, nodding. 

“Let’s go back to the case,” said Tom briskly, pulling Harry out of his maudlin shame. “You say you’re not sure what the flowers and the heart mean. What are your ideas?”

“It sounds silly,” said Harry, aware of how self-deprecating he’d been throughout all of dinner and still unable to stop it. “But I keep coming back to the idea of it being a love letter.”

“It does have many of the elements of a courtship,” mused Tom in response, showing no sign of derision in his expression. “Flowers and hearts. A body in pursuit of something more, even to its own detriment. All that’s missing is the candlelit dinner.”

“But who would Voldemort write a love letter to?” asked Harry desperately. “Is he trying to win someone over — another killer, or someone who sees news of his work in the Prophet? Or is it a sign of devotion to someone he’s already in a relationship with, someone who already knows his identity?”

“Would that change your profile?” countered Tom. 

It was a valid question. “I think so,” said Harry with a frown. “It would help me understand his motivations, or measure the level of desperation behind his actions.”

“But that isn’t what’s distressing you most,” said Tom, ever observant. 

Harry had been caught. “I guess I just never thought of Voldemort as a romantic being. I didn’t think he could look at any other person and see an equal. He feels so untouchable to me.”

Tom was silent, waiting for Harry to elaborate, but Harry didn’t know how else to say it. The idea of Voldemort and romance together was just weird — it seemed wrong, somehow, for Voldemort to have had a partner the whole time. The idea of someone out there knowing Voldemort, winning his love and understanding his work, was uncomfortable to dwell on. Harry had felt a grim satisfaction in being the only one to see Voldemort, simultaneously regretting having a mind twisted enough to see the killer’s vision while appreciating that his unique insight could save lives — perhaps it had been naive of him to assume that Voldemort would never invite someone else to see him. 

“Well,” said Tom, letting Harry off the hook. “On the topic of romance, I would love for you to be my date to the upcoming Malfoy Spring Soirée.”

“Anything but that,” cried Harry, jaw dropping in horror. “Please, Tom, have mercy!”

Tom did not have mercy, and Harry found that his thoughts of Umbridge and Voldemort began to move to the back of his mind as talk of their matching outfits, the attendees, and the party theme began to suddenly feel like a much more imminent threat to his peace. 

Harry hated the Malfoys. He hated their politics. He hated their pretentious attitudes. He hated their posh voices. His childhood feud with Draco Malfoy hadn’t helped, of course, but even after the two of them had more-or-less resolved their differences, his general prejudice against everything their family stood for remained.

Still, even Harry could admit that the Malfoys knew how to throw a killer party. 

The Malfoys had masterfully found a balance between the stiffness of classic pureblooded parties and the modern informality of the new generation’s taste, keeping the elevated feel of traditional balls without the dull repetition of the same, tired set-up. The ballroom had been enchanted to look like the sky, but it was a far cry from the classic starry ceiling of the Hogwarts Great Hall. Instead of a dark, clear night, the walls and ceiling mimicked the cheery pale blue of a spring day, with soft, fluffy clouds (and the occasional stray hippogriff) slowly drifting past the partygoers. Rather than stepping on their usual shiny, polished marble floors, guests seemed to walk on clouds themselves. No windows or other adornments broke up the uniform sky – the only reminder that attendees weren’t literally floating through the sky was the archway that connected the ballroom to the rest of the Malfoy home. 

It was clever. With the illusion of never-ending sunshine, no darkening sky would hasten attendees to return home. The party could go on and on and on, and how would any deny the superiority of Malfoy hospitality after spending hours and hours at one of their exclusive events?

Unfortunately, a never-ending party seemed more like hell than anything else to Harry, and the strangeness of standing in the sky gave him an uncomfortable sense of vertigo. 

Tom, as always, showed no impression of any discomfort, seeming perfectly at home surrounded by the upper crust of Wizarding society. He was currently entertaining a very eager Antonin Dolohov, who had made a beeline for Tom the moment that they’d walked in, and Cyrus Greengrass, who seemed quite put out that Dolohov had made it to Tom just a bit faster.

“I do believe I’m close, Mr. Riddle,” Dolohov was saying, almost bouncing up and down as he rocked from heel to toe. It was embarrassing – he looked like a schoolgirl with a crush. Harry shot Tom an incredulous look, awed at his tolerance of the man’s overt pining. “Many of the fools who fund our work in the Hall of Prophecy don’t understand the implications of my research, but as soon as we get approval from the ethics committee, I know this will revolutionize our understanding of the future.”

“That’s all well and good, Antonin,” interjected Greengrass, shooting a sly glance at Tom in an attempt to read his pleasantly neutral expression. “But from what I hear, your ideas have been rejected from the ethics committee nearly eight times now. What on earth are you expecting to change?”

As Harry glanced over again, Tom did not look at all bothered by the absolute ridiculousness of these two greying, older men falling over themselves to impress him. In fact, Harry noted wryly, Tom seemed rather pleased to have even more wealthy purebloods desperate for his approval. He loved Tom, of course, but Tom could be a bit of a dick sometimes, and the slightly sadistic pleasure Tom seemed to get from watching arrogant purebloods simper and swoon over him had become familiar after the countless social events the pair had attended together. 

And maybe it made him love Tom even more. It was funny, after all, and Tom wouldn’t be Tom without a smidge of his bitchy superiority complex. 

As Greengrass began his own appeal to Tom, boasting of the international trade bill he’d most recently gotten passed in the Wizengamot, the sound of violins began to quietly drift through the air, and Harry immediately perked up at the opportunity to escape the conversation.

“Oh, Tommy,” sighed Harry, batting his eyelashes up at his husband in an obnoxious, mushy-gushy display. He would play up the lovestruck fool any day to get out of these dry conversations with geriatric men, and Tom was always too entertained by Harry’s little deceptions to ever protest. “Isn’t the music lovely?”

“Please, do excuse me, gentlemen,” said Tom, politely cutting off Greengrass and shooting Harry a fondly exasperated look. “The waltz is beginning, and I simply must take my darling Harry for a spin. We’ll resume this conversation after the first few dances, perhaps?”

The men both bowed and muttered their acquiescence, though Harry noted with amusement that Dolohov was shooting Harry an absolutely infuriated glare. 

“It was lovely to meet you!” called out Harry over his shoulder to the two men as Tom led him to the dance floor. 

“How cruel of you, dear,” murmured Tom under his breath, leaning down to speak directly into Harry’s ear. “You may have given poor Dolohov an aneurysm.” 

Harry smirked, very pleased with himself. “If you get to drag me to another posh networking event, I get to do what I need to do to make it tolerable. It’s only fair.”

Tom’s huff of laughter warmed the side of Harry’s neck, and Harry let his grin widen further, squeezing Tom’s hand as they found their position amongst the other dancing couples. 

“May I have this dance?” asked Tom with a perfect bow, moving in front of Harry. 

Harry bowed deeply in return, knowing his etiquette well enough even if he found the whole show of sophistication a bit ridiculous. “It would be an honor.”

A sadistic glint in his eyes, Tom immediately moved to sweep Harry off of his feet, and Harry laughed out loud as the two began their waltz.

Tom watched Harry from a distance, unable to keep the pleased smile off of his face at the sight of his husband trying to politely wiggle his way out of a conversation with Minister Fudge. Harry truly was a sight, an absolute vision in his tight, slimming robes – of course the Minister himself would seek out his company. Tom hadn’t missed how many greedy eyes in this room had tracked the pair as they danced as if unable to look away from their beauty, and while Tom couldn’t discredit his own celebrity status, he knew many of the onlookers were watching Harry . 

Harry, who shied away from the spotlight whenever he had a moment to shine. Harry, who hid his dark, beautiful intellect behind ashamed deflection. Harry, who had a bevy of admirers he would never be aware of, always struggling to imagine that anyone could see him as special and valuable. Tom found himself constantly torn between showing off Harry to the world and hiding him away for his eyes only, though he knew Harry was far too independent to ever accept either extreme.

Yes, Tom thought to himself as he sipped on his nettle wine, thinking of the challenge in Harry’s eyes as the two had danced, of the feeling of Harry’s mischievous hands sliding down his back in an attempt to fluster Tom in front of their audience, of his delighted laughter each time Tom had made a move that surprised him. No one else will ever compare. 

“What a dance,” said a hoarse voice from behind Tom, and he turned around on a heel to see who had approached. “Quite a couple the two of you make.”

Tom fought to control his expression, keeping his face neutral at the sight of Regulus Black behind him, the other man looking simultaneously tense and exhilarated. 

How fortuitous. Tom had a plan prepared for approaching Regulus himself during the event, a way to begin setting up an appropriately cruel murder of the man who had attempted to mimic his work, but Regulus’ initiative was a pleasant surprise.

“Thank you,” responded Tom, inclining his head slightly. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

“Regulus Black,” said the other man, holding out his hand for Tom to shake. His palms were sweaty, Tom noted with distaste, and his grip was needlessly tight.

“Tom Riddle,” said Tom. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes,” whispered Regulus, taking a step closer. The look in his eyes was crazed and fanatic – there was certainly a reason why the Blacks had chosen Sirius over Regulus as their primary heir despite the elder brother’s well-known delinquency. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh. We have never met in person, but I have seen you quite frequently. And I would wager I know you more intimately than even your husband, no matter how pretty a pair the two of you seem to be on the surface.”

Tom frowned, twisting his fingers to cast a discrete silencing spell. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Black. Have you been stalking me?”

Regulus chuckled breathily. “Nothing so pedestrian as stalking, no. At least not physically. I’ve seen you, Riddle.”

Shit. 

Tom had forgotten.

He had taken into account his knowledge of the Black family madness when planning his punishment for Regulus, of course, but he had overlooked how the madness manifested. The Black family was plagued with magical enhancements that would slowly drive them insane if left unchecked, from necromancy magic that pushed its owners towards suicide to uncanny Dark Arts proficiency that sent its members to Azkaban. 

Regulus, it seemed, had inherited the Sight. 

And though Tom was quite proud of the forensic countermeasures that prevented him from being caught as Voldemort, he could do nothing to prevent a true Seer from uncovering his other identity. 

Tom would have to play this very carefully. 

“I see,” sighed Tom, subtly extending out a slight Legilimency probe – nothing too noticeable, as he was sure all Blacks were trained in Occlumency, but something to give him a general reading of Regulus’ emotional state. “You’re right, of course. With Harry being an Auror, it does grate on me to lose all hope at finding someone who can accept all of me.”

“He doesn’t understand you,” whispered Regulus, stepping even closer to Tom. His face was uncomfortably close – Tom could feel Regulus’ warm breath hit his neck, foul and intrusive, and with a quick glance downwards, it seemed that Regulus was slowly growing hard from the thrill of their proximity. How revolting. “Your murders have such purpose, offer so much commentary on the horrible world we live in and the horrible people in charge. They will change the world. You don’t deserve to be so limited.”

Tom grimaced. If he thought that Voldemort’s work was a social commentary, Regulus truly was hopeless – Harry would have laughed him out of the Auror’s office if Regulus had ever tried to share his interpretations, somehow even more off-base than Dawlish’s theories.

Not that he would tell Regulus that, obviously. “What can I do? If I were to try and leave Harry, he would forever try to make me the target of an investigation, forever under constant surveillance. He’s a petty, short-sighted man. I can’t allow my own longing to find an equally visionary partner land me in Azkaban.”

Regulus gripped onto Tom’s shoulders firmly, frantically. “Let me help you. I can save you from this marriage. I can free you to find someone who will accept all of you, and not just this well-mannered facade you present to the world.”

Tom lowered his lashes, demure. “But is there anyone like that in all the world? I can’t imagine finding someone who can love Voldemort. The only potential equal I’ve heard of would be the Ouroboros killer, and I have no way of finding him.”

“Trust me,” said Regulus, his voice lowered, but still loud enough that Tom was grateful for his silencing spell. “I can ensure your husband won’t be a problem, and I can find you the Ouroboros killer. Will you let me help you?”

Regulus Black was pathetically transparent. A disappointment to his family and their legacy, always secondary to his more talented, charismatic older brother. Needing to differentiate himself somehow, turning towards the dark and depraved less due to any real inclination towards cruelty and more out of desperation to be special and misunderstood, a dynamic Tom had seen in many of his patients before. After all, if his family and peers looked down on him for his delight in darkness, at least that would make Regulus just too unique to be understood – a far more palatable reason than the truth, which seemed to be that Regulus was just deeply insecure, painfully awkward, and generally unattractive. It was unsurprising that Regulus had frequented strip clubs and solicited sex workers when his innately repulsive demeanor prevented him from forming his own romantic relationships. 

No, Regulus fled from self-awareness, believing that Tom would understand and relate to his pathetic show of brutality. More insultingly, Regulus believed that he could understand Tom even better than Harry. It grated that he was actively getting off on it, too, his heavy breathing and fidgeting becoming more obvious with Tom’s every glance in his direction.

How arrogant. How rude. 

It would be a gift to Harry, thought Tom to himself as he made a show of thinking over Regulus’ proposition. A push in the right direction. If he’s beginning to delight in my murders, if he wants to understand me even further, it would be thoughtful of me to give him his own opportunities to kill.

Tom made tentative eye contact with Regulus, eyes wide and scared.

“You won’t tell anyone?” said Tom quietly. Regulus nodded seriously, his pupils blown wide. 

Tom shut his own eyes dramatically, an exaggerated show of brokenness. 

“Please, Regulus. Please help me.”

Chapter Text

Harry knocked on Regulus Black’s front door, already wishing he could be anywhere else.

Apparently, according to Kingsley, Regulus Black had written to the Auror office, proclaiming that he had “unique insight” into Voldemort and requesting a home visit from the lead Auror on the case. This was not at all newsworthy - the Auror office received countless letters on Voldemort, ranging from easily alarmed old women trying to report "sketchy" neighbors to teenagers claiming to be Voldemort as their idea of an original prank. Harry even enjoyed some of them – just the other day, someone had drawn fanart of him watching Voldemort get shipped off to Azkaban, and Harry hadn’t been able to stop giggling at the memory of his bulging biceps and muscular chest captured in the quill of a Hogwarts tween. On the whole, correspondence with the public was good for a bit of a laugh at best and a colossal waste of time at worst.

Unfortunately, the Black family had been very generous with their “charitable donations” to the Minister’s campaign, and though of course, everyone was equal in the eyes of the law, the hands of the law did seem to disproportionately favor wealthy donors.

So as his coworkers slaved away on the Ouroboros and Voldemort cases, building their profiles and gathering evidence, doing the work that would actually get the killers caught, Harry prepared to waste hours of his day pandering to a privileged pureblooded ponce who probably just wanted to hear himself speak.

And for the silver-spoon donor to be Regulus Black…

Harry had never doubted Tom’s loyalty to him at any point in their marriage. Tom was certainly no saint – in fact, he could be a petty, manipulative asshole when he wanted to be. But Tom clearly loved Harry wholeheartedly and unconditionally, in sickness and health, for better or for worse. His love shone through his every action, whether it was the hours he spent on home-cooked dinners, or the playful teasing and earnest advice he gave when Harry got lost in his own head, or the lovesick looks he’d give Harry when he thought he wasn’t looking, or even the way he accepted every horribly depraved insight into a serial killer’s psyche that Harry shared with him without hesitation. Harry certainly wasn’t immune to insecurity and second-guessing himself, but Tom’s devotion to him had never been in question.

It didn’t mean he was willing to let anybody else try their luck with Tom, though, and before he had left the Malfoy Soirée, Draco had pulled Harry aside to tell him that someone had been very clearly trying to flirt with Tom. He and Draco had their differences back in the Hogwarts days, of course, but now that Draco and Tom both worked in the mind-healer space, Harry and Draco had gradually tried to resolve their animosity. Draco may have enjoyed taunting Harry with Regulus’ improper behavior, but he had too much respect for Tom to lie to Harry’s face – whatever Regulus had done must have been overt enough for Draco to genuinely see it as an attempt at seduction.

At the time, the name Regulus Black had meant nothing to him, but now, Harry wondered if it was truly a coincidence that a man with a thing for his husband wanted to set up a meeting. 

Maybe Regulus was scoping out the competition. Maybe he wanted to try and show off that he somehow knew more about Voldemort as some sort of dick-measuring thing. Maybe it was actually a completely innocent invite, and Regulus truly did have insight he wanted to share.

It didn’t really make a difference. Harry was sure the meeting would suck regardless.

Harry checked his watch on the front porch, waiting for Regulus to let him in – maybe the man wasn’t home? Could he get away with not knocking a second time and just telling Kingsley that nobody had been home? 

Just as Harry’s hopes were starting to rise, the thick, mahogany doors swung open in front of him, and he met Regulus’ eyes for the first time.

He was not what Harry had been expecting.

The vague impression he’d had of the Black family was one of prestige and honor, of vast magical and political expertise to validate their arrogant air of superiority. Members of the Black family had left their marks all across history – Harry was no scholar, but even a first-year at Hogwarts would know of the Black ancestors that had changed the courses of ancient wars with extraordinary displays of magic, or brokered precedent-setting deals between feuding nations, or masterminded inventions that modern wizards couldn’t live without. Their legacy of glory hid a darkness – a history of political corruption, illegal arms dealing, cruel experimentation on Muggles, and far more – but in the present-day, the Black family had worked hard to hide away their more sinister legacy, leaving the average wizard only aware of their incredible contributions to society.

Regulus, however, seemed to be a far cry from the classically trained, perfectly poised Blacks that were so well-known. Rather than appearing aloof and distant, he seemed tense and anxious, his fingers twisting in his hands in a self-soothing motion. His smile seemed forced, his lips seeming to stretch painfully across his face, and the visible bags under his eyes told the story of a man too distraught to sleep.

He seemed scared.  

Suddenly, Harry felt a bit more willing to hear him out – any one-sided crush Regulus had on Tom wouldn’t leave the man so visibly nervous, but information on Voldemort could certainly have that effect. Perhaps whatever Regulus knew gave him reason to believe he could be a future target, an obviously unenviable position.

“Welcome,” said Regulus, voice quiet and tight. “It’s an honor to meet with you, Auror Potter. Please, come in.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Black,” said Harry, allowing his professionalism to take the reins.

He stepped inside of Regulus’ home, letting the front doors shut behind him.

***

Tom shut the door behind Barty, preparing to transcribe his thoughts on today’s session. Barty was an unpredictable patient – inconsolably despondent one week and erratically carefree the next, spitting vitriol and slavering devotion with the same tongue in a single session. He had been hard to keep on track today, though Tom felt that the momentum from Barry’s previous sessions was building — notably, today was the first day he had ever verbalized that his devout love for his mother strayed slightly out of the range of familial, and even though Tom had been encouraging his growing obsession for weeks, seeing the fruits of his labor begin to show signs of flowering was indescribably gratifying. 

Annoyingly, Barty remained obnoxiously fixated on the Ouroboros killer, still rationalizing how his wimpiest friend could have become an “equal” to Voldemort, a comparison that Tom bitterly detested. Barty was no forensic scientist or genius psychoanalyst, but even so, shouldn’t the difference between Regulus Black’s uninspired, fumbling murder of a sex worker and Voldemort’s own oeuvre of grisly masterpieces be apparent? 

It was disgusting to imagine Regulus’ grimy fingerprints all over his own legacy, and Tom hoped that Regulus attempted to kill Harry soon, as he had pratically promised to give it his best shot at the Malfoy Soirée. Harry would easily slaughter him, after all, and Tom would be there to comfort his dear husband as he grappled with the distress and ecstasy of taking a life. 

Tom spun his quill between his fingers, enjoying his own idle daydreams of how Harry might retaliate against Regulus. He wouldn’t allow his own bloodlust to cloud his understanding of Harry – his husband certainly wouldn’t be ready to begin staging and storytelling with his first murder, but Harry was certainly capable of brutality. Perhaps Regulus would catch him off guard, and Harry would instinctively fire a cutting curse back, leaving the man to bleed out in front of his eyes. Or perhaps Regulus would try to trick Harry, underestimating his knack for escaping tricky situations and giving Harry the opportunity to catch the man in his own trap. Of course, there was a chance Harry wouldn’t actually kill Regulus, but with how he’d been speaking of Voldemort recently, Tom was quite sure Harry had adopted the psyche of a murderer far more than he was consciously aware of. 

Control of his musings ran away from Tom, with the mental image of Harry standing over Regulus, covered in blood and incandescent with rage, far too powerful to resist indulging in. How his magic would pulse, triggered by his adrenaline and fury. How his chest would heave from exertion, slowing into the steady rise and fall of a survivor, of a victor. How his eyes would blaze behind his bloodstained glasses, always so devastating in their clarity, always so addictively intoxicating. 

He couldn’t resist the shiver that ran through him at the thought.

But he was getting distracted - he did have to prepare for his next meeting, after all. There was no need for Tom to rush things along himself, as he doubted Regulus had the self-control to wait for long to make his move. 

Harry would not disappoint, and whatever was to come would be delicious.

***

“It’s me,” whispered Regulus, voice unsteady and hands fidgeting, clearly on edge. “Voldemort has been writing love letters to me.”

Harry should have felt a thrill of accomplishment at his long-shot, ridiculous theory being proven correct. After all, Regulus hadn’t asked for Harry to reveal any information – independently, Regulus had shared that he believed Voldemort’s kills were displays of love, coming to the exact same conclusion as Harry. Finding the subject of Voldemort’s love would be huge – they’d be able to track down the man far more easily with a concrete target to build connections from. This could be a breakthrough, one that Harry could spearhead, one that could allow the Aurors to catch Voldemort once and for all.

So why did Harry feel nothing but disappointment?

Now that Harry had gotten the chance to speak with Regulus Black, the man seemed fine. A bit of a nervous wreck who struggled to make eye contact, sure, but the man was fearing for his life and under the scrutiny of their generation’s most prolific, untouchable serial killer, making his lack of composure pretty understandable. His thoughts on Voldemort maybe didn’t have Harry’s level of depth and expertise, but Regulus was just a civilian, whereas Harry thought about Voldemort for a living. Really, he was just a normal guy who seemed to have had the bad luck of catching a serial killer’s attention.

At the same time – and Harry knew this was unfair of him to acknowledge – Regulus was unattractively skinny, with his clothes hanging off of his body for an oddly boxy silhouette. His nose was crooked. His chin jutted out at a strange, unsightly angle. His breaths were wheezy and repellingly audible. His fingers looked weirdly more webbed than the average human’s in a way that Harry found repulsive, though he’d never verbalize the gut-instinct disgust. And the thoughts he shared seemed so juvenile, consistently shallow and unpolished in their descriptions of who Voldemort was and what he’d done. 

Voldemort’s scenes oozed real sophistication, the work of a cultured man who found joy in the complex and sought out intricate challenges. He was a powerful wizard, someone who boldly pushed the boundaries of magic without giving any sort of forensic hint as to his identity. The motivations behind his kills were so far from the pedestrian, garden-variety serial killers that were commonplace in Harry’s line of work. 

It just felt wrong for Voldemort — an evil, awful man, of course, but an inspired man, a man who twisted and manipulated death into something beautiful — to have been inspired by the dumpy, cowardly Regulus Black all along. Even if it matched Harry’s theories perfectly, he almost wanted to deny Regulus’ assertion outright, as if to protect the image of Voldemort in his eyes. 

“It must be discomfiting to be the target of his affections,” said Harry after a pause that was probably too long. “How do you know that his love letters are for you, though?”

Regulus bristled as if insulted, a bit of fire in his retort. “Voldemort includes little references. Things that only I could understand, things that no others even have a framework to process. They’re meant for me, so only I can understand the meaning in his kills.”

How rude.

“I mean no offense,” said Harry slowly, working to hide the annoyance from his tone. “Please understand that as lead Auror on this case, I just want to be able to better track down Voldemort and get him sent to Azkaban. The more info you can provide, the more I can help you.”

“You want Voldemort in Azkaban?” scoffed Regulus, glaring at Harry before his eyes darted back down to his twitchy hands. “Where his work would never see the light of day?”

“Of course,” Harry answered, baffled at Regulus’ outburst. “He’s a serial killer. That’s how law enforcement works”

Before his eyes, Regulus seemed to battle with himself, the fear he’d projected throughout their whole conversation finally losing out to whatever anger Harry had inspired with his simple question. 

“Well,” Regulus finally growled, baring his misaligned teeth in a triumphant smile even as his lips quivered. “What does your husband think about that?”

“You mean Tom?” asked Harry, genuinely caught off guard. “He’s…in favor? Of me doing my job? Of course?”

Regulus snarled, rising from his plush settee with a swish of his robe. “You truly don’t understand a thing about Voldemort. He deserves far better than the likes of you chasing after him, not when you’re so blind to who he truly is.”

Harry rose to his feet, too, hand slowly drifting towards his wand. “Then tell me who he truly is, Regulus.”

“Voldemort is my perfect match,” said Regulus in a low hiss. “And I have made myself into his equal.”

Oh.

Finally, Harry understood. 

Regulus Black – an awkward, repressed young man, likely one who struggled to find companionship based on his generally unpleasant demeanor. His unsteady breathing, his erratic movements – the anxiety of being near a member of law enforcement, coupled with the anticipation of an upcoming fight. His insistence that he was Voldemort’s equal – delusional, but he must have a basis for the comparison.

He fit the profile perfectly. Regulus Black had to be the Ouroboros killer. 

Harry’s unique insight into serial killers had always been a strength, with Voldemort in particular burrowing his way deep into Harry’s psyche, constantly in the back of his mind. But in this moment, Voldemort’s mindset came to the forefront, taking over Harry’s thoughts and amplifying his emotions.

And Voldemort was pissed.  

Blistering, searing rage overwhelmed Harry, blurring his vision and leaving him speechless. How dare Regulus compare himself so generously to Voldemort? How dare such a mediocre killer tie himself to someone so vastly superior? It was an insult of the highest order, and Harry saw with perfect clarity just how Voldemort would respond.

Voldemort would disarm him first, ever-careful and strategic, immediately preventing any sort of meaningful retaliation. The wand would fly out of Regulus’ shaky hands – the man had enough grit to kill, certainly, but he had only ever targeted the helpless and naive, while Voldemort was a seasoned killer with vast experience. Even if Regulus tried to cast first, Voldemort could shield easily – Regulus was not the type to innovate and craft challenging curses, and Voldemort would easily be able to counter anything within his repertoire — but Harry had the feeling that a glimpse of the hardened, untouchable surety in Voldemort’s eyes would be enough to freeze Regulus where he stood, too frightened to remember the incantation of a single spell. 

He’d be terrified without the crutch of his wand, then, false bravado disappearing into delicious, all-consuming panic. Voldemort would enjoy every second of it, gliding closer to the unarmed man with even, deliberate steps, locking every exit with a wordless wave of his wand and watching Regulus scramble at an immovable doorknob, fingernails scratching grooves in the door, never finding any sort of give. 

Voldemort would hold Regulus in place with transfigured ropes, both Regulus’ hands and feet strapped down to the floor – he would never touch him with his bare hands, less because of the threat of forensic identification and more out of revulsion towards letting the imposter ever have the privilege of knowing the feeling of Voldemort’s skin. Regulus would thrash against the bindings, muscles straining, tears and snot running down his face as panic took over all rational thought. His screams and pleas would inspire no mercy from the unshakable Voldemort, who would be moved by Regulus’ cries of terror just as much as a farmer would be moved by the squeals of a pig before the slaughter.

And Voldemort would slaughter him like a pig, Harry thought to himself, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. 

The scene came to life in front of Harry’s eyes, as vivid as his most euphoric dreams. He would carve Regulus into different cuts of meat, leaving each piece hanging from the ceiling of Regulus’ parlor on rusting metal hooks, creaky and tarnished from disuse, each link stamped with the engraved icon of a taunting, hissing snake. He’d leave Regulus alive for as long as the man could survive the pain, letting him watch on as his limbs were systematically severed from his body, unable to do anything to stop his careful ministrations. And Voldemort would cut slowly and steadily, finally satisfied, swept away by the blissful ecstasy of creating something beautiful out of something so sickeningly ugly – with perfect clarity, Harry could feel the intensity of his rapture, an indescribable high that demanded to be sought again and again and again.

But the finishing touch would be Regulus’ head, framed perfectly in the middle of the room, positioned to be observable at every entrance to the parlor. Regulus’ head would hang from a meat hook pierced through his cheek, his nose transfigured into a snout, his lower jaw fully removed from his face. Blood would drip slowly from the meat, the music of quiet splashes and creaking hooks filling the space that had once held Regulus’ dying cries, and the smell of roasting pork would fill the room. Voldemort would remove his eyes, which had failed to discern the truth in every situation, and leave the rest of Regulus’ body as meat, a more productive usage of his physical form than anything Regulus could have done in life.

It would only be fair, after all – whether it was through his killing of sex workers or his attempts to hit on Harry’s husband, Regulus seemed to possess no more social awareness and humanity than common livestock. 

But where would he cut first?

A strangled wail from Regulus broke Harry’s concentration, and he snapped out of his morbid daydream with a shudder, immediately caught off guard by the reality of the scene in front of him.

As he’d imagined, Regulus lay on the floor, wrists and ankles bound, crying and flailing his body as wildly as he could within the confines of his ropes. He was wandless, too, and with horror, Harry felt the foreign bumps and ridges of an unfamiliar wand in his hand.

What had Harry done?

Harry dropped the wand as if it had burned him, scrambling back away from Regulus’ writhing form. Something must have gone horribly wrong — his understanding of serial killers was deep, of course, but their mindsets had never taken over him thoroughly enough for him to lose himself in their perspectives. There had to be another explanation for why Regulus was tied up in front of him in the same way Harry had envisioned so vividly, some magical freak accident, some strange ploy by Regulus – anything but Harry genuinely losing control of himself and letting his fixation on Voldemort’s mindset overtake his own conscious thought.

“Let me go!” howled Regulus from his place on the floor, snivelling and squirming. “I’m sorry! Voldemort is yours, and I’ll leave you both alone if you just let me go!”

Harry wordlessly summoned his own wand back into his hand, preparing to dispel the ropes tying him down, but his hand stopped in the air before he could complete his wand movement. 

Of course it was bad that Harry had attacked Regulus so abruptly, without even having the excuse of self-defense – his harsh binds and unprompted violence were definitely not approved policy among the Aurors. But Regulus was clearly the Ouroboros killer in addition to having his inappropriate thing for Harry’s husband, and Harry could quite easily see that this whole last-minute meeting was a poorly-planned set-up where Regulus had naively planned on killing him. Harry knew how wealth and power could shift court rulings, disillusioned by the repeat pureblooded offenders who somehow managed to dodge Azkaban time and time again – after all, being judged by a jury of one’s peers didn’t quite allow for impartial verdicts when jurors all originated from the same wealthy background, and Harry certainly wasn’t in a position to change the entire Wizarding World’s legal system anytime soon.

Harry could make sure justice was served. He could be humane, making it painless – a cleaner death than Regulus really deserved. He was an Auror, too – Harry knew exactly how to cover up a crime, and nobody ever needed to know that Harry had done the job.

“Please don’t hurt me!” Regulus bawled, voice cracking. “I’ll never come near you again if you just let me go! I’m sorry!” 

Harry’s job was to identify and subdue criminals, taking them away to be tried and sentenced. Sometimes, it required a fair amount of violence. 

But he was no executioner, and Harry sighed shakily, as if to exhale the anticipatory bloodlust still racing through his veins. Instead, he raised his wand to free Regulus from his binds, bracing himself for the consequences of his lapse in control.

The sight of Harry’s raised wand, however, seemed to elevate Regulus to a whole new level of panic. With his most violent thrash yet, Regulus raged against his binds, screaming and pleading for mercy. 

“Sorry, I’m just–,” Harry began to explain with a cringe, lowering his wand again, but it was too late – with the tell-tale pop of house-elf Apparition, Regulus and his wand had completely vanished.

The room’s quiet was deafening, with Regulus’ cries abruptly cut off all at once. All Harry could hear was his own heartbeat, pounding wildly in his chest, and his own heavy, quickened breathing, adrenaline still buzzing through his body. 

To his own disgust, a part of Harry yearned to immediately trace the house-elf Apparition, to track down Regulus and slaughter him before alerting the Auror office of his whereabouts, to give him an end that was neat and clean and final. It wasn’t who Harry was – somehow, something had gone horribly wrong, as if his sanity and self-control had been hanging on by a thread that Regulus had carelessly snapped with his crude delinquency.

Harry let himself slowly sink back down onto the parlor floor, still working to catch his breath. 

What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

***

Draco leaned in closer to Tom, voice low and conspiratorial. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? How easily a mind can be reshaped?” 

Tom idly swirled the nettle wine in his glass, letting it aerate before taking his next sip. There was no need for him to respond – Draco was quite content to carry the conversation himself.

The two of them met regularly, their busy schedules permitting. Like Tom, Draco preferred the finer things in life, always appreciating a good wine and a better meal. Like Tom, Draco was a very successful mind-healer, with Draco particularly well-reviewed by his typical pureblooded clientele, occasionally treating half-bloods for the sake of inclusivity. Like Tom, Draco was active in the field of the Mind Arts, often attending global conferences or publishing research papers, frequently fielding inquiries from other professionals to give his expert opinion.

Like Tom, Draco didn’t mind breaking the code of ethics when it came to his work.

Tom, of course, preferred to break the rules for the sake of his patients, usually genuinely interested in helping them to succeed even if his vision of success could occasionally be unconventional. Draco was far more mercurial, sometimes inspired to dramatically revolutionize his patients’ mindsets through Legilimency (at the expense of allowing them free will), at other times worsening psychological defects that made his patients into fascinating case studies that would propel his career forward. 

In all honesty, Tom found Draco immature and juvenile, akin to a child who found pouring salt on slugs the insurmountable height of cruel power. None of this was helped by the memory of Draco’s little rivalry with Harry back at Hogwarts, either, which had seemed suspiciously homoerotic and uncomfortably sexually charged in Tom’s humble opinion. Nonetheless, he did enjoy Draco’s company, even if much of the humor Tom derived from their little tête-à-têtes came at Draco’s expense.

“Anyway,” Draco continued, settling himself more comfortably into the plush armchair he’d chosen and taking another sip of wine. “Katie Bell was very easy to handle after that bit of Legilimency. Her marriage will be much happier now that I’ve instilled more submissive instincts in her. Honestly, her husband should be singing my praises with every home-cooked dinner he gets from now on, now that she’s been conditioned to serve him like a worthwhile wife.”

“You would make a killing doing couples counseling,” said Tom, lips quirking into a smile at Draco’s immediate eye roll.

“How plebian,” groaned Draco. “I can’t imagine anything more boring than helping geriatric couples relearn how to fuck each other. No, I’m having much more fun seeing the most psychotic wizards and witches around. Makes you feel better about yourself with all those freaks that we see, doesn’t it?”

Tom nodded emphatically, raising his eyebrows in faux sincerity. “Truly. I feel more sane than ever in comparison.”

Draco threw back the rest of his wine in a single, smooth motion before rising to his feet. “Well, I should be off now, but it was a pleasure to catch up. I’ll host next time, yeah?”

“I’ll plan on it,” responded Tom, leaning back in his chair. “Anything exciting you’re heading to?”

Draco grinned, his smile wide and mean. “Mind-healing with Crabbe Jr., the braindead idiot. It’s unbelievable how stupid he’s become with such minor mental pressure, and so quickly, too. I’m writing a paper on it, actually – I’ll have to share it with you once it’s published.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” said Tom honestly. “Safe travels, Draco.”

Giving a jaunty mock salute, Draco sauntered out into Tom’s waiting room, letting himself out of the range of the strong anti-Apparition wards in the office – which had been installed for patient privacy, of course, and certainly not to prohibit his patients or victims from leaving without his say-so. In a crack, the man was gone, off to ruin another fool’s life.

With his complete confidence in the sanctity of his office, it came as a real shock to Tom when the crack of house-elf Apparition (fuck, he’d have to take house-elf magic into account with the rest of his wards) dropped a disheveled Regulus Black in front of him, panting and bruised and exhilarated.

Tom fell into a fighting stance in an instant, wand at the ready in front of him, knees bent and muscles coiled tight. He watched in disbelief as Regulus caught his bearings, looking around desperately until his eyes finally landed on Tom. 

“Voldemort,” breathed Regulus, and as a slow, triumphant smile spread across Regulus’ pale face, Tom felt his heart drop in his chest, unable to believe the sight in front of him.

There was no way.

Regulus must not have attempted to kill Harry yet, surely. He must’ve faltered, must have been too scared to go through with it, must have fallen short and come back to Tom for advice or consolation. He must not have even gotten near to Harry, as surely Harry could have trounced him easily in combat.

No, it was impossible. 

And yet the relieved glee in Regulus’ smile forced Tom to consider the worst-case scenario.

Had Regulus really been able to kill Harry?

“Hello, Regulus,” said Tom calmly, straightening up out of his fighting stance. Something was sinking in his stomach, the foreign feeling of roiling, fearful dread making him want to vomit where he stood. “What brings you to my office?”

The genuine joy shining through Regulus’ expression transformed him, his previously sickly-looking frame suddenly bursting with life and vitality, his face far more agreeable when he wasn’t forcing nervous smiles. No matter how frantically Tom searched Regulus for any signs of deception or hidden stress, none were found.

“I’ve done it,” Regulus cried out, stepping towards Tom with his arms outstretched. “You’re safe, Tom! Your blind little Auror husband almost had me for a moment – the battle was indisputably a close match, as we traded blow after blow, and I had to make a tactical retreat. I apparated out of there, not far – just to another room in my home, one further away from the main parlor. And once I had the space to think, I realized – I had lured him into my home territory, and he was trapped in my parlor, completely at my mercy.”

Tom let Regulus’ hands wrap around his forearms. He didn’t quite feel he had the strength to brush him off. “What did you do with him?”

Regulus’ eyes fluttered shut, as if overwhelmed by his bliss. “The Black ancestral home has been honed into a weapon with generations of Black blood, poured into its very foundations. It reshapes itself according to our whims. It listens to our hearts’ deepest, bloodiest desires.”

Slowly, Regulus leaned forward, nestling his head into Tom’s chest, his cheek sliding right over Tom’s pounding heart. “I told it my desires, Voldemort. Every room of the house is already fortified against Apparition by those without Black blood - I knew there was no way he could leave the parlor.”

He paused with all anticipation of a comedian finally getting to the punchline – for once, the center of attention, his smugness and pride and greed all wrapped together in his sly idiot’s smile. “So I just destroyed the room.”

For a moment, Tom knew nothing.

It was too much. He had made no plans for this, had no context to understand what Regulus was saying. His body processed before he could consciously understand, and he abruptly wrenched himself out of Regulus’ grip, all the air knocked out of his body, a knife twisting in his heart, sour bile rising in his throat.

Tom had studied ancestral homes many years ago as a child who was curious about his own ancestry, eager to try and identify some sort of inheritance for himself. Magical homes were powerful, it was true, and blood magic was the most potent in developing a home’s responsiveness to its residents’ whims. Living spaces could be created and destroyed at will – he’d seen it for himself at Hogwarts, freely experimenting as a seventh-year with the Room of Requirement, creating and banishing hundreds of variations of fully-furnished, practical rooms. Nobody knew where they went – it was one of magic’s many mysteries – but anything that had once been alive in a magically disintegrated room had never been recovered in all recorded history.

Harry, gone. 

Harry, dead.

“How could you?” hissed Tom, his cheeks becoming blotchy red with anger, his knuckles whitening where he held his wand. He watched Regulus’ mouth flap open and closed, too thick-headed and slow to identify the source of Tom’s anger. “How dare you?”

“I did it for us, Voldemort!” Regulus cried, fumbling for his own wand. He had the audacity to look hurt, as if he’d ever had the right to expect anything from Tom, as if Tom would ever pander to a blind, horrible fool like Regulus Black. “Potter was in our way. He wanted to send you to Azkaban – no, send us to Azkaban! We’re safe now. He can’t touch us anymore. The world is ours to conquer, ours to rule, ours to form in our own image.”

Harry would never reach for Tom’s hand again, never absentmindedly run his calloused fingers over Tom’s skin. He would never take a bite of Tom’s cooking again, never smile at him over the dinner table. He would never fall asleep in Tom’s arms, his breathing slow, steady, and constant, his brow furrowing at whatever strange, distant worlds he saw in his dreams.

“I don’t care about conquering the world,” snarled Tom, voice cracking in his fury. His chest hurt, as if his heart had been replaced with a yawning, gaping hole, an insurmountable emptiness that sought to collapse him from the inside, one he was desperate to fill. “Harry is my world. Nothing matters without him.”

“But I see you!” wailed Regulus, his sincerity only making him more detestable. “Your kills are beautiful – they speak about the world we live in, and how horribly unfair things are for people like us, and how society doesn’t understand us and never will! I get you, Tom! I understand your messages! We can change things together – just you and me.”

He would never again hear Harry hum as he got dressed for work in the morning, perfectly out of tune, idly repeating the same few lines without consciously realizing it. He would never again stifle a smile at one of Harry’s covert whispered insults towards one of Tom’s mindless sycophants, always brutally cutting and completely accurate. He would never make Harry laugh again, never see the surprised delight in Harry’s eyes when a wry comment caught him off guard.

“I would rather die,” said Tom coldly, watching with cruel dispassion as Regulus audibly whimpered, face crumbling and his previous confidence withering before his eyes. 

“I thought you wanted me,” breathed Regulus, voice cracking. “Don’t you want to be understood, Voldemort?”

Regulus understood nothing and no one, and it was unbelievably revolting that Regulus had ever believed that he could take Harry’s place. Tom would make Regulus pay, of course – he deserved the most intense pain Tom could deliver and far more. 

But Tom wouldn’t let it stop there. He would bleed the wizarding world dry, slaughter every magical he could get his hands on, lead Death’s crusade until he was killed himself, until the whole world would mourn the day it had lost Harry Potter, its only redeeming light.

“Imperio.”

Chapter Text

“So I know this whole story sounds crazy,” said Harry, finishing up his abridged recap of his experience with Regulus Black. “But I’m absolutely positive that Regulus is the Ouroboros killer, and that he’s planning on killing someone as a tribute to Voldemort because he has a weird little crush on him, and that whoever he’s targeting is probably going to be associated with the Aurors so that he can win Voldemort’s favor.”

Kingsley frowned skeptically, leaving Harry squirming under the intensity of his disapproving gaze. “Harry, I know that you hate spending time entertaining Ministry donors, but you must understand that it’s part of the job. Spreading slander about the Black family will not get you out of doing your work.”

“I’m not spreading slander!” said Harry, trying very hard to keep his tone earnest and trustworthy without sounding whiny and immature. It was difficult to lie to Kingsley even by omission, and Harry was absolutely omitting many of the details of his confrontation with Regulus Black. “Look, sir – we’ve worked together for a while, yeah? I definitely do hate schmoozing with the donors, but I’ve never lied about something this serious before. I genuinely think this is our man.”

Kingsley was silent for a few more beats. “I trust that you’re sure about your interpretation of what Regulus was saying, but the Black family is powerful. If your only evidence is your memory of his strange comments, it’s unlikely to be enough to arrest someone of Regulus’ standing. To be clear – all Regulus did was establish that Voldemort had been writing love letters to him with his kills, claim he was making himself into Voldemort’s equal, and then just apparate out of the room?”

Harry nodded firmly. Kingsley didn’t need to know about Harry’s little loss of control, especially not while the clock was ticking on tracking down Regulus before he hurt someone else. “Have I ever identified someone incorrectly, sir? In all my years on the Auror force?”

Kingsley’s dark eyes seemed to see straight through him, heavy and unreadable. Harry maintained resolute eye contact, refusing to let his gaze waver even as he felt his palms growing sweaty from nerves. 

After a pause far too long to be comfortable, Kingsley sighed, finally breaking eye contact. “I believe you, Harry. But we have to be careful about this. No rushing in without a warrant, full documentation of the first meeting, and–”

Kingsley was cut off by the abrupt appearance of Dawlish’s Patronus, an elegant ostrich that appeared right between the two of them. It seemed a bit frazzled, long neck craning to look around, feathers bristling and shuffling.

“Hey, sir,” came Dawlish’s nasally voice out of the ostrich’s silver beak, the Patronus’ beady eyes focusing directly onto Kingsley. “Um, hope everything’s good back at the office. I went to take that call we got from someone saying they got attacked by the Ouroboros killer? Like ten-ish minutes ago? Anyway, um, I’m there on the scene right now. And there’s a guy here who says the Ouroboros killer just, like, confessed his crimes to him and then tried to kill him, but he actually killed him instead. So there’s one guy who is alive – that’s the guy who called us – and then there’s a guy that’s dead. That’s the guy that he’s saying is the Ouroboros killer. And I figured you should be here to see if this is legit or not. Can you come, please?”

Harry struggled to keep his eyes from bulging at his most incompetent coworker’s inanely rambling message as the ostrich faded away, consistently shocked by Dawlish’s uselessness. He risked a quick glance at Kingsley’s face – the man looked like he wanted to put his head in his hands, all the disappointment of a weary father evident in the slackening of his features.

Kingsley caught Harry’s eye before Harry could look away. “He didn’t even give us an address.”

Harry couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped him. “He didn’t even give us an address.”

For a moment, the strange tension between Kingsley and Harry was broken, and Harry let himself laugh freely as Kingsley shook his head with a conspiratorial smirk. The Voldemort case seemed to perpetually loom over Kingsley after so many failed investigations, and Harry knew that his own inadvertent praise of the killer after seeing Umbridge’s death had made an already guarded Kingsley close himself off to him even further over the past few days. It was a relief to see the levity in Kingsley’s small smile, to feel trusted with this small moment of workplace gossip, even if Harry felt a bit more guilty for everything he was hiding from his boss.

In a flurry of wispy feathers, the ostrich appeared between the two once again, spinning quickly on the spot to find Kingsley. “Hi, sir! The guy that called us actually pointed out that I didn’t give an address. Sorry about that, sir! And sorry for the double Patronuses! It’s at 7 Ashwinder Way, right off of Diagon Alley.”

All of the mirth drained abruptly from Harry, leaving him slack-jawed and horrified. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Kingsley, instantly alert. “Do you know this location?”

“That’s Tom’s office,” Harry breathed, and he apparated on the spot without another word to Kingsley.

***

Tom’s day really could not get any worse.

Harry was dead. And as much as he wanted to blame Regulus Black for killing him, Tom was far from innocent in the whole situation. It was Tom who had sent Regulus after Harry, Tom who had been so naively sure that Harry would find a way to kill Regulus first, Tom who had delivered his husband into the hands of a proven murder with glee – he’d been so proud of himself, thinking himself so clever for delivering the man as a gift for Harry, thinking Harry would come to be grateful for the experience of his first real kill. Tom recalled his previous anticipation of what Harry would do to Regulus with nothing but real disgust – it had been unforgivably reckless, and Tom would pay the price for his irresponsible negligence for the rest of his life.

Of course, even if Tom knew that the guilt for Harry’s death would weigh on him until the end of time, Regulus had been the one to actually kill him, and Tom could take out his anger on him. 

He had gotten his revenge, though he wasn’t able to do nearly as much as he would have liked to without blowing his cover. 

Tom had begun by casting the Imperius Curse on Regulus, having him summon the house-elf that had broken through his mind-healing office’s wards. The nasty little thing was mean, fiercely protective of its master and threatening Tom with all sorts of ingenuitive torment, speaking to a bond far more meaningful and tender than the typical connection between a pureblood and a house-elf. And it was mutual, too – Regulus began pushing back against his Imperio with renewed strength at the sight of the ugly creature, an impassioned resistance taking over his previously weak, resigned mind.

It was all very precious and heartwarming. Sickeningly sweet, honestly. Nevertheless, Regulus wouldn’t have stood a chance at breaking out of Tom’s hold even before Tom had begun refining his control over Mind Magic, and house-elves were required to follow orders from their masters whether or not said masters were under the influence of any sort of mind-altering magic.

Tom took great pleasure in the horror roaring through Regulus’ mind as the man’s mouth moved against his will, ordering his beloved house-elf to slit its own throat as slowly as possible. 

Once the loathsome pest had taken its final breath and bled all over Tom’s expensive, puffskein-fur rug (thank Merlin for magical disinfecting – he imagined the germs in the creature’s blood would do their best to get revenge on him from beyond the thing’s grave without his trusty sterilization spells), Tom let himself contemplate how to deal with Regulus directly. 

Regulus was no forensic genius or careful planner – Tom was sure that if Aurors were to carefully investigate, they could likely trace Regulus’ tracks from his home straight to Tom’s office. And though a part of Tom couldn’t see the point in preserving his secret identity as Voldemort when there was no Harry to bother fitting into society for, a greater part of Tom knew that going under the radar would allow him to do far more damage – yes, he’d be caught inevitably on his crusade to sacrifice as many witches and wizards as he could in Harry’s honor, but there was no need to rush it along. No, Tom would need to cover his tracks with Regulus, forcing himself to be content with the emotional torment of ordering the man’s house-elf to kill itself slowly and painfully instead of ripping Regulus apart, limb from limb, each chunk of his body severed too violently to ever be reassembled again.

So with Regulus still under his Imperio, Tom set up an entirely new scene, forcing Regulus to act as frenzied and violent, psychotic and dangerous. He kept Regulus’ description of Harry’s death, but instead of seeking Tom’s love and acceptance, the mind-controlled man spoke of attacking Tom to further his revenge on the Auror force. When Regulus fired a barrage of weak curses his way, Tom let himself return with a stunning spell that was just a bit too overpowered.

He feigned horror and heartbreak as the man died on his floor, right over where he’d vanished the traces of the house-elf’s bloody suicide only minutes earlier. The Aurors would likely want the memory in full, after all, and he wouldn’t let himself be caught by something as elementary as an accidental smile at the sight of Regulus twitching on the ground, heart sluggishly and erratically pumping blood through his body until giving up entirely. 

And now, after Tom had acted out the appropriate panicked attempts to resurrect the detestable man lying dead on his floor, the Aurors he called had finally shown up.

It was honestly pathetic – when he’d first seen the familiar plum-colored uniform out of the corner of his eyes, for a brief moment, it was as if Regulus had never burst into Tom’s office, never boasted about what he’d done to Harry. Surely, the sight of the Auror uniform meant Harry was swinging by, just on his way home from work and popping in for a quick chat, maybe dropping off some little trinket or sharing a rumor he thought Tom would enjoy. He had forgotten about the empty feeling in his chest, so focused on the task of deception ahead of him that he’d successfully blocked out the grief for a brief, merciful moment.

Instead, Auror John Dawlish came barreling through Tom’s doors – known to Tom only through Harry’s many stories of his appalling ineptitude, as if Tom needed to deal with another frustration during the worst day of his entire life – and the grief crashed back with a vengeance, leaving him breathless and nauseated once more.

The Auror’s eyes bugged alarmingly at the sight of Regulus’ body on the floor, and he turned to Tom with his jaw dropped, as if expecting Tom to be the one to fix the situation in front of them. Tom could only stare at him helplessly – in a few moments, Dawlish’s overwhelmed indecision solidified into something more solid, his expression shifting from shock to pity. Slowly, hands in the air away from the wand at his hip, Dawlish approached Tom where he knelt by Regulus’ body.

Tom had planned on feigning tears for the Aurors when they arrived, painting the picture of a sheltered intellectual unused to real-life violence and absolutely devastated by the loss of his husband. That’s what the Aurors would expect from him, after all – he could show no triumph at the death of the man in front of him, none of the burning rage he planned to inflict upon the rest of the world, nothing that would invite any sort of suspicion when he was already in the unfortunate position of having killed someone while in his civilian persona.

But as Dawlish crouched down next to Tom, rubbing a soothing hand over Tom’s back, the tears that escaped him were heartbreakingly, humiliatingly real.

***

Harry apparated directly into Tom’s waiting room, not wasting a second to look around before slamming open the doors to his office.

His eyes snapped immediately to Dawlish where he stood with his wand out, casting forensic spells at a face-down body in the middle of the floor, all vital signs flashing red and flat. The office looked uncharacteristically trashed, chairs askew and gashes in the wallpaper, parchment scattered all over the usually pristine floors, and for a single, terrifying moment, Harry was sure that Tom was the body on the floor, killed by Regulus due to Harry’s own incompetence, left dead on his own floor because Harry hadn’t had the guts to end Regulus’ life himself.

But a motion in the corner of Harry’s eye had him whirling, turning to the sight of Tom, standing from one of his settees with shaky legs.

He looked hurt. There was a dark purple splotch beginning to spread across one of his sharp cheekbones, blood running down the side of his mouth as if he’d bit through his own lip, exhaustion pulling down his frame in a way he’d rarely seen on his put-together husband. Tom never allowed himself to be seen in public in anything other than perfect condition, and for him to not immediately glamour himself to styled professionalism, he must have been seriously rattled by his confrontation with Regulus.

But he was alive, and Harry could muster up no anger at Tom’s injuries when he felt so undeservedly blessed just to have him standing and breathing in front of him, letting all the exhilarated relief show on his face with an uncontrollable, beaming smile .

Tom seemed to be going through something far more emotional than Harry, his face utterly transforming in front of Harry’s eyes – disbelieving at first, then cautiously hopeful, then an absolute mess. Before Harry had the chance to brace himself, Tom launched himself at Harry, genuinely bawling as he ran, wrapping his arms tight around Harry’s chest and squeezing as if he'd never let go, his face shoved into the crook of Harry’s neck as if he wanted to push his way through his skin and live there, his grip tight and warm and desperate.

Harry let his own arms come up, rubbing soothing circles on Tom’s back even as it heaved and stuttered with Tom’s sobs, quietly shushing him. “It’s okay, Tom. I’ve got you. We’re okay.”

Tom sniffed, choking on his words, struggling to talk through his tears. “I was worried you were dead.”

It was a punch to Harry’s gut, and Harry felt tears begin to prickle behind his own eyes, too. “Never, Tom. I’ll never leave you like that, I promise.”

Behind him, Harry could hear Kingsley walking into the room, quietly conferring with Dawlish. The room was a crime scene, after all – Kingsley would be here to process it, to pack up evidence into little boxes, to take Tom’s statement and interrogate him on whatever had happened. Harry imagined that Kingsley would probably want a word with him, too – Harry shouldn’t have contaminated an active crime scene without Kingsley even approving him to arrive on-site. 

At least for the moment, though, Kingsley left the two in peace, a small act of consideration that Harry was overwhelmingly grateful for.

“I feel like I dragged you into my world,” whispered Harry into Tom’s hair, still stroking his back slowly, comfortingly. “It’s not right for you to get involved in my cases. Targeted by crazy serial killers at your work.”

Impossibly, Tom tightened his grip on Harry even further, replying with real conviction in his voice. “I’ll never let you go somewhere I can’t follow.”

Harry’s shoulder had grown damp from Tom’s tears. His arms were starting to feel the strain of his constant movements, and his neck was beginning to cramp up from the uncomfortable way Tom’s head had forced it to the side.

It didn’t matter. As the crime scene began to grow busy with the hum and bustle of an Auror investigation, Harry held Tom tight, refusing to be the one to let go first. 

***

Diagon Alley was chaos.

Harry and Tom had both taken the week off from work after everything that had happened with Regulus. It was easy for Tom – he had a private practice, so he was free to reschedule with his patients at his leisure, especially considering that his office had become a crime scene. Harry’s time off was only because of Kingsley’s concerned generosity, especially after Kingsley had witnessed his intensely emotional reunion with Tom firsthand. 

It was a kindness Harry honestly wasn’t sure how to handle – he was relieved to have more time with Tom after their shared ordeal, yes, but the Voldemort case still tugged at his conscious mind, as if unwilling to be put down and postponed for however long Harry would spend away from work.

He’d decided that a quick jaunt to Diagon to stock up on the essentials could help him get out some of his excess energy, but he really hadn’t planned on running into so many people.

First, he ran into Barty Crouch Sr. and his son at Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, where he’d gotten trapped in a conversation about Crouch’s eagerness to implement a stronger “tough-on-crime” policy among the Aurors. Harry wasn’t sure whether to fight Crouch on some of his wildly disagreeable perspectives or just nod along to get the conversation over with as soon as possible – every time he began to cave to Crouch’s points just to get things over with, Crouch would say something so egregious that Harry had to argue, making the whole trip a massive ordeal. By the end of it, Harry could do nothing but stare longingly at Barty Crouch Sr.’s son, who had snuck away within the first five minutes of their conversation and seemed to be having a blast comparing jars of shredded Boomslang skin – the few vials of Pepper-Up that Harry had ultimately bought were not worth the twenty minute diversion, especially when Crouch hadn’t budged an inch on any of his assertions.

Then, of course, it was Malfoy at Quality Quidditch Supplies, sneaking up behind Harry as he peeked at the newest Firebolt launch. He and Draco were fine now, mature enough to maintain cordiality and occasionally even have enjoyable conversations, but Draco had never really forgotten how to best antagonize him, and Harry wasted even more of his day arguing over the specifics of a foul in their third-year’s Slytherin vs. Gryffindor match.

The last, most painful chance encounter was running into Rita Skeeter, the Daily Prophet’s highest-paid reporter, at Amanuensis Quills. Harry had worked on being as cordial as possible throughout his years on the force, understanding the value of having the public on the Aurors’ side, but he found Rita detestable – her articles on Auror cases always felt melodramatic and exploitative, overly focused on villainizing or idolizing killers and victims alike, casting blame on whomever would be the most profitable to hate.

Today, Rita was almost polite. Uncharacteristically easygoing, she let Harry go with only a few questions on the Voldemort case, leaving Harry with a pat on the shoulder and a warning to check today’s Daily Prophet to read the story on Regulus Black’s death. If Harry’s day hadn’t already been on its way to ruination, this comment would have been the nail in the coffin – after all, the press should not have heard a thing about Regulus Black yet, and Harry dreaded the political messiness that would arise with the death of such a generous Ministry donor.

It was his cue to leave – Harry couldn’t really bear to remain in Diagon Alley while an article floated around on his case with confidential information. He bought a few nice Snidget-feather quills – a little something for Tom, who burned through quills at work – and apparated away, bags full of potions, quills, owl treats, and wand polishing oil.

***

“I’m home!” called out Harry, closing the door to their flat behind him with a little kick. His shopping bags floated idly around his shoulders, bobbing up and down as his focus began to waver at the smell of whatever Tom was cooking. “Picked up a few extra things while I was out, too. Diagon was horribly crowded – I feel like I saw everyone I’ve ever met in my life in the span of thirty minutes.”

Tom stepped into the entryway to greet him, immediately pulling him into a sickeningly tender kiss that left Harry feeling light-headed and dazed. “Welcome home, dear. You were gone for far too long.”

Harry blinked rapidly, flustered, still gathering his wits before he could process Tom’s words. “It was less than an hour! I was so efficient!”

Tom clicked his tongue disapprovingly, ruffling Harry’s hair. “And now you’ve dropped all the groceries.”

With dismay, Harry looked around at the bags surrounding his feet, most with their contents spilling out onto the floor. “You distracted me, Tom! I had them with a hover charm! You’re just antagonizing me now for the sake of it, honestly.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Tom haughtily, sending the bags to the kitchen table for later unpacking with a wave of his wand.

Harry trailed behind him as Tom made his way back to whatever he was cooking, pouting slightly. “Did we get the Daily Prophet already today, by any chance? I ran into Rita, and she said there was something on the Regulus case in there.”

Tom didn’t look up at that, but Harry saw his eyes darkening, his lips curling in disgust. Seeing the anger Tom failed to keep off of his face was honestly a relief – Harry had seen countless civilians fall into dysfunctionality after being exposed to near-death situations, and Tom compartmentalizing his role in the whole saga with his usual disdain for the rude instead of dissolving into self-loathing guilt was, at least in Harry’s mind, a sign that he was taking the whole killing-a-man-in-self-defense thing rather well.

Although, Harry thought to himself with a grimace, Tom was definitely hiding something.

Though Kingsley had been very generous in giving Harry time to comfort and soothe Tom after arriving at the crime scene, eventually, he had separated the two of them, asking Tom for his statement on the spot. Tom had given a brief recap, his voice hoarse and eyes still watery, telling Kingsley how Regulus had broken through his wards with house-elf apparition, confessing to his crimes as the Ouroboros killer, ranting and raving about how he’d killed Harry through using the Black family wards against him, swearing to kill Tom next. How Regulus had fired countless Dark spells Tom’s way, rabid and manic. How Tom had tried to defend himself with a stunner, the first violent spell he’d used since taking Defense classes at Hogwarts, and overpowered it far too much in his panic, killing Regulus with the intensity of the shock. How he’d tried everything in his power to save Regulus, but it hadn’t been enough – the man had been doomed from the second Tom’s spell had hit home.

Tom was very convincing, and Harry could tell from Kingsley’s unhurried politeness afterwards that Kingsley had no doubt in his mind that his story was completely truthful. Kingsley and Harry had spoken briefly after Kingsley had sent Tom off to be looked over by the mediwizards, loosely discussing tracking down Regulus’ house-elf as a next step and agreeing how lucky Harry had been to have Black blood in him as a descendant of Dorea Black – Harry hadn’t realized when he’d apparated away from Regulus’ home that there had been any sort of barrier to his exit, and it was truly chilling to acknowledge how close to death he would have been if not for the luck of his ancestry.

Tom had offered up his memories of the attack, which Kingsley had taken gratefully, if without urgency. Tom had promised to cooperate with the investigation in any way he could, whether it was helping to draw up psychological profiles or discussing the particulars of Regulus’ attack at a later day. Tom had exchanged contact information with Kingsley, had thanked him profusely for the Auror team’s responsiveness, had appeared rattled, but resilient.

But this was Harry’s husband, the man he knew best in the world . Harry could see it in the upwards tilt of Tom’s brows as he spoke to Kingsley, expression so open and vulnerable. He could hear it in his pleading, deferential tone as he verbalized his regrets over what he’d done to Regulus. He could see it in the abnormal stillness in the corners of Tom’s mouth when nobody else was looking.

Tom was lying.  

And Harry had no idea what Tom had been lying about. 

Had Regulus told Tom about how Harry had attacked him unprovoked? How Harry had tied him to his floor, sealed the doors to his parlor to trap him, ignored his screams and pleas and cries for freedom? Had Regulus seen the overwhelming influence of Voldemort behind Harry’s absent eyes, a coldness and brutality that should have been out of place on an officer of the law?

And were Tom’s lies just him trying to cover for Harry, despite how dramatically Harry had deviated from what was good and right and moral?

Or did it have nothing to do with Harry’s actions at all? Regulus had been attempting some sort of flirtation with Tom at the Malfoy Spring Soirée, after all. Had Regulus tried… seducing Tom? Had Tom lied out of embarrassment, not wanting to bring up Regulus’ strange crush, afraid it might implicate him in some way? Was he worried it would hurt Harry somehow? But that couldn’t be right – after his impassioned proclamations of dedication, Harry was sure Regulus’ feelings for Voldemort were romantic, and Harry doubted Regulus was in love with both Tom and Voldemort simultaneously. Why had Regulus even gone for Tom in the first place when he was so clearly head over heels in love with Voldemort? Was it just to hurt Harry?

Tom, of course, definitely didn’t have the answers into what strange distortion in Regulus’ psyche had led him to attack Tom in his own office, and Harry doubted that interrogating him about it would be at all worthwhile. After all, no matter how desperately he wanted to understand, Harry didn’t want Tom to doubt his trust in him, not when the experience of believing in Harry’s death had been so clearly traumatic for his husband. Days later, Tom was still waking up in a cold sweat with tears in his eyes, unable to fall back asleep without resting his head on Harry’s chest and hearing his steady heartbeat, unbearably vulnerable. 

The last thing Tom needed was Harry hounding him about what was probably a minor falsehood, just something to make him or Harry look a bit better in Kingsley’s eyes. If Tom felt Harry’s faith in him was wavering, Harry imagined that Tom would struggle even more to bounce back to normal without the certainty of his support. No, Harry would do nothing to make Tom doubt that Harry was unconditionally on his side, nothing to make Tom feel at all hunted or suspected by the one person who would always back him up.

Still, Harry couldn’t help but wonder just what Tom had been hiding.

While Harry had been reflecting, Tom had returned back to bustling around in the kitchen, kneading dough a bit aggressively. “We have received today’s Prophet, dear. Skeeter was perhaps underselling the story – you and Regulus Black make up the entire first page.”

Harry snapped his head up, jaw dropping in shock. “No! Front page news? How did they even hear about this?”

Tom rolled his eyes, clearly just as frustrated himself. “Looks like you’ve got quite the stalker in Creevey. I half-suspect the story was just an excuse for him to post creep-shots of you.”

Tom twisted his fingers half-heartedly, and the latest edition of the Daily Prophet whizzed from the countertops to bop Harry on the head before falling obediently into his outstretched hands. An obnoxious headline covered the entire top half of the paper, reading “THE CRACK IN THE BLACK FAMILY” and accompanied by a massive, unnecessarily dramatic shot of Harry speaking with Kingsley in the Ministry Atrium, his face grim and arms crossed intimidatingly while Kingsley nodded along to whatever he had been saying. 

Harry read the article in horror, frowning at the smaller images on the side – one of Harry shooting rapid-fire spells at recruits in an Auror training session, one of a Hogwarts-age Regulus Black smiling his thin, wonky smile before letting it drop back into an unamused scowl, one of Harry’s employee ID photo, one of a very stern-looking Harry speaking behind a lectern during a press conference, one of Harry laughing over fish and chips in a pub with the other Aurors after a work social…

The article itself was an unenjoyable read – while the exclusion of Tom’s name and his office’s address was a small blessing worth appreciating, Creevey seemed to have gotten all of the key details surrounding the Ouroboros case, somehow knowing that Harry had led the creation of profile, that Harry had been the Auror who had first explicitly proposed that Regulus had been the killer responsible, and that Harry had been present on the scene far too late for the fatal resolution to the case.

The Auror force had been disparaged far more aggressively in the past. Their failure to close the Voldemort case had haunted the crime section for far too long, so a successful identification of a suspect was at least better than a failure.

Still, though much of the article was focused on Regulus, Creevey wasn’t holding back on bringing up Harry. In Creevey’s words, Harry had failed so dramatically that it took a civilian to finally bring down the killer, forced to defend himself against a threat that the Aurors should have easily had in hand. Of course, Creevey didn’t hesitate to bring up the previous criticisms of Harry that had been in print since Harry had first begun working as an Auror – calling his profiling “creepy” and “indicative of a tortured, twisted mind,” insisting that his intuitive jumps in deduction were some sort of Dark Arts trick, and insinuating that all of his work on the Voldemort case had corrupted his already-weak moral compass. The countless shots of Harry made the whole thing even more discomfiting to read – while some of the pictures had been taken while Harry was on the job, others were clearly taken while he’d been off the clock.

The criticism of his work and the cruel suggestions about his character were hurtful, but he’d grown used to seeing the Prophet pick him apart. He’d developed a bit of a tolerance for it, even if the comments still stung. 

But when accompanied with these photos of him outside of his uniform, just living his day-to-day life without knowing his movements would someday make front page news, the article was worse than unkind – it was violating.

“I’m glad they didn’t get any information on you, Tom,” said Harry, rewatching a moment of him peering through the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies now immortalized in print, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Nothing on how Regulus died, either. Just the surrounding context.”

“A forgettable, uninspired death for a forgettable, uninspired man, just as he deserved,” muttered Tom, putting a bit more force into his kneading. “But regardless of the silver linings, the article is disgusting. For them to print out their incomplete, half-baked theories and uninformed criticisms of you after all the work you put in to keep them safe? It’s unconscionable.”

Harry sighed, firmly putting down the Daily Prophet in an attempt to stop staring at a particularly creepy shot of him leaving the men’s room at the Ministry. His photographed self was idly waving his hands by his sides as if to shake off stray water droplets. So embarrassing. 

Harry didn’t want to burden Tom, not after everything he’d just had to go through.

But remaining silent on what had happened any longer felt wrong, and Harry steeled himself with a huff.

“I don’t know, Tom,” said Harry, sitting down carefully in one of their kitchen chairs, his eyes low. “I don’t think it’s undeserved, really.”

Tom shot Harry a confused look, his hands slowing in their steady movements. “Elaborate.”

“I think something’s wrong with me,” Harry confessed, voice quiet. Creevey’s words on the page in front of him seemed to pop out – a deviant mind likely to warp and become murderous itself with such frequent exposure to the goriest of crime scenes, a man who has built his career on finding perverse joy in the suffering of others, a danger in the making... 

The Daily Prophet had been printing similarly harsh things about him for years now, but it had never felt believable. Not until Creevey’s article.

Tom stilled, silent.

“I know something’s wrong with me,” Harry continued, gathering a bit of momentum. “I haven’t been thinking right in a long time. I think Creevey has a point with everything he’s saying about me, and I never should have dragged you down into all of this with me.”

“Talk to me,” said Tom, voice careful and soft. “Why do you say that?”

“I didn’t tell you the full story,” said Harry quietly, voice cracking. Tom had always accepted him, always listened in full when Harry described the horrors that lived inside his head, but this time, his twisted thoughts had actually translated to a real-life loss of control. Harry didn’t know how he’d go on if this was the final straw for Tom, and yet he’d never be able to blame Tom for rejecting a husband who’d slowly descended into madness.

“I know Regulus told you that I went to his home for an interview. That he’d been able to kill me by taking advantage of the Black family anti-apparition wards and the blood magic put into the home. But what he didn’t tell you,” said Harry. He paused, the words stuck in his throat. “What he didn’t tell you is that I had almost killed him before he even had the chance to raise his wand against me.”

Tom had moved away from the dough on the countertop, moving to kneel in front of Harry. The sight of Tom looking up at him so earnestly, always so dependable and loving, was enough to break Harry’s heart.

Tom deserved so much better than Harry.

“It’s like I’d lost my mind,” continued Harry, determinedly breaking eye contact. “And Voldemort had taken over, or something. All I could think of was how Voldemort would get Regulus back for the disrespect of copying him, and when I’d opened my eyes and come to my senses, Regulus was in front of me, trussed up just how I imagined Voldemort would have tied him down. I’d disarmed him. I’d used his wand to restrain and lock down the doors, as if to avoid the Priori Incantatem on my own wand. And if he hadn’t been screaming and crying for mercy, I might not have snapped out of it in time before I–”

Harry couldn’t finish the sentence. Helplessly, he waved a hand in the loose jabbing motion of the killing curse. Tom would know what he meant.

“And this would be bad on its own,” Harry went on. “But what’s worse is that I enjoyed it. Not the way that an Auror should enjoy catching a suspect, where you feel the relief that you’ve gotten a bad man off of the streets, and you’re proud of yourself for preventing someone from doing more harm for the world. This was something sadistic. It’s like I was getting off on his distress or something. And I knew Regulus was the Ouroboros killer by then, but I wasn’t even mad about the way he’d killed innocents.”

When Harry dared to glance back down, Tom’s face was blank and unreadable. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he continued on.

“More than anything, I was mad that he’d tried to copy Voldemort. That he’d done such a shit job of it, mostly. As if Voldemort was somehow too good to emulate, too superior to every other killer. At that moment, I wasn’t thinking about Regulus’ victim, or even any of Voldemort’s victims – I was purely offended on Voldemort’s behalf.”

Harry took a few moments to breathe, hoping to alleviate the miserable twisting in his stomach, failing completely. “And it’s been going on for longer than this. It’s not just the whole thing with Regulus, where I genuinely hallucinated exactly how Voldemort would kill and display him and almost went through with it. It’s how seeing Umbridge brought me to tears – not because I was upset by the brutality and cruelty of her death, but because it was beautiful. It’s how I’ve only been able to articulate Romilda Vane’s death as art, when she was once a living, breathing person with hopes and dreams that Voldemort cut short for the sake of putting her corpse on display.” 

“None of this is normal, obviously,” Harry continued. “But at least when I was in control, it was useful . I could save lives with it, as if my morbid appreciation of Voldemort’s tableaus granted me a new perspective. One that my high-functioning colleagues couldn’t match up to. But now? I’m fucked in the head, I can’t control my own actions, and I’m scared, Tom.”

Harry still faced away from Tom, unwilling to see whatever expression Tom had on his face – he would put it off for as long as possible.

“Do you know what I thought to myself? When Regulus told me that Voldemort’s kills were love letters to him? Maybe giving the Aurors the biggest breakthrough in the Voldemort case we’ve had in years?” asked Harry, lips twisted in disgust. “I thought to myself that it was a shame. That Voldemort could do so much better.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Tom rise to his feet from where he’d been kneeling in front of Harry, and he braced himself for Tom’s rejection, his heart lurching in his chest.

Harry should have known all along. Tom was so normal, so capable and well-adjusted. Tom socialized freely with his peers, never feeling overwhelmed, always able to hold his own in conversation with even the most abrasive strangers. Tom spent his entire career focused on helping the vulnerable, caring so deeply for others in his own arrogant way. And Tom had always been far too good to him – Harry was not the kind of man who deserved home-cooked meals every day, or tender kisses in the morning to wake him up, or gentle, worshipping touches.

No, they had never been evenly matched – at his core, Harry was the type of boy who deserved nothing but leftover scraps of food at the table, punishing cuffs on the head, and firm instructions to stay completely out of sight, tucked away with the rest of the rubbish in a cupboard under the stairs.

But Tom didn’t step away, didn’t even make a move in the other direction.

Instead, Tom reached out, hands slow and steady, tilting Harry’s head up to once again face Tom directly. Harry had squeezed his eyes shut at the first moment of contact, and he heard Tom sigh, the sound somehow coming across as more amused than frustrated.

“Look at me, dear,” coaxed Tom, voice unfairly smooth and velvety. With a wince, Harry let his eyes open to look up at Tom where he stood, making tentative eye contact. “Harry, I need you to listen to me carefully, alright? No storming off or interrupting me?”

Harry grimaced, nodding wordlessly.

“I’m proud of you,” said Tom simply. Harry reared back in disgust, ripping his head out of Tom’s careful hands and nearly banging his head on the wall behind him. He opened his mouth to retort, fierily and righteously pissed at Tom’s clear disregard for everything Harry had just fucking told him, but one quelling look from Tom shut him up, and he settled himself back down in his chair with a frustrated huff.

“I mean it,” continued Tom, never breaking eye contact, voice infuriatingly unruffled. “Your work is difficult. You’re exposed to the worst of humanity every day, and your job is to get into these people’s heads, to understand and see them in full. And you’re the best at what you do. The mind is the only sanctuary for most of us – you sacrifice it for the good of others every day you go into work, and you ask for nothing in return.”

Harry’s view of Tom had begun to blur – with horror, Harry found himself blinking back tears, his throat tightening involuntarily.

“And it’s okay that you’re struggling,” said Tom. “It’d be stranger if you weren’t, with the type of work you do and the awful sights you see. But that’s what I’m here for.”

Tom’s hands, which he’d pulled away after Harry had broken his grip, returned to rest on Harry’s shoulders, pressing down hard with a grounding, comforting gravity. “I love you, Harry. I will always love you. I will always cherish you. And nothing you will think or say or even do will ever change that.”

Harry didn’t deserve it. He could live a million lifetimes and never deserve Tom.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” said Tom, no trace of judgment in his voice. “Of what you saw in Voldemort’s eyes. Of how you feel as yourself. Of every awful thought you’ve ever had, that you’re too scared to verbalize, that you think will be the one to turn me away. I’ll prove to you I’m here to listen to you, to help you. No matter what.”

Perhaps Creevey’s article had a point, and Harry was losing his mind. Perhaps Harry was increasingly turning into a danger to society, too overexposed to violence and evil and cruelty to ever truly fit in with the rest of the world. Perhaps Tom deserved someone normal, someone far more functional and far less unstable.

But, for better or for worse, Tom loved him and only him, and for the first time since he’d seen Regulus’ body on Tom’s floor, Harry felt tentatively, cautiously optimistic about the future ahead.

And as Tom continued to comfort Harry, pacifying him with his ever-reasonable, devoted sincerity, Harry found himself far too distracted to ask Tom why he’d lied to Kingsley.

Chapter Text

Tom may have royally screwed up recently. He’d innocently intended to help Harry on his self-discovery journey by giving him a gift-wrapped opportunity to kill a man in cold blood, but perhaps he had been a bit hasty; at the end of the day, from another perspective, he had sent a proven killer to murder his husband, and if Harry had died in the process, Tom really would have deserved all of the misery and anguish that came his way. 

His goals remained unchanged. He would help Harry see Voldemort more clearly, unveiling the man behind the monster bit by bit, watching as Harry fell more and more in love with Voldemort even as he attempted to suppress his feelings, too ashamed to embrace his adoration in full. As he better understood Voldemort, Harry would begin to understand his own bloodlust until he embraced it as an irreplaceable part of himself, and the two could finally be their whole, unconstrained selves, united in their shared savagery.

And his original plan had almost worked, too – Tom had extracted every little detail of how Harry had planned on slaughtering Regulus, pushing him to speak through his guilt and shame to reveal a vision that was raw and visceral and beautiful. But he had been too impatient. Harry clung to Auror principles as his north star, always falling back on the ease of their rigid ethics when his own personal values began to feel too dark and twisted, and Tom shouldn’t have expected Harry to let go of those convictions so easily.

But Tom could adapt.

He’d pushed Harry quite deeply into the mindset of a murderer, even if Harry hadn’t actually gone through with killing Regulus. It would be enough pressure for now — he’d ease off on putting Harry into dangerous situations, those horrible, heart-wrenching moments of believing Harry dead still fresh in his mind. Instead, Tom would have to reveal a bit more about Voldemort, being vulnerable himself in exposing his own identity. There were some egregious misconceptions that Regulus had left Harry with, and Tom refused to let another week pass where Harry believed that Voldemort had been truly pining over the pitiful Regulus Black as the subject of his love letters. 

And, of course, he was far overdue for a dinner party.

***

The Ouroboros case had been wrapped up without much further investigation – after they’d reviewed Tom’s memories, the Aurors had all been pretty firmly in agreement that Regulus was unambiguously, undeniably, irrevocably the killer they’d been searching for, and further investigation had only provided them more proof. The only loose end was Regulus’ missing house-elf, but in all honesty, Harry imagined it was quite likely the Black family patriarch had simply called the creature back to the main house with instructions to lay low for a while. After all, house-elves were traditionally bound to the heads of the household, conditionally lent out to descendents only for shorter periods of time – the house-elf probably hadn’t been solely Regulus’ to command to begin with.

Orion Black, deeply unhappy with the media shitstorm that Creevey had unleashed upon the Black family after his article, had been completely unwilling to work with the Aurors on identifying the house-elf, threatening all sorts of legal action after the untimely death of his son, but even Dawlish could tell it was a completely empty threat. The Aurors had definitively concluded that Regulus was the Ouroboros killer, and even Orion Black’s deep pockets couldn’t deny the validity of Tom’s self-defense shown so vividly in his memories.

So with Orion Black refusing to give any information on Black family house-elves, Harry tentatively allowed himself to believe that his loss of control with Regulus would remain a secret from the rest of the Aurors. Tom would never tell, of course – his confidentiality was second to none given his profession, and Harry got the distinct impression that Tom was always tight-lipped when it came to Harry’s thoughts and feelings. Tom was greedy like that, certainly not the type of man to casually spill Harry’s secrets when he could keep them close to the chest, hoarding his words away like rare jewels to be scrutinized and examined at a later date.

Still, his work days at the Ministry had become uncomfortably awkward.

Wherever he walked, whispers followed, with businessmen averting their gazes to avoid eye contact, cowardly secretaries changing course when they encountered him on their paths, and even Minister Fudge, who had eagerly sought him out at the Malfoy Soirée what felt like a lifetime ago, had pretended not to see Harry when they’d been in a DMLE briefing in the same room, visibly sweating and shooting frightened looks in Harry’s direction when he thought Harry wasn’t paying attention.

And it was all that asshole Colin Creevey’s fault.

He heard the words from Creevey's article muttered throughout his day, whether it was the two women from the Improper Use of Magic Office who had scampered away from him in the cafeteria speaking in whispers about his “deviant mind,” the receptionist at the Portkey office calling him a “gore-obsessed freak” when he’d thought Harry was out of earshot, or even one of Dawlish’s friends from another department attempting to get the inside scoop, asking Dawlish with genuine eagerness in his tone if Harry was really “about to crack and kill more people than he’s ever saved.” 

Harry probably hadn’t made things any better by sneaking up behind Dawlish’s friend to scare him, but honestly, how long could he be expected to handle the situation with grace? Work had always been more exhausting than rewarding, with only the occasional new Voldemort scenes really inspiring Harry to keep putting his all into his job. The constant suspicion and disdain pressing down on him as soon as he stepped into the building felt like a physical weight dragging him down, and every single day over the past week, Harry had found himself fantasizing about becoming a house-husband, letting Tom bring in the money while he kicked back and relaxed, never forced to step foot in the Ministry again. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to look both ways before he stepped into a bathroom, paranoid that he’d find a picture of his dick in his hands in front of a urinal in the next issue of the Daily Prophet. 

Still, as he sat in another dull, awkward meeting – the Auror team’s “monthly sync” with the Council of Magical Law, headed by the awful Barty Crouch Sr. – Harry acknowledged that work would have been miserable even without Creepy Creevey’s article.

“With all due respect, sir,” Kingsley was arguing from his seat at the table, hiding white-knuckled clenched fists under the table. “Authorization to use the Killing Curse has only been extended to the Auror force during the midst of wartime. Allowing this during peacetime is a risk to the sanctity of due process – it’s far too much to place the responsibility of judge, jury, and executioner in the hands of the Auror force.”

“Are you worried it’ll reflect badly on your Aurors if you make mistakes?” asked Crouch, sounding genuinely confused. “The Auror force’s priority should always be eliminating threats to our peaceful society. The Killing Curse would simply be another tool in your arsenal that you’ll now be permitted to use. Occasional deaths of innocents may be unavoidable, but innocent people shouldn’t be hanging around criminals in unsavory places – even your mistakes will likely only help in stamping out future violent offenders.”

“Future violent offenders? On what grounds?” Kingsley demanded, almost forgetting to keep his tone measured. “We certainly cannot be permitted to execute innocents based on their proximity to crime alone. That would be absurd, obviously.”

Crouch, evidently, did not seem to find it absurd.

Harry let himself space out, still sitting ramrod straight in his chair out of the lingering fear that somehow, somewhere, Creevey would take sneaky pictures of him in his meeting the moment his posture lapsed. Next to him, Dawlish weakly propped himself up on their conference table, supporting the weight of his head with one hand and idly doodling with a quill in the other. Spinnet had her fingers laced together in front of her mouth, her expression solemn and focused, but Harry had spotted her hiding her yawns behind her hands.

And after the meeting had already gone on almost an hour past their allotted time, Kingsley still hadn’t convinced Crouch Sr. to budge on his ridiculous vision for the Auror force’s future of violent aggression, making the whole thing a massive waste of time.

Though without any excitement from up-and-coming serial killers or a fresh Voldemort kill, Kingsley’s fruitless spat with Crouch Sr. had only kept Harry from the drudgery of paperwork.

He signed off of the team’s theories in their official mission report, ignoring the unease flickering in him at their deductions. He still didn’t quite understand why Regulus had shown up at Tom’s office. During his initial questioning, Tom had theorized that Regulus simply had a grudge against Harry, describing that Regulus' hero worship of Voldemort had likely corresponded with resentment towards Harry, who seemed to be the Auror forces’ best bet of ever apprehending Voldemort. The rest of the Aurors quickly jumped onto Tom’s idea, agreeing that they must be on the right track – otherwise, why else would Regulus feel so threatened by Harry?

Any deviation from that nice, neat conclusion would only serve to make Harry or Tom seem more suspicious, so Harry hadn’t verbalized any of his doubts. Still, the whole thing just felt incomplete. Something had to be missing – some strange motive of Regulus, some insight into Voldemort, something that would tie all the strange threads together that kept tugging at his mind.

And not even finishing up paperwork would be a reprieve from his quiet anxiety, not when the rest of his day would be spent re-examining Voldemort’s kills through the lens of love letters to the nightmare that was Regulus Black.

Yeah, thought Harry, slouching in his chair and dreaming once again of the house-husband lifestyle. Maybe it was time to retire.

***

Creevey was a difficult man to pin down.

Tom had never targeted a journalist before, and if he’d had the luxury of unhurried choice, he wouldn’t have picked a Daily Prophet worker. The Daily Prophet consistently printed shitty, half-baked, aggressively sensationalist articles, content that would have been immediately deemed trashy and untrustworthy in the Muggle world. He couldn’t deny that their articles on Voldemort were consistently a treat to read – Rita Skeeter, no matter how much he disagreed with her occasional tough commentary on Harry, wrote about Voldemort’s kills with unmistakable glee. If Voldemort had been good for anyone at all, he’d been good for Skeeter and her career, with her fear-mongering, aggressive reporting style serving as an exquisitely entertaining medium through which news of Voldemort’s art could spread.

However, no matter how ridiculous he felt the Daily Prophet could be, the paper was still the most well-respected and popular among the wizarding population, with many of his naive peers taking its word as gospel without pausing to question its contents.

Unfortunately, the newspaper’s influence also made its writers high-profile targets, especially given their habit of picking fights with Wizarding Britain’s public figures in the name of maximizing profits. Their reporters were very well-trained in avoiding detection for their own protection, with top-of-the-line home defenses – Tom had even heard rumors that Skeeter required each field reporter to have mastered an Animagus form, just to ensure each of her little minions could have a way to make it out of any precarious situations.

Tom didn’t mind a challenge, of course, but journalists were tricky – proficient defenders, constantly vigilant, and always obsessed with making their own little legacies. Even if he were to kill Creevey without issue, he imagined Creevey would do everything he could to leave hints as to Tom’s identity, all for the posthumous glory of a front-page Skeeter article on his “noble martyrdom.”

And Creevey was so undeserving of that honor.

Tom honestly had never been too bothered with the constant news coverage on Harry’s mental state, never really offended when Skeeter painted him as a blood-crazed lunatic about to crack. After all, her articles did half of Tom’s job for him – without any effort on his part, Harry found himself isolated from his coworkers, constantly seeking out similarities between himself and Voldemort, and increasingly dependent on Tom for support and validation. But Skeeter had always been more tasteful with her coverage, as wrong as it seemed to ascribe her work any sort of serious praise. Her photos were taken in professional settings – perhaps catching Harry at particularly low moments on occasion, yes, but they came across as more misleading than violating.

Creevey’s photos, on the other hand, were obscenely invasive. The increased scrutiny on Harry put Tom’s side work as Voldemort more at risk, which would have been unacceptable on its own, but what really infuriated Tom was the entitlement. 

Harry was his to admire. 

No casual Daily Prophet reader should ever have the right to see the way Harry’s eyes lit up when he was pleasantly surprised or his furrowed brows when thinking something over. No random stranger should be able to see Harry’s absent-minded grin whenever they pleased just by checking the newspaper. Tom knew Harry was upset by the violation of his privacy, but Harry’s distaste manifested as a simmering unease, a general edge of discomfort added to his time out and about. He’d push it down, naively accept it as part of the job, and ultimately learn to live with the apprehension that would follow his every movement.

Tom was not as mellow as his better half. Since seeing the article, he’d been so furious he’d struggled to keep the tension off of his frame – his patients had been more nervous than usual since he’d resumed his practice, as if they could sense their proximity to danger, and Tom had found himself needing to intentionally unclench his jaw and relax his muscles in an attempt to calm their agitation.

He could be patient. He could be careful. Creevey may be trained to protect himself against threats from attackers, but in a world of uninspired goons-for-hire who’d take a hit on a journalist for an extra Galleon and newly post-grad revolutionaries with ideas of overhauling news bias, Creevey would be prepared for garden variety, small-town killers, not a massive threat of Voldemort’s caliber. Voldemort was a virtuoso in every field with his refined understanding of both magic and man, and Tom had spent the past few weeks planning for all possible routes of attack he could take. 

He’d finally decided on an approach, slipping out of the apartment while Harry was fast asleep to put together a few resources. Glamouring the appearance of a flushed man with droopy eyes and a crewcut over his own face, he entered the bustling night market that took over Knockturn Alley after sundown, easily blending into the crowd of other glamoured wizarding men dressed in black.

He’d bought a few ingredients for a potion he wanted to try out from some half-veela vendor on the street corner, haggling the price down from Galleons to Sickles in short, snappy French. He couldn’t resist popping briefly into Borgin and Burkes for a quick look around at their inventory, too – he’d tossed back a longing glass at an emerald ring that just radiated malice, but ultimately, he left without buying anything, the appeal of sliding back into bed with Harry winning out over spending the rest of the night picking through the curses on the ring.

As he stepped out of the shop, straightening out his robes and planning to head straight over to the nearest Apparition point, a man stumbled out of the tavern across the street. Without a second glance, Tom recognized the establishment – Leslie’s Sensual Smoke and Satyriasis, an infamous hub for wizarding men looking to score a euphoric high from extremely sketchy brews and a mediocre fuck with whatever creatures had been desperate enough for employment, from hooved centaurs to feathered veela. Some men lauded the novelty of fucking a non-human creature, speaking passionately and crudely about the difference in tightness between hags and vampires, or the tongues and teeth of mermaids versus the lips of their own perfectly human girlfriends waiting for them back at home, but Tom found the whole concept repulsive. From what he’d seen during his trips to Knockturn, the men who frequented Leslie’s were far too high to see the creatures’ miserable, half-hearted efforts at pleasure, their slight touches to a wizard’s skin processed as an explosion of bliss to their drugged-up bodies.

The building was a familiar eyesore, but the man who had just left, giggling uncontrollably with a stupidly wide grin splitting open his face, was a delight to see.

Voldemort had always been favored by fate. Otherwise, what else could explain the sight of Colin Creevey himself, fucked-out and half-delirious in front of him on the street? 

He spared a moment to mourn the previous plan he’d decided on – he’d spent a lot of time on it – before seizing the opportunity in front of him.

With a new slouch in his shoulders and an unsteady gait, Tom made his way through the crowds of shoppers over to Colin, who was singing to himself quietly, drool running down his scruffy, poorly-shaven chin. 

“Creevey is our King,” the man hummed, attempting an unsteady twirl. “Creevey is our King. He didn't let stupid Potter win.”

What a freak.

“You alright, man?” asked Tom, slipping out of his typical posh dialect and clapping a hand on Creevey’s shoulder. It buckled for a moment under Tom’s grip before Creevey could settle himself. “You look messed up.”

Creevey grinned up at Tom, perfectly content. “All good, man, thanks for checking in. I’ve just gotten promoted at work. Had to celebrate.”

“No better place than Leslie’s,” said Tom, mirroring Creevey’s broad smile. “What’d they give you today?”

“Got the IPA,” sighed Creevey dreamily. Tom couldn’t stop himself from wrinkling his nose in disdain – the IPA, Infusion of Psilocybin and Alihostsy, would leave Creevey far too addled to understand the horror of what Tom would soon do to him. And it would taint the meat, too, if Tom didn’t put the work into purging it. “That shit hits like nothing else. I feel great.”

Around them Knockturn Alley’s night market continued in full force, with hags whistling and jeering on corners to peddle their wares, wizards in their feeble disguises foolishly flaunting their ill-gotten gains, and intoxicated vagrants begging for spare Knuts. Nobody took a second to look twice in their direction, as was typical of Knockturn - the motley collection of inhabitants and spectators had all learned to keep quiet and keep out of other people’s business, more in the interest of self-preservation rather than out of any sentimental attachment to the area.

If anybody saw Tom and Creevey, they’d keep their mouths shut when the Aurors came to question them, even if the Aurors somehow managed to find witnesses willing to admit they’d frequented Knockturn – and after misleading and lying to Aurors had almost become its own badge of honor in Knockturn, Tom doubted the Aurors would find a witness up to their standards, anyway. 

“IPAs are great, but the end of that trip is nasty, believe me,” said Tom, shaking his head ruefully. “I’ve got something better, if you want it. Something to celebrate your promotion. 

Tom watched Creevey’s face carefully, unable to resist delivering the only honest part of his pitch. “Maybe I can even make you dinner.”

Creevey’s eyes widened with childlike glee, his pupils already massively dilated. “Yeah? I really shouldn’t, you know. I’m a very important man. A lot of people want me dead.”

Tom scoffed, dismissive. “No way. I’ve never seen you before.”

“No, really!” Creevey insisted. “I’m a reporter. It’s a noble, dangerous job, bringing the ugly truth to light that powerful people don’t want us common folk to see. So I shouldn’t be going anywhere with strangers. For all I know, you could be an assassin.”

Tom raised his eyebrows. “That’s so lame.”

“I’m being serious,” whined Creevey. “It’s really dangerous to be a journalist.”

“Your loss, then,” said Tom, raising both his hands half-heartedly into the air as a little show of surrender. “Congrats on the promotion, man!”

He hadn’t even taken his third step away from Creevey before he felt a hand gripping the back of his robes. Rude, as expected. 

“Don’t be like that,” said Creevey with a pout, tilting his head to the side. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not, like, a serial killer, that’s all. Can you blame me?”

Tom turned around to face Creevey, still slouching under the cover of his glamour, making himself smaller, less threatening. “I’m not about to force you to share my stash. It’s not that deep.”

“I know, I know,” soothed Creevey, stepping closer. His head lolled to the side, his eyes vaguely unfocused. “Take me to yours, please? I’m sorry for not being chill about it. It’s been a stressful month.”

Voldemort, ever-merciful, acquiesced with a smile.

***

As Harry opened the door to Kingsley’s office, an invitation to the upcoming dinner party in hand written in Tom’s perfect calligraphy, he was met by the sight of nearly his entire team, all suited up and ready to Apparate onto a scene.

“What’s going on?” asked Harry immediately, tucking away the envelope in favor of having his wand in hand. “Has there been another kill?”

Kingsley pursed his lips, clearly displeased. “Another Voldemort scene, we believe.”

Harry nodded grimly, projecting solemnity even as a jolt of excitement shot through his chest. “Where is it?”

Kingsley sighed, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze towards the floor. The rest of the Aurors in the room were silent, staring at Harry with an odd mix of dread and fear.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Potter,” said Kingsley. “But I don’t think you should come to this one.”

Harry found himself gasping as if he’d been hit, completely caught off guard. “Why not, sir? Is it because of the article in the Prophet? You know they’ve been printing lies about me for years now, sir. And Voldemort is my case – remember how Regulus Black could tell I was getting close to actually pinning him down?”

“None of that, none of that,” reassured Kingsley, still seeming to struggle with making eye contact. “It’s just – from what we hear, this scene may not be safe for you. Mentally.”

His words hit Harry like a punch to the gut. The two of them had worked well together for years, with their strong bond of mutual trust always motivating Harry to do his best work – and while it was true that Harry, unfortunately, had been having issues with his sanity recently, Kingsley certainly hadn’t been told about his lapse in control. Why was Kingsley suddenly doubting him so out of the blue?

It had to be Creevey’s article, ruining yet another part of his job. He couldn’t keep the betrayed hurt off of his face, speechlessly staring back at Kingsley with wide eyes.

“I’m doing this all wrong, aren’t I?” asked Kingsley rhetorically, taking in a deep breath. He took a few long strides across the office, bending a bit to look at Harry right in the eyes. “I trust you, Harry, and the Daily Prophet won’t impact my view of the work you do on the team. But this Voldemort tableau is centered around you specifically. And it’s a gory one. We have reason to believe Voldemort may be targeting you based on what we’re hearing about the crime scene.”

“What does that even mean?” asked Harry, voice gaining a desperate edge. “Please, sir – if it involves me directly, I need to know. I need to see it.”

Kingsley hesitated, but Harry could tell a large part of the man wanted to bring him. Harry believed Kingsley was genuinely concerned the scene would impact his mental stability, but at the same time, Kingsley wanted to catch Voldemort more than he’d wanted anything in his life – if Harry’s perspectives were what would take him there, he should only need to push a little bit more to get Kingsley’s sense of justice to win out over his compassion.

With conviction, Harry continued. “I know we can get him, sir. We’re getting closer, and it’s scaring him. If he’s somehow involving me in this scene, it should be able to help me identify exactly how he’s viewing the Auror force.”

It was all he needed to say. Kingsley, always fixated with Voldemort, finally acquiesced, with a show of reluctance that Harry almost didn’t believe in.

***

Voldemort had created a wide range of art pieces during his prolific career – Harry reflected on the serenity in his staging of Romilda Vane as a river nymph, a sharp contrast from the stark brutality of his Umbridge display. He'd found himself wondering if Voldemort would ever run out of inspiration, deciding he liked one theme the best and letting himself specialize in one particular murder genre. There were only so many ways he could carve someone up and show off their bodies – at some point, things would get repetitive.

But as the Aurors began popping up at the Daily Prophet headquarters, the scene they arrived at was like nothing Harry had ever seen before. 

He recognized Colin Creevey immediately – the man’s face seemed untouched at first glance, outside of the horrified expression distorting his face into something far more alarming than the smug, smarmy smirk he wore in his headshots. His mousy, brown hair was plastered to his forehead with what looked like a thin sheen of sweat, and his eyes were unnaturally wide, a frantic, panicked look immortalized as if he’d just been caught doing something awful. Upon closer look, Harry saw his upper eyelids had been removed completely, contributing to the disturbingly frightened look on his face.

Colin had always been a smaller man – in life, he was quite a few inches shorter than Harry, who wasn’t a tall man to begin with, and seemed content with his skinny, skeletal frame rather than bothering to build any muscle. And yet, while his head and shoulders seemed near-normal, the rest of his body was noticeably misshapen – strange lumps seemed to bulge from under his skin, creating an ugly silhouette more like that of an overstuffed sack than of a man. His arms reached pitifully around his stomach, as if to try and unsuccessfully cover up the deformities, while abnormally short, stumpy legs supported the rest of his body in an uneven stance – it seemed that Voldemort had cut out his thighs completely, posthumously reattaching everything from the knees and below to make Colin look absurdly top-heavy and unbalanced.

In one hand, Colin clutched a Muggle digital camera, while the other gripped a copy of his own front-page article with white-knuckled fingers, the bold headline that had ruined Harry’s week immediately recognizable. But the pictures had changed – instead of capturing little, secret moments of Harry around the Ministry and Diagon Alley, each of them held the same altered photograph of a maniacal Harry, flashing snake-like fangs as he cackled uncontrollably, triumphant and cruel.

Harry could understand why Kingsley had hesitated to bring him along.

“What’s inside of him?” asked Harry briskly without turning to face Kingsley. Voldemort would want them to unwrap Colin like a present, and the distant excitement of Christmas morning began to thrum in Harry’s chest.

“We’re going to unseal him now,” answered Kingsley, voice grim. “But preliminarily, there’s another body inside of him, along with what seem to be Muggle photographs. That’s as much detail as our scans can get - it seems Voldemort lined the body with something that interferes with our surveillance spells.”

The poor member of the medical staff who’d been brought along looked sick as she held her wand to Creevey’s sternum, her hands steady despite her clear revulsion. With a rhythmic, melodic chant, she slowly cut through his torso, her wand smoothly skimming down his abdomen, slipping through Creevey’s skin easily and bloodlessly. Her voice begin to shake once she’d made it about halfway through, and Harry was sure she'd tap out as she paled dramatically, but to her credit, the mediwitch had finished the cut completely and cleanly, even charming Colin’s loose flaps of skins to fold away from the incision for easier viewing.

She’d thrown up as soon as she’d finished cutting, though, and the source of her nausea became immediately apparent as soon as Harry stepped close enough to see what Colin held.

Lockhart, the missing suspect in an Obliviation-aided sexual exploitation case spanning multiple victims, sat inside of Creevey’s hollowed-out body, smiling vacantly and airily, weakly cradling a collection of bloody Muggle photographs stuffed so messily inside of Creevey’s corpse that they’d begun to spill out onto the pavement before the mediwitch had even finished cutting him open.

Kingsley and Spinnet both inhaled audibly at the photos, with Spinnet turning to look at Harry in horror. Adrenaline twisting his stomach into knots, Harry leaned in towards the photos nearest to him, ignoring the stench of vomit and dried blood that had begun to saturate the air around him. 

They were of him.

It was Creevey’s article all over again, the violation of his private moments made public, humiliation and dehumanization in one fell swoop. They must have gone back for years, too – from photos of Harry as a third-year Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team changing in the locker rooms, to pictures of Harry kissing Cho Chang behind the Shrieking Shack on a date during their short fifth-year fling, to a post-grad, single Harry drunkenly dancing in a grimy Muggle bar. All vulnerable, private moments, moments where Harry hadn’t thought twice about being observed, let alone photographed. Each photo was carefully dated, with Creevey’s distinctive scrawl marking the time and place on the back of each still, with his occasional commentary on Harry’s outfit or mood or physical fitness included.

Harry had remembered Creevey’s creepiness from his Hogwarts days – his obsession with Harry had been strange even then, though it seemed harmless and almost cute when coming from a scrawny eleven-year-old with a dorky, gap-toothed grin. By the time he’d graduated, his tolerance for Creevey’s oddness had been worn down, and he’d treated the boy quite rudely in an effort to get him to take a hint – yes, it had still felt harmless, but having a full-blown teenager tailing him as he walked to classes or asking him for pictures in the Great Hall was annoying as hell, and he remembered Malfoy nearly crying with laughter at “narcissistic Harry Potter and his fan club” after a fourteen-year-old Creevey’s disastrous attempt at sneaking into his Potions class.

Harry had regretted some of his harshness towards Creevey, but after graduation, he’d never heard from him again, and he’d assumed the boy’s obsession had waned – his nasty Daily Prophet articles seemed more like a dig against a perceived childhood bully than a sign of any continued idolization. 

In providing such an abundance of creepshots clearly taken on Creevey’s old Muggle camera, Voldemort had shown him how terribly wrong he’d been. Creevey’s behavior had never stopped, and realistically, he would have escalated his behavior, had he not been brutally murdered by an elusive serial killer. It was as if Voldemort was doing Harry a personal favor.

The photographs were so distracting he found himself nearly forgetting about Lockhart’s presence inside of Creevey’s body, the infamous celebrity author hugging his knees to his chest like a child, naked and very much dead.

“No signs of external damage on Lockhart,” Spinnet called out to Kingsley, moving on past the photos and leaning forward to better peer inside of Creevey’s torso. “He’s covered in blood, of course, and Voldemort must have done something to make the smile stick, but I’m not initially seeing any remnants of incisions.”

Kingsley stepped around the spilled photographs to get a closer look himself. “Voldemort must have cut open his back. There’s something wrong with his backbone.”

Harry barely heard the two of them deliberate, overwhelmed by everything in front of him.

Creevey – who had followed Harry in secret for years, who had made him uncomfortable just stepping outside of his house, who had let his obsession simmer into a burning, compulsive resentment that certainly wouldn’t have remained content with Daily Prophet hit pieces and unflattering photos. Lockhart – infamous for his sexual abuse, preying on the vulnerable and exploiting them to satisfy his libido and propel his career, hidden inside of Creevey’s body, made to look just as empty-headed and spineless as he actually was.

Inside the small, innocuous man that Colin Creevey appeared to be was a predator, a creep who deserved to have his legacy of literature overwritten by disgust at his awful actions and obsessive behavior. 

Voldemort had just made it literal. 

“It’s me,” blurted out Harry, unable to stop the words from falling from his mouth. Dimly, he processed the other Aurors turning to him, Kingsley’s heavy gaze, Dawlish knitting his brows in his usual confused frown. “The love letters. They’re to me.”

And as soon as he said it, he knew it to be true.

How could he have been so blind all along? Voldemort’s kills had always held a special meaning to him, always somehow speaking directly to Harry and where he was in his life, even when the victims were people Harry had never met in his life. Whether it was creating the rebirth of Romilda Vane at a time when Harry struggled with his own identity or the perfectly convenient kill of Umbridge who had embodied everything Harry hated the most, Voldemort’s kills always felt special to Harry, neatly tailored to his mindset and his life, little works of art that never failed to strike a chord.

He felt hands on him from the Aurors around him, someone leading him into a chair and wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, someone trying to talk him into calming his frantic, gasping breaths, but he let himself block out everything external, swept away in the merciless tide of Voldemort’s emotions all flooding his mind at once. Voldemort must have been tired of how long Harry was taking to put the pieces together — the photos of Harry made Voldemort’s intentions so immediately straightforward that it was a marvel Harry hadn’t put it together any sooner. 

Yes, Voldemort loved him. 

He loved him violently, a love that manifested as bitter, rotten anger towards anyone who crossed Harry, anyone who looked at him the wrong way, anyone who tried to push or pull Harry into acting like anyone other than himself. He loved him attentively, somehow taking the time to know Harry even though Harry had no idea who he was, seeing the core of him and giving him hauntingly beautiful gifts to match. He loved him recklessly, so desperate to be known and seen by Harry in return that he gave away more and more of himself with each tableau, as if putting his faith in Harry to love him in return instead of shipping him off to Azkaban.

Harry knew he should feel gut-wrenching fear, that he should be wracked with horrified disgust at the idea of a murderous monster falling deeply in love with him. He should be overwhelmed with guilt, knowing that Voldemort’s love for him had motivated the deaths of so many innocent people.

But Harry had been obsessed with Voldemort for ages, admiring his work, worshipping his vision, desperately searching for the man behind the artist. The idea of Voldemort’s love letters being dedicated to one as juvenile and pathetic as Regulus Black had been grating, a betrayal of the ideal he’d come to adore. He’d known that Voldemort deserved better, had known that he was a far better option, but what had he expected? How was Voldemort to ever know that a random Auror on the force tasked with bringing him to justice felt a deeper connection with him than he’d felt to nearly anyone? Harry had dismissed his adoration of the killer as not only offensively immoral, but also completely one-sided — how could it be any other way?

Even knowing he was surrounded by the Aurors, even knowing it would make him seem psychotic and sadistic and just as insane as Creevey had assumed he was, Harry couldn’t stop a wide, disbelieving smile from spreading across his face, ignoring the disgusted look on Kingsley’s face at the sight, how Spinnet reared back from him involuntarily.

It was more than flattering that the obsession was mutual.

It was euphoric.

And what was to be done about that?

Chapter Text

“It’s a shame,” said Barty, uncharacteristically somber. “Reggie died before he could accomplish greater things. He should have been more aware, or taken the time to understand his opponent before going after a random civilian with more magical skill. I’ll learn from his mistakes.”

“What have you learned?” asked Tom, voice soft. Satisfaction purred through his veins after having such luck with Creevey just the night before, and he felt unusually relaxed, his previous crescendo of anticipation dimming to a contented hum. Barty seemed to have sensed the change in Tom’s mood, softening in response – Tom had rarely ever seen the man so straightforward and forthcoming.

“Reggie lacked vision,” said Barty slowly, staring down at his restless hands. “He killed in tribute to Voldemort, but he had no clear goals, nothing to aspire to outside of being acknowledged by his idol. Being a killer was a way to grab attention rather than a calling he actually felt compelled to do. He just wanted to be noticed, without thinking realistically about the consequences in the long-term.”

Barty glanced up briefly to Tom. “Does that sound right to you?”

“My job isn’t to understand your friends,” said Tom, not unkindly. “My job is to understand you. The truth of Regulus’ mindset isn’t relevant, but your perception of it is.”

Barty rolled his eyes in agitation, his tongue briefly flicking out of his mouth. His fingers began to twist against each other in his lap, the pop of his knuckles filling the silent office.

“So taking into account what you’ve observed with Regulus,” continued Tom with a sympathetic smile, tilting his head. “How might Regulus inspire you to live your life differently?”

“If I were to ever make a decision as drastic and life-altering as the decision to kill someone, which of course, I would never do,” began Barty, bitingly sarcastic. “I wouldn’t do it for someone else. It would all be for me, in pursuit of my own goals. To build myself the life that I deserve. And that’s what would keep me grounded in what’s practical and realistic – I would never be hasty like Regulus when acting for my own good.”

Tom beamed, pleased. Barty had become more comfortable talking out his plans with Tom, though he spoke vaguely enough to feign innocence if Tom had ever tried to report any suspicions to law enforcement. He was proud of Barty, genuinely impressed by the growth the young man had undergone since he’d begun seeing Tom – he’d matured from a manic, reckless fool to a determined man with real vision, confident in who he was and what he wanted.

And if Barty’s homicidal aspirations took the path Tom was envisioning, he imagined a tight grip on his identity would be invaluable.

“I remember your first sessions with me,” Tom reminisced, feeling generous enough to share more of his emotions with Barty than he typically ever bestowed upon a patient. “Your father had pressured you into mind-healing as a way to address your teenage rebellion. You hated answering my questions, hated sharing your thoughts – I’m not sure if I’ve ever endured so much obscenity in my life as what you showered upon me during our first month together. It was quite rude.”

Barty barked a laugh at that, sheepishly shrugging his shoulders. “Didn’t think I needed mind-healing, really. Thought you’d be a prude.”

“You’ve come so far,” said Tom, completely honest. “I have no doubt that your commitment to creating the future you want will serve you well. I imagine that we’re likely reaching the end of our time together, yes?”

Barty nodded, swallowing nervously.

“Well,” mused Tom. “I hope your father can make the time to visit every now and then, hm?”

A wide, radiant smile spread across Barty’s face, something innocent and awestruck in his eyes. “I have no idea how you can read me so easily, Riddle. I really couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

“That’s not a yes,” tutted Tom, no reprimand in his voice.

“Of course my father will visit,” answered Barty, his smile impossibly wide. “Maybe during my old appointment slot, even.”

Barty had truly been a joy to work with – Tom was quite pleased that their interactions wouldn’t come to an end any time soon, provided Barty didn’t make any foolish mistakes. 

“I don’t normally offer it as a service,” said Tom, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But if your father needs couples’ counseling, I’ll make an exception, just for him.”

Barty’s face immediately grew hot, a crimson red spreading over his cheeks and down his neck. His mouth flapped open a few times before he slammed it shut, speechless, and Tom couldn’t help the delighted laugh that escaped him.

“Apologies, Barty – I really couldn’t resist,” said Tom, relaxing into his chair. “Well, in this final session, let’s practice understanding the perspectives of others, alright? Try speaking as if you were your father – his tone, his demeanor, his mannerisms.”

With a jerky nod and a deep breath, Barty put on the persona of his father, his presence suddenly strong and authoritative, his hands steady at his sides, making unwavering eye contact with Tom as if he’d never had issues with it before.

He would play his role perfectly.

“Now, Barty,” hummed Tom playfully. “Just for the sake of this impersonation exercise – could you walk me through exactly how to make Polyjuice potion, please?”

***

The Auror offices buzzed frantically with motion, all hands on deck to respond to the latest Voldemort kill. The forensics team sent frequent messages from their labs with each new detail uncovered on the bodies, the unit assigned to Lockhart's disappearance insisted upon their team’s inclusion, and the new recruits kept proposing ridiculous theories in their desperation to contribute something of note – even the PR department had barged in, seemingly almost more distraught than the medi-witches at the crime scene had been, as if the double homicide’s implications for the Ministry’s reputation were far more terrifying than their gory brutality. 

On his part, Kingsley barked a nonstop barrage of questions at his team, his hackles raised and his aggression high, leaving even Spinnet cringing back from his uncharacteristic fury. The escalation from leaving a single body to leaving two without any forensic evidence was dangerous – the stakes would become impossibly higher if Voldemort began to leave multiple victims at each scene, even though Voldemort was already Undesirable #1.

Harry, however, was not at the office to see it.

The initial burst of adrenaline-fueled glee at the crime scene had energized him, driving his vivid imagination to new extremes as he spiraled into the exact perverse fantasies the Prophet had accused him of entertaining. What would Voldemort do, once he learned that Harry knew the truth? What sort of scenes would Voldemort create, knowing his love was accepted? And what would he reveal about himself? Harry imagined the secrets he could unravel, putting together the truth of Voldemort piece by piece, slowly uncovering the reality of the man he’d obsessed over for years.

And then while still at the scene of the crime, wrapped up in his shock blanket and half-unresponsive, reality crashed down on him.

What about Tom?

Harry was no fool – nobody would kill Creevey so brutally or have Umbridge’s dead, amputated corpse crawl in a cartoon heart for the sake of building a perfectly platonic friendship. Voldemort would not be content with the casual relationship of dear friends, occasionally writing each other letters or meeting for a pint at the Three Broomsticks.

Voldemort desired him, yearned for him, hungered for him.

It was not the love of a man who would accept any competition for the place he saw as rightfully his.

Kingsley, who had seemed visibly uncomfortable with just looking at Harry after his response to the latest kill, had let Harry leave the crime scene early. He was probably motivated more by his desire to avoid Harry than any particular generosity, but Harry wouldn’t complain – smoothing things over at work would be a priority for later. Tom needed him now.

And so Harry had Apparated to Tom’s waiting room, where he paced lines in the carpeted flooring as he waited for Tom to finish up with whatever patient had booked his 1:00 pm slot. He couldn’t think, couldn’t plan – all that raced through his mind was panic.  

Tom had to be safe, and Harry would do whatever was needed to keep him that way. 

The door swung open, and Barty Crouch Jr. scampered out, radiating a calm contentment that Harry desperately envied. With a polite nod at the boy, Harry let himself into Tom’s office, something in his chest relaxing at the sight of Tom’s back as he wrote notes at his desk, clearly alive and well.

As if somehow sensing Harry’s proximity, Tom turned, his eyes lighting up immediately. “Harry! What brings you to the office, dear?”

Harry swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I think you’re in terrible danger.”

His heart breaking from the concern in Tom’s eyes, Harry began to share the awful truth of what he’d just encountered.

***

“So,” said Tom slowly. “To summarize, Voldemort’s kills have always been love letters for you. His violence is escalating and becoming increasingly connected to those associated with you. And if he’s in love with you, you think I’m at risk as one of his next targets.”

Harry nodded, his whole body tense – Tom struggled to remember ever seeing Harry so overwhelmingly stressed, though Tom felt exquisitely relaxed himself.

“Well.” Tom leaned back in his chair, working to maintain solemnity. “How did you like the latest love letter?”

“Tom,” scolded Harry, furrowing his brows. “Be serious! This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m being serious,” said Tom, voice gentle. “I’m here to support you, always. If you couldn’t share the truth of how you’re feeling with me, what sort of a husband would I be?”

“A sane one,” muttered Harry under his breath, rolling his shoulders back with a sigh. “You’re a good person, Tom. You’re too kind to me, especially with all the shit I put you through. You have enough going on without needing to add my insanity on top of it all.”

Tom frowned, his concerned expression completely genuine. “This is why I want to know, dear. You’re too quick to put yourself down for whatever you’re feeling, dismissing your completely natural emotions as some sort of mental defect. If you’d gone insane, trust me – I would be the first to know.”

Harry’s face contorted into a myriad of expressions within just a few seconds, Tom savoring every single one. He was cute when he was flustered, whether from Tom’s flirtations or from the pressure of thinking a serial killer was after his husband – either way, his agitation was all at Tom’s hands, making it all the more satisfying.

“You know how I feel about Voldemort's kills,” Harry snapped, eyes flashing. “Obviously, I thought it was beautiful. But I don’t want to talk about that when your life is being threatened!”

Tom smothered a smirk, his deep-seated contentment only growing stronger. He’d take another route.

“I’m in a position very similar to yours, as you know,” he said, looking wistfully out the one-way glass of his office windows. His voice trailed off, and he let his words hang in the air, unhurried and unfinished.

Harry stared at him incredulously. “No? You are not? I don’t think anyone on Merlin’s green earth is in a position ‘very similar’ to mine, actually.”

“The stakes, perhaps, are much lower,” Tom allowed, acquiescing with a little shake of his head. “But I’ve been the recipient of unwanted love letters before. Quite distressing ones, too.”

Harry made a little noise of understanding, his eyes narrowing. “You’re talking about Myrtle Warren.”

He was. 

Myrtle Warren had been in Tom’s year at Hogwarts. Her only friends had been the books of the Hogwarts library, and even they weren’t kind to her – despite the hours she spent without distractions in the library’s sequestered reading nooks, Myrtle’s grades were average at best, truly identifying her as a pathetic excuse for a Ravenclaw. During his prefect rounds as a less calculated fifth-year, Tom had found her leaving the second-floor girls’ bathroom after dark, her eyes red and puffy, snot stains on the edges of her uniform’s sleeves.

Dumbledore, perhaps the first man Tom had truly hated, had displeased Tom that morning – at the time, fifth-year Tom would have called Dumbledore’s cryptic scoldings and persistently critical eye an irritation, but with the maturity of adulthood, Tom recognized that his adolescent displeasure was rooted in fear. Despite his mastery of magic, his impeccable social climbing, and his clever resourcefulness in the face of prejudice, Tom always felt precarious in the wizarding world, fearing a quick word from Dumbledore would send him back to Wool’s Orphanage with nothing but a broken stick and an asylum-worthy base of arcane knowledge with no Muggle applications.

Dumbledore’s reprimanding hadn’t even been particularly serious – just a light scolding in Defense Against the Dark Arts when Tom had been murmuring to Nott during his lecture – but Tom had been in an awful mood the rest of the day, determined to be the paragon of virtue and ensure no other professors would see any imperfections in his behavior. 

Normally, Tom would have admonished Myrtle severely for wandering the halls after curfew. After all, he would have never allowed himself to be seen so disheveled and vulnerable, even as a first-year mudblood in a dorm of jeering, prepubescent purebloods. And unlike Tom, who had been inaccurately judged as weaker and more sensitive before he’d proven himself to his feebleminded Slytherin peers, Myrtle Warren invited all the bullying she received. She put no effort into her appearance, showing up to classes in uneven pigtails and greasy bangs, her coke-bottle round glasses shrinking her eyes into beady, ugly marbles. She had somehow turned off every other girl in her year, seizing onto every opportunity for friendship with an obsession so fierce that her yearmates had turned to harsh insults and cruelty for her to take a fucking hint. And she was stupid, too – not clever enough to figure out how to make friends, not diligent enough to excel in any of her classes, and not creative enough to find any other way to stand out.

She’d been a bit better recently. One of her dormmates, Olive Hornby, had been doing the Lord’s work, bullying Myrtle with real sadism over the past few months. Finally, Myrtle had learned to shut up and stay out of sight, and Tom had been pleased to no longer hear her grating, shrill voice around Hogwarts. 

But with Dumbledore’s disapproving frown in the back of his mind, Tom hadn’t thought twice before playing a sympathetic ally.

He’d knelt next to her, listened to her pitiful stories with a concerned frown, escorted her back to the Ravenclaw common room with a promise to make sure that professors heard about this and that Hornby would face some sort of punishment. He’d relished the sour look on Dumbledore’s face as he’d made an impassioned plea to the professors to step in when they saw instances of bullying, speaking to Myrtle’s case as an example of the extreme harm done by a hands-off policy. 

Hornby received a week of detention. She’d missed Ravenclaw’s game against Slytherin, and without her as a Chaser, the team had lost by only inches, Lestrange catching the Snitch just before Ravenclaw could secure a safe lead. Myrtle had been ecstatic, and Tom had been quite pleased, too – his professors had never been more impressed, giving him proud nods of approval as he passed them in hallways or leaping to praise his every answer in class. Except for Dumbledore, of course, which was satisfying in its own way.

Unfortunately, while Tom’s charitable urges had worn off quite quickly, Myrtle’s gratitude had not.

Myrtle never gathered the courage to approach Tom again, though she seemed to feel no shame in ogling him whenever they happened to be in the same vicinity. Instead, she’d expressed her endless adoration in countless love letters, writing that nobody had ever understood her the way Tom did, that he looked so fetching in his emerald robes, that the other girls in the school were fools for approaching him, that the two of them were clearly meant to be.

He’d burned some of them. He’d read some of them to his housemates, just to laugh at the ridiculousness of her language – Nott loved her mushy-gushy sonnets, perking up with a cruel gleam in his eyes each time he saw Tom approach with a letter. He’d tucked away some more concerning ones in case he ever needed to file a restraining order.

He had never stopped receiving them, even after graduation.

They weren’t much of a burden, at least in Tom’s opinion – he’d gotten into the habit of throwing them out with the other junk mail he’d received, vanishing them alongside advertisements for Longbottom’s Landscaping Service or a Super-Deluxe Lifetime Quibbler Subscription. But Harry had always been visibly perturbed by her constant correspondence, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth at the sight of her scrawling handwriting, never finding any humor in the passion that spilled out over the scrolls of parchment she sent his way.

“At least every week since Hogwarts, I’ve received a completely unwarranted, unwelcomed love letter from Myrtle Warren,” Tom continued. “They’re unsettling. As we’ve discussed, there’s nothing that can be legally done when her letters aren’t breaking any rules, but I feel harassed. I worry that she won’t always be content with just sending her rambling adoration.”

“She’s really creepy,” agreed Harry, his lips pursed. 

“Now, imagine if I let her ruin our happy life together that we’ve worked so hard for,” said Tom, speaking passionately. “If I refused to let you go to work, out of fear that she’d find a way to hurt you there. If I spent my life locked at home, constantly looking over my shoulder for a threat from her. I’d be letting her win. I’d reward her behavior by letting it scare me into being just as unhappy as she is.”

“I get it with Myrtle,” said Harry, frustrated. “But even though I think she is harassing you – which is serious on its own, don’t get me wrong – she’s just an emotionally stunted virgin who can barely cast a sixth-year Transfiguration. It’s not at all comparable.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Both are violating attempts to win affection through brute force, aren’t they? Strangers who think they understand us, hoping to somehow manipulate us into returning their love through needlessly showy displays.” 

“Myrtle has no record of killing people. And she doesn’t get you at all.”

“Do you think Voldemort ‘gets’ you?” asked Tom, speaking a bit too quickly. 

Harry pressed his lips shut, visibly regretting the words he’d just spoken. “I do. Myrtle sends you crazed rants, Tom. They’re self-centered and egotistical, and she doesn’t bother to understand you at all. But Voldemort’s kills are so intentional. It’s like he sees straight to my soul, and he tells me exactly what I need to hear. He really knows me.”

“With the most recent kill,” Harry continued. “With Creevey, you know how horrible his pictures made me feel. You’d imagine a crazy stalker in love with me would kill him just to try and get in my good graces, but Voldemort did more than that. He validated every bit of revulsion I felt towards Creevey, making sure the whole world would know what a creep he was. He understood exactly why the situation had unsettled me, and he killed Creevey the way that he did as a comfort to me.”

Tom remained silent, watching Harry carefully.

“You remember everything I’ve said about Voldemort, Tom. Myrtle’s behavior is concerning, but Voldemort is an entirely different threat level. I know you’re trying to comfort me and calm me down, but the situation is seriously so much more dire. Voldemort’s not fucking around. He’s dangerous, and wrathful, and very much in love with me – if you’re not extremely careful, he could absolutely kill you brutally, just to get to me.”

Tom let a bit of distress creep onto his face. “I see.”

“I’m sorry, Tom.” Picking up on the discomfort on Tom’s expression, Harry reached out to grab his hand, interlocking their fingers together. “I just need you to be safe. I love you so much more than him. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything happened to you.”

And just like that, Tom had gotten what he wanted. 

He let himself be consoled, let Harry rub his shoulders to calm him down, let Harry’s plans for how the two needed to protect themselves wash over him. Discussed ideas for new ward schemes for his office and for their home, for emergency Portkeys that would never leave his person, for installing those infuriatingly irritating Sneakoscopes all over their home. Harry could read him quite well – he would be able to see that something was off with Tom, but he’d probably attribute it to concealed fear, assuming that Tom’s odd demeanor would be due to his struggle to appear strong and composed under duress.

I love you so much more than him.

Harry had already told him all he needed to hear.

Pleased with how well his love letter had gone over, Tom let himself plan for the next course of their upcoming dinner party. There was still so much work to do, from gathering ingredients to sending out invitations. He would have to meet with Draco soon, of course, to lay a bit of groundwork. He still needed to figure out his color scheme for the place settings he would use. Harry could focus on contingency plans in case Voldemort attacked – Tom would be thinking through more pressing issues, like the seating arrangements, the drink selection, the crime scene cover-up….

If Harry had enjoyed Creevey , he would adore the next message Tom had in mind.

***

Vernon Dursley, VP at Mockheed Martin PLC, drove home in silence after a long, miserable day at the office.

He’d sunk his blood, sweat, and tears into his role as a Grunnings salesman, working his way up the totem pole with tenacious dedication. He’d found the work difficult at first – he’d never been afraid of rejection and tough conversations, but sales work took delicacy that had never been natural for him. He couldn’t steamroll his clients and higher-ups, couldn’t win them over by dogged persistence alone – he needed to butter them up a bit first. Make them trust him. Forge a sense of comradery. Perhaps he’d fallen short at first, but by the time he’d earned his promotion to VP, Vernon had mastered the intricacies of his job, efficiently managing a satisfyingly subservient team and ambitiously growing the company’s clientele over steak dinners and golf trips.

Of course, no matter how good he was at his job, there was only so much he could control. 

Earlier in the year, Grunnings had been acquired by Mockheed Martin PLC, a general construction company working to monopolize the sale and production of all manufacturing supplies in Britain – with no particular specialization in drills. Suddenly, in addition to an entirely new catalogue of products to peddle, Vernon had a strange new team of mouthy little upstarts and a complicated set of ridiculous new rules that dictated every little detail of his day. No more friendly ribbing of the female employees or idle locker-room talk with the other men of the office. No more corporate-sponsored trips to disreputable establishments without getting prior approval from the uppity finance team. He couldn’t even tell his Japanese golfer joke, for Christ’s sake. The job had become soulless and dull, and though Vernon really was trying his best to adapt, he felt increasingly as if he had fallen behind years ago, with all his recent efforts to catch up too little, too late.

He’d become unfortunately well-acquainted with their local branch’s HR representative, who had called him into her office today for another reprimand. 

“An anonymous complaint,” Vernon muttered under his breath, his mustache twitching. “I know just the whiny bitch who placed it. Thinks she can tell me what to do, hm? I’ll show her.”

His heart wasn’t in it, though.

It had been a tough year for Vernon Dursley. Marge was ill again, for one. His dear Petunia didn’t seem to understand him as well anymore – she was so pleased with his increased salary, happily bragging to all the other neighborhood ladies about his leap in status, but she didn’t seem to understand how draining the new role had been. And she didn’t have as much time as she should to focus on Vernon and his troubles, especially at their old age. Dudley had just moved back home after a messy break-up with his girlfriend, a pretty young thing whom both he and Petunia had really liked.

Vernon almost blamed himself, though he knew it was ridiculous. Dudley was a grown man, after all, who was responsible for his own actions and could make his own choices. And yet, Vernon wondered if he’d somehow gone wrong in raising the boy. He’d always taught Dudley to stand his ground, never letting anyone give him shit – it was the Dursley way, in the spirit of his father and grandfather before him. A Dursley should be confident and bold, fearlessly seizing what they want. 

But Dudley seemed to have a bad habit of taking a firm hand to the women he dated, and his stubborn attitude had him struggling to hold down serious jobs. 

Vernon knew it couldn’t really be his own fault – he’d raised Dudley just as his father had raised him, and Vernon had turned out great, learning to strike a balance between aggression and friendliness instinctually. Still, the sight of his fully-grown son scowling at his mother at the dinner table and demanding his favorite dishes was…disappointing.

Dudley was a good kid, one who just needed to find his own path. Vernon just hoped it would happen soon – the last thing he needed on his plate was parenting, a burden he should have largely left behind years ago. 

He parked in the driveway of Number 4 Privet Drive, taking a moment to sit in the car a bit longer. A moment to himself – a moment where he could pretend things were as they should be. He would walk into the house and kiss Pet on the cheek, compliment her on whatever she’d cooked for dinner, tell her all about the lucrative sales he’d been making at Grunnings. Perhaps Dudley would call from London, enchanting them both with stories of his happy life in the big city. He’d take Petunia to bed after, just as virile as when they’d first met, and he would sleep easily, without a trace of dread for the day ahead.

The moment could not last.

He let himself in through the front door with a sigh, immediately perking up at the delicious smell wafting through the house. 

Was Petunia cooking a roast?

He shook his head, smiling incredulously. What a fool he could be, so quick to bemoan the little frustrations of his life. How awful could things be when his beautiful wife was preparing him delicious dinners after work, when his beloved son still chose to spend time with his parents, when he was employed at a multimillion dollar company? Family would always be the most important thing, and he was truly blessed to have his whole family all in one place, happy and healthy and together, provided for by his years of hard work. 

“What’s for dinner, Pet?” he called out, setting down his briefcase by the door.

Wearing an unusually formal outfit for an average weeknight dinner, Petunia bustled out from the kitchen, her hair neatly curled and her lips tinted red. “Oh, you’re home early, sweetie! We have company tonight!”

Vernon gave her a quick peck on the cheek, though his brow was furrowed in confusion. “Company? One of Dudley’s old friends?”

“No, no,” said Petunia, affectionately smoothing down the collar of Vernon’s shirt. “There’s a nice young man who’s moving in down the block. Number 13 – you know, that tall brick house with the overgrown garden?”

Vernon frowned. “Isn’t that where the Taylors live?”

“You’re thinking of Number 7,” said Petunia, only half-listening. “Anyway, he stopped by to introduce himself, and he’s helping a bit with dinner preparations. You’ll like him, sweetie – he seems to have a good head on his shoulders, just like our Dudders. Come and say hello.”

Hesitantly, Vernon trailed Petunia, poking his head in through the doorway – he didn’t usually spend much time in the kitchen, and it was odd to see anyone other than Petunia there.

Sure enough, there was a man in their kitchen. He seemed well put-together, more respectable than some of the hippy-dippy characters of the younger generation with his ironed slacks and tailored button-down shirt. His movements seemed confident and practiced, chopping up some sort of leafy green with thoughtless ease, and he looked up with guileless eyes as Petunia joined him by the countertop. As soon as he caught sight of Vernon, he put down his knife entirely, greeting Vernon with an easy smile and a firm handshake.

Petunia had been right – Vernon liked the look of him right away.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dursley,” said the man, smiling cheerfully. “Petunia here has told me so much about you."

“Nice to meet you, too,” responded Vernon with an answering grin. “What was your name again, boy?”

“Tom, sir.” The man’s smile had grown even wider, his eyes sparkling with some strange amusement. For a brief moment, the fervor in his eyes almost frightened Vernon, a chill shooting down his spine out of nowhere, but upon second look, Tom’s expression was perfectly pleasant – Vernon must have been more tired than he realized. “And I’m very much looking forward to serving you for dinner.”

Chapter Text

Tom considered himself a measured, steady man. Self-control was key in his line of work, whether that line of work was Mind Healing or murder – either way, he needed to be able to think clearly under pressure and control any emotional outbursts, skills he’d refined to the highest level.

But as he spun around his kitchen, grease from the meat coating his hands and the smell of his cooking flooding the air, Tom couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud, completely overwhelmed with pure, incandescent happiness.

He loved throwing dinner parties, every step of it. He’d taken a few days off of work, shuffling around his patients just to keep his full focus on the feast ahead – he wouldn’t let the mundanities of his patients’ mental health distract him from the performance of a lifetime that awaited him.

Now, he was in his element. The heat of the oven where his confit simmered had slowly permeated the previously cold room, adding a feverish intensity to every movement. The rich scent of human fat, thyme, olive oil, and garlic melted seamlessly into the air, giving every breath its own flavor with the sensory crescendo of a symphony. Bare-handed, he kneaded the ground meat he’d use for another piece of the dish, mixing in his own blend of spices – cayenne pepper, oregano, marjoram, coriander, and a bit of sugar – and relishing the feeling of the flesh under his hands, made malleable and dynamic, ready to serve a greater purpose as protein for his audience. This batch would become sausages in his French cassoulet, to be served alongside the human confit, lamb roast, and ham hock over a creamy bed of slow-cooked white haricot beans. 

He’d gotten his RSVPs back by now, giving him time to customize the menu to his attendees. As he’d expected, nearly everyone would make time for his feasts, rare and exclusive as they were. Draco was coming, which Tom was quite pleased about – there was no world where Draco, ever desperate to be in-the-know and leaping to grasp at any status symbols he could find, would have missed one of his intimate dinner parties, but Tom had dearly wanted him there nonetheless. He’d been to Draco’s home just this past week, where Draco had eagerly bombarded him with questions about the guest list and shared any gossip he’d heard on each invitee individually – his ridiculous enthusiasm was always entertaining.

To his further delight, a few of Harry’s Ministry colleagues would join them for dinner, too – he’d worried that the intensity of the Voldemort case would bar them from having enough time out of the office, but even Kingsley had promised to attend, though Tom imagined he wouldn’t be able to resist interrogating Harry for more insights during the dinner party. Kingsley seemed to be quite an inconsiderate man, happy to rip through Harry’s mind for insights when it suited him and then accuse him of contributing too little once he’d exhausted him, but no matter. Kingsley would create an unfulfilling, unhappy life for himself, and Tom felt no need to put him out of his misery just yet.

The oven timer dinged behind him, and Tom snapped out of his reverie. The party was tonight – there was no time to waste.

***

Harry had nearly been forbidden from attending the next crime scene.

Upon arriving at the Ministry, Harry was immediately summoned to Kingsley’s office, where he endured an absolutely scathing lecture. According to Kingsley, Harry was far too sympathetic towards Voldemort at crime scenes, diminishing the sanctity of the Auror office and disrespecting the many victims of his horrible work. For all that Harry was the only one with an insight into Voldemort’s mind, and despite his spotless record of tracking down every other killer he’d been assigned to, the Aurors were still far from identifying any suspects for Voldemort’s many, many kills.

And if Harry was sure the love letters from Voldemort were intended for him – which Kingsley grilled him brutally on – then shouldn’t Harry have some sort of idea of who had written them? Had he never noticed any strange figures hanging around him? Did nobody in his personal life seem remotely questionable? For such an adept profiler, it was downright suspicious that Harry remained completely clueless to the killer’s identity, and Kingsley had half a mind to block him from the case entirely – clearly, he must be too close to the crime to look at the situation objectively.

And yet, after Kingsley had all-but-promised Harry he’d never touch the Voldemort case again, Spinnet burst into the office with news of another kill. 

“Three victims this time,” she panted, having evidently sprinted from across the building. “Muggles. Right in front of the Ministry. Don’t know when they could’ve possibly been placed without being seen, not when everyone’s been coming in and out all day. Might not be Voldemort, but there’s some pretty damning snake imagery, apparently.”

Kingsley half-rose from his desk, already gripping his wand. “Is the scene secure? Do we have IDs on the victims?”

Spinnet grimaced, ponytail swaying as she shook her head, stray hairs plastered to her sweaty forehead. “They’re enclosed in a box that’s leaking blood. The perimeter security teams came across it first, so the only info we have is from their prelim scans. They say three life forms are enclosed, each a nonmagical being. Snake carvings decorating the whole outside of the box, so if it’s not Voldemort, it’s a copycat who knows about the escalating body count. A perimeter has been secured, but there have been multiple witnesses to the scene by now.”

Kingsley cursed under his breath, rigid with tension. “We’ll be there in a minute. Get things under control in the meantime, Spinnet. I want a full quarantine of the area, everyone available that the forensics team can spare, and the trauma medi-witch team. No press, no cameras.”

“Yes, sir,” Spinnet nodded, vanishing from the doorway as abruptly as she’d appeared.

Harry watched anxiously as Kingsley readied himself for the scene ahead, strapping a second wand to his non-dominant arm and donning dragon-hide robes. Kingsley would have to bring Harry back in eventually, surely, even if he was being taken temporarily off the case – at the end of the day, Harry was irreplaceable, and Kingsley would need to prioritize catching Voldemort over actually correcting Harry’s behavior.

But photos never did the kills justice, and desperately, guiltily, he yearned to follow Kingsley, to see the scene Voldemort had prepared with him the way it was meant to be experienced, to understand his vision in full.

“Well?” demanded Kingsley, one hand on the door.

Harry snapped out of his daze with a shake of his head. “Huh?”

Kingsley gave an irritated jerk of his head. “Are you coming or not?”

“I thought I was off the case,” said Harry dumbly, too caught off guard to measure his speech. “I’m back on?”

“You’re back on,” said Kingsley gruffly, already half out the door. “We’ve got a killer to catch, Potter. We’ll fix your attitude problem later.”

Nodding furiously to hide the smile threatening to creep onto his face, Harry followed him out the door, bouncing with every step despite his best efforts.

***

By the time the pair had arrived at the scene, the box had already been opened, Spinnet and some forensic Aurors grimly cataloguing its contents. The medi-witches stood to the side, still and anxious – there were no lives to be saved at the scene. The victims were all dead, to nobody’s surprise.

What was a surprise, however, was how recently they had died.

“Stamford – you know, from the security team? Stamford Jorkins? With the beard thing going on? Anyway, Stamford was saying that the box started out, like, a lot bigger than what you see in front of us now,” chattered Dawlish, his eyes wide and his hands flailing. “But while they were waiting for us, the box was actually shrinking. Like, compressing the bodies. And the security team’s scans said that there were three dead bodies from the get-go, but the forensics team was like, no, two of them literally just died from the pressure within the past ten minutes. And the security team is saying it’s not their fault because–”

Spinnet tactfully placed her hand on Dawlish’s shoulder, shutting him up. “Dawlish is right, sir. Three total victims were in the box, all Muggle – one was dead previously and was put into the box already disassembled, but the other two were mostly whole and still breathing before being crushed by the box’s walls. Organs were removed from all three, as is typical of a Voldemort kill. We’re hypothesizing he charmed the box to somehow disguise the signs of life from the two who had been alive.”

“Why Muggles?” asked Kingsley, only half-rhetorical. He turned to face Harry, frowning. “Voldemort has only ever targeted witches and wizards before. What would make him change his MO? Is it a blood purity issue?”

Harry shook his head, puzzled. “Voldemort’s kills have never had political motivations – he’s always just wanted to tell a story with his displays. He targets people he dislikes, of course, but I can’t imagine why he’d go after Muggles. There’s ego in his kills, and any third-year with a wand could kill a Muggle without much trouble. He wouldn’t take any pride in killing the defenseless for the sake of it.”

Unhappily in agreement, Kingsley nodded, squinting thoughtfully at the scene.

“Maybe he changed his mind?” interjected Dawlish tentatively. “The elections are coming up soon. Maybe he’s making a statement?”

Kingsley didn’t bother responding, striding up to the box himself and peering down into it. Harry stood back, hesitant to insert himself too forcibly into the crime scene when he was still in hot water.

Instead, Harry contented himself with absorbing the scene in front of him in full.

In a strange way, viewing the scene from a distance provided a new perspective, though he missed the details of observing the bodies up close. Voldemort would love the view, would savor it, though Harry had never thought twice about the show of bustle and shock so common in crime scenes. Always a sadist, Voldemort would find the frenzy and grief of the scene intoxicating as a man who relished walking amongst the average witch and wizard, delighting himself by blending in perfectly with the crowd to better watch the fools around him scramble in the wake of his devastation. The staging itself was only half of the theater – the audience’s reaction would make it so much more delicious to him, elevating the experience to ecstasy.

And the scene before him was electrifying.

He was reminded of Creevey’s body, of the glorious joy it had inspired before his fear had sunken in. Of the thrill of seeing his bulging torso and wondering just what could be inside. Of watching the body’s insides slowly revealed with all the seductive anticipation of a striptease, and of the pure satisfaction of what was found in his guts.

From where he stood, all Harry could see was a nondescript box in a crimson puddle and the pale faces of all who peered inside – something incredible would be inside, something meant just for Harry, something that would set all his senses alight and haunt his fantasies for as long as he lived. Fiery excitement became a tangible heat in his chest, a burning anticipation, a craving, and with every horrified Ministry worker who turned away from the sight, nauseous and disgusted and scared, the wonderful thrill of suspense only grew.

With an irritated huff, Kingsley stood up from where he knelt, glaring at Harry. “Get over here, Potter. Give us your read.”

Carefully, as if ready for his access to be revoked at any point, Harry made his way to Kingsley’s side, feeling the tangible pressure of Spinnet and Dawlish’s stares as he walked tentatively around the pool of blood. Morbidly, he wondered just who he’d see in the box – another person who had wronged him, perhaps? Or maybe, like Lockhart, the victim would be more chosen for their symbolism, rather than being a particular enemy of Harry’s – a bureaucrat, a sycophant, a coward, a brute.

But choosing a victim amongst Muggles? How strange, how uncharacteristically unambitious – with Harry so far removed from the Muggle world, how on earth would Voldemort have chosen a group of Muggle victims?

The sight of the bodies inside the box hit him like a punch to the gut.

Of course. 

It couldn’t have been any other way, thought Harry hysterically, staring at the bodies with his jaw dropped and his eyes wide. Voldemort would never let them live after what they’d done to me. The second their crimes became known to him, he would have had this planned.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were recognizable even with their skulls crushed together.

And yet, injuries aside, they looked so different. 

They’d always been so full of life in Harry’s young eyes, embodying unchanging authority, ever-present and reliable in their cruelty. Uncle Vernon, with his booming voice and his ruddy complexion, radiating presence with every stomp and shout. Aunt Petunia, in her near-omniscient watchfulness, her eyes following Harry like a physical weight on his shoulders, her birdlike voice sharp and cutting. Somewhere along the way, they had become all-powerful figures in his memory, immortal tormentors just waiting to meet him in hell and make him pay for all the trouble he’d put them through.

But as a couple squished together in a box, their brain matter mixing together, the shards of their bones poking out from their own skin to pierce each other’s flesh, they were so far from the untouchable figures of his nightmares. 

They looked older. Mundane. Uncle Vernon had lost weight and gained wrinkles, his face grey and jowly – Aunt Petunia, too, had new sunspots marring her hands, new sagging in her skin. And they clutched onto each other so desperately, even when being crushed together, even when knowing the other’s body would ruin their own. They were so vulnerable, so undeniably human, so far from monstrosity – a couple who loved each other, who’d spent decades happily married, who’d planned to spend the rest of their lifetime together. 

In their intertwined bodies, Harry saw the family he’d once been so desperate to be a part of, the family that part of him still longed for without his conscious awareness.

And between their bodies was the one who had fit into that family without ever giving it a second thought, though he was certainly worse for wear.

Harry wasn’t even quite sure what was left of Dudley Dursley could be technically counted as a body. His head had been crushed between his parents’ corpses, though the early decomposition of his skin led Harry to believe that his cousin had been dead long before the box had begun shrinking. Other than the squeeze, however, Dudley’s face and neck seemed to have been untouched, with far more of the bulky vitality of Harry’s memories.

But below the neck, all that Voldemort had left of Dudley was skin.

He’d hollowed out Dudley, scraping out his meat and organs like the inside of an avocado, leaving nothing but the shell of skin behind as if pursuing the meat of a particularly ripe fruit. 

It was a cruel perversion of a family portrait, sadistic even by Voldemort’s standards – to murder magical adults was one thing, but a family, a family of people who loved each other so deeply, a family with no way of protecting themselves without any hope of accessing magic? Harry understood the revulsion that had roiled through each officer who had seen inside the box, the disgust at such a high degree of cruelty. Voldemort had undeniably escalated in his brutality, his slaughter increasingly unsympathetic.

But didn’t they deserve it?

After all, the Dursleys had tried to crush Harry. They’d locked him into his cupboard for years, only allowing him a bedroom until he physically couldn’t contort his body into the confines of the cupboard under the stairs. They’d broken his spirit, made him feel like a burden and a plague, an infestation of freakishness to stain their perfect family. And they had pressed themselves together so tightly in life, too – too absorbed in each other to ever make room for Harry, a close-knit bond he had no hope to break into. 

He would have been a good son. He would have been a good brother. He had tried so desperately to prove it.

But he had never gotten a chance, and now, he never would.

Still wrestling with shock and grief and triumph and relief, Harry only barely heard Kinglsey’s following questions.

“A Muggle family, slaughtered right in front of the Ministry. Still think this is a love letter to you, Potter?”

Unsure of how receptive Kingsley was feeling, Harry nodded slowly.

“And why would Voldemort, whom you claim knows you so well, believe you’d find this an agreeable courting gift?”

Harry swallowed nervously. Kingsley’s tone was venomous, another marker of the newfound animosity haunting all their interactions. He would find no support in Spinnet or Dawlish, either – they watched for Harry’s reaction with tense anticipation, as if preparing for something horrible and shocking.

“Um, it’s not something I’m very comfortable sharing,” said Harry quietly, after a lengthy silence. He hated the eagerness that immediately rose to Dawlish’s face, the anticipation that he would reveal another torrid, horrible secret, as if his trauma was nothing but a rare opportunity for fresh gossip. “But I was raised by Muggles, for a time. Before the Ministry’s child protection agency extracted me and put me in London’s wizarding orphanage.”

He wasn’t sure what reaction was worst – Kingsley’s impassivity, Spinnet’s condescending pity, or Dawlish’s open skepticism.

“Why did child protective services need to step in?” asked Kingsley briskly, Dawlish nodding from behind him.

Harry shook his head, throat dry. “I’ll write about it in my report, sir, after I have a bit more time to reflect. It’s difficult for me to talk about.”

Kingsley fixed him with another disappointed glare. “Potter, your insights here are crucial. If you’re the target of these kills, Voldemort is someone close to you. He’s someone obsessed with you. You’re the Auror force’s wonderboy here, solving all sorts of cold cases – how can you have nothing further to contribute to an active case centered around you?”

Harry recoiled back, feeling horribly small. “I’m trying my hardest, sir. I’m sorry.”

Kingsley’s lip curled in disgust. “If you can’t be helpful today – Spinnet, you mentioned further organ removal from the bodies. Putting aside the youngest, what was taken from the elder couple?”

“Just the small intestine from both, sir,” answered Spinnet, briefly cross-checking her notes.

Turning his back to Harry, Kingsley whirled to face Spinnet fully. “What’s your take on that?”

“Perhaps some sort of criticism of the parents?” responded Spinnet, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “To speak crudely, it’s part of the digestive tract, carrying the first stages of human excrement. He could be implying that the child they carried was…a waste product.”

“Maybe Voldemort’s making sausages,” chimed in Dawlish. 

Kingsley shook his head at the off-color joke, continuing his interrogation of Spinnet, but Harry couldn’t hear a word of it.

Maybe Voldemort’s making sausages.

With a sense of surety that had been so rare on the Voldemort case, another dimension of Voldemort’s identity clicked neatly into place, so obvious he could kick himself for not realizing it earlier.

Dawlish was right.

Voldemort was eating his victims.

And even as the nausea whirled in Harry’s stomach, his breaths coming faster and faster, the sight of Kingsley’s blazing irritation beginning to blur with the rest of his vision, Harry couldn’t help the quick burst of pleasure that spread through his chest at the thought of it.

What karmic retribution, for Voldemort to feast upon the bodies of the Dursleys, the very family that had starved Harry for his entire childhood, nearly killing him from malnourishment in favor of serving Dudley seconds and thirds. If they couldn’t feed Harry in life, at least they could feed Voldemort in death. And what a clever way to prevent his trophies from ever being found – by eating the bodies, no traces could be found at a later date by any future Aurors, eliminating a huge point of risk that could compromise his identity. 

And what brutal, heartbreaking unfairness that Harry could never have both Voldemort and Tom for himself. 

He had to catch Voldemort, no matter how foolishly he yearned for him – Tom’s life would be at risk every second that Voldemort was at large, and he held no hope that Voldemort could ever be happy sharing Harry’s love.

As a heavy grief began to replace his joy, Harry spent very little time mourning the Dursleys. They didn’t deserve his sympathy, not after all they had done to him. But the courtship with Voldemort, the love lavished upon him so violently, the glorious potential of the life the two could live together? The loss of a powerful source of beauty in his life that he’d cherished so dearly, with so much depth and so much understanding?

Yes, that was worth mourning.

***

Barty Crouch Jr. scowled at the clothes in his closet, still unfamiliar with his new wardrobe.

Honestly, he needed to go shopping. Could he really be expected to wear nothing but black and navy robes for the rest of his life, paired with the most disconcertingly banal polka-dotted ties? Clothing had been relatively low on his priority list this past week – after all, he’d had so many loose ends to tie up – but perhaps he needed to plan for a Diagon Alley trip sooner rather than later. How could he possibly act natural in over three layers of heavy wizarding robes? Really, on top of catching up with his ridiculous workload, maintaining his social obligations, and setting aside enough time for potion brewing, Barty felt stretched quite thin.

“Will you be ready to leave in a few, my angel?” called out Barty’s mother from the front hallway, a wave of tension leaving Barty’s body at the sound of her soft voice. She’d seemed happier recently, cautiously optimistic towards her husband’s newfound patience. These were early days, of course, and Barty knew it would take more than a few days of kindness to restore his mother’s trust in her habitually unfeeling husband, but they had nothing but time.

Picking at random, Barty selected a dark, pinstriped robe as his final layer, walking to meet his mother with the brisk, purposeful walk his father was known for. Fuck clothing. He’d get himself a new wardrobe later.

But in the meantime, he grasped onto his mother’s hand, smiling down at her as she fretted about where she’d left Floo powder.

He hoped Tom would be proud of the work he’d done.

***

“I don’t even know why I’m doing this,” grumbled Kingsley, swapping out his usual violet kufi cap with a more subdued black cap, embroidered with subtle gold trim to catch the light. He enjoyed a nice dinner as much as the next man, sure, and he’d heard rumors of Riddle’s dinner parties for years, but he was in the middle of a case, dammit, and he didn’t have time to screw around. 

At the same time, Kingsley knew he’d regret it if he missed out on his shot. Attendees of Riddle’s dinner parties clamored so eagerly for repeat invitations, though they were given out only rarely, and the man seemed to have a talent for pairing impressive people together – many a partnership had been born at one of Riddle’s exclusive soirées, with would-be guests sometimes salivating over the opportunity to network more than the food itself. 

And besides, reasoned Kingsley, Potter would be there, with nowhere to retreat to.

If everything else at dinner was a disappointment, at least he’d have the opportunity to milk a few more insights from his star Auror, no matter how broken he’d seemed recently. Kingsley was confident Harry would snap out of it – he was a good man and a hardworking Auror. He was just sensitive, that was all. It left him vulnerable to external influence, and the Voldemort case would leave a powerful impact on even the most steady of psyches. Kingsley just needed to keep putting pressure on him, keep him focused on the importance of the task assigned to him instead of letting one psychopath’s delusions distract him from his work. Really, Kingsley was no idiot – there was no shot that an Auror as perceptive as Potter would be completely blind to who could be sending him love letters. The answer was somewhere in his fragile mind, and Kingsley just needed to keep pulling the details from him, encouraging him to piece together the full picture, reminding him of the consequences of failure.

As Kingsley shrugged on his trusty dragonhide robes, he couldn’t suppress a heavy sigh. The lives that Voldemort had ended weighed heavily on him, and the sight of the poor Muggle family in that accursed box had tormented his every thought since leaving the scene.

The food had really better be worth it.

***

“You’re looking absolutely dreamy, you stud,” encouraged Draco’s reflection, tossing his blond hair out of his face with a flick of his head. “Sage green is totally your color.”

Though he kept his expression serious, Draco couldn't help but agree with his mirror’s flattery. “Do I look a bit too youthful? There are people I’ve got to impress on Riddle’s invite list. Maybe my new robes and my perfect skin will make me look too young and inexperienced.”

“Not at all!” cried out Draco’s mirror, looking appalled. “Rather, they’ll stew in jealousy at your taste and natural beauty! To say otherwise would be blasphemous!”

Draco spun slowly in the mirror, turning to look at how his ass looked in the robes. He’d been working out recently – he looked good, almost as toned as Potter. Tonight, at Tom’s dinner, he’d make so many connections, and if the esteemed guests that Tom invited were more interested in Draco’s body than his mind, he wouldn’t be bothered. A connection was a connection. Either way, potential clientele were just waiting for him, from the most senior politicians to wizarding celebrities, all in desperate need of his help. 

And who could possibly be more powerful than the most influential of wizarding society, other than the Mind Healer who shaped their thoughts?

Tom’s dinner party would be quite the opportunity, and Draco was perfectly prepared to grasp it without looking back.

***

His dinner party was already shaping up to be a smashing success. 

As Tom returned from the pantry with another bottle of red wine – Draco had been downing glass after glass, seeming to have developed a surprising alcohol problem Tom hadn’t anticipated – he paused in the doorway for a breath, taking in the harmonious scene in front of him.

Dolohov and Greengrass seemed to have reached an accord at last, having made such large strides since they’d last fought over Tom’s attention at the Malfoy Soirée. They’d be a wonderful team, Tom was sure, Dolohov’s near-fanatic obsession with prophecy and divination a delightful complement to the Greengrass family’s near-forgotten history of Seer blood. With the Greengrass family’s ties to politics, Tom would be quite interested in following the future of their partnership – he had a bit of a casual interest in prophecy, especially after being completely blindsided by Regulus’ Sight, and the practical applications of future knowledge would be fascinating to observe.

Meanwhile, Draco was very much occupied drunkenly buttering up an even drunker Slughorn, whom Tom frequently invited to his dinner parties. Despite how tacky his flattery and name-dropping could be, Slughorn had helped Tom quite a bit in his younger years, and Tom knew there was no greater reward for such a prestige-obsessed man than the opportunity to be invited to an exclusive group himself. Tom was proud of Draco, pleased by his industriousness – the poor man probably imagined that Slughorn could introduce him to clients in need of his subpar, uninspired Mind-Healing services. He left them to it, quietly amused.

By the fireplace, the recognizable figure of Barty Crouch Sr. stood conversing quietly with his wife, sipping from a flask at his hip. Tom had been curious to see if Kingsley would take the dinner as an opportunity to verbally spar with Barty, as according to Harry, the two had been fighting over practically every detail of running the Auror forces, but Kingsley seemed content to leave the man alone.

Instead, unsurprisingly, Kingsley had cornered Harry. Tom was too far away to hear the details of their conversation, but from Kingsley’s looming gravitas and Harry’s hunched shoulders, he could easily guess the gist of it.

He did love to play a knight in shining armor on special occasions.

“Hello, dearest,” murmured Tom as he swept beside Harry, giving his husband a sweet peck on the cheek and wrapping his arm around Harry’s waist. Harry sunk into his side with a wordless sigh, pliant in his exhaustion. “And welcome to our home, Head Auror Kingsley. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

Kingsley forced the irritation off of his face to greet Tom with a trustworthy smile, shifting from confrontational to jovial. “This is incredible, Mr. Riddle. I’ve heard the stories, of course, but even the hors d'oeuvres are better than I could have expected – thank you again for the invite.”

Tom tilted his head in a humble acknowledgement of his compliment. “It’s my pleasure, really. I’ve wanted to have you for dinner since you and Harry started working together so closely – I’m honored you could make time for one of my little get-togethers.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” responded Kingsley, his eyes darting quickly to Harry before returning his gaze to Tom. 

“Well, I hope you’re still hungry,” said Tom teasingly, squeezing Harry’s waist. “Feel free to take a seat now – Harry and I just have a few final preparations to make before dinner.”

Kingsley, for all his politeness and well-mannered respect for Tom, seemed very much displeased to see Tom and Harry walk away together, much to Tom’s amusement. As if he’d leave Harry to be berated and scolded into performing crime-solving miracles in his own home. No, he’d leave Kingsley to Barty’s tender mercies – he’d assigned them seats together, after all, leaving Kingsley no choice but to endure hearing all about Barty Crouch Sr.’s recent push on more intense “tough-on-crime” policies all evening. Perhaps he’d seek solace in finishing his meal to avoid responding – wouldn’t the irony be delightful?

But while Harry usually would have joined Tom in sharing a laugh at Kingsley’s expense, Harry seemed to have barely noticed Kingsley’s displeasure, face pale and lips twisted into a troubled frown.

”Are you feeling alright, dear?” murmured Tom, voice near a whisper. “We can switch up the seating arrangements, if you’d like. Get you even further from Kingsley.”

Harry shook his head, looked up at Tom with an odd look in his eyes — something frightened, something sad, something determined. “He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t need to hear.”

How tantalizingly vague. 

Well.

Tom would wait with eager anticipation to see just what Harry would do. After all, he hadn’t been disappointed yet, and the party was only just getting started.

***

Silently, from his place setting across from Tom, Harry watched his husband begin to present the main course of dinner.

Tom was adorable during his dinner parties, so completely caught up in his own enthusiasm, childlike delight infusing his every movement. He smiled more freely, laughing openly, flitting between groups of partygoers with real joy. He’d always been a control freak, always so dissatisfied by the reality of other people and their differing opinions, but his house parties were his kingdom. His guests were carefully selected, his rooms decorated according to whatever image he chose to portray, and of course, his food was delicious. For once, during his dinner parties, Tom could control other people, all their emotional responses completely within his grasp – there could be no reaction to his cooking other than awe and wonder.

And though he normally loved to watch Tom in his element, Harry couldn’t get Kingsley’s words out of his head.

Kingsley had been more earnest with Harry than he often seemed to be, stepping back from pure aggression into something more conversational. He’d spoken to Harry’s desire to protect the innocent, to his deep love for Tom, to how Voldemort put everything Harry cared for most in danger. It was only a matter of time until Tom became a target, Kingsley agreed, and it meant every day Voldemort walked the earth freely was a day that Tom lived on borrowed time.

Harry could not let him escalate any further. No matter how deeply it would hurt to reject Voldemort’s love, it could never be worth Tom’s life. 

So as Tom served one of the main courses, the dishes floating in from the kitchen in front of each seated attendee in a whimsical dance through the air to the clear surprise and delight of their guests, Harry forced himself to focus, to think through Voldemort’s mindset, to put together the holistic picture of exactly who Voldemort was.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Tom stand from his seat, instantly ushering in silence from the previously boisterous room.

“Before we begin, you must all be warned,” said Tom. His expression was still and serious, the room becoming restless and worried in the silent pause he held for far too long. Harry couldn’t resist cracking a slight smile – he’d seen Tom perform this little routine before. Drama queen.

Finally, with clear self-satisfied pleasure, Tom broke into a wry grin, eyes crinkled in a genuine smile. “Nothing here is vegetarian. Bon appétit.”

And with laughter, the people around Harry began to begin their meals, the cacophony of knives scraping on plates and buzzing conversation filling their dining room, echoing off the walls and amplifying into something overwhelming and grating, joyless and exhausting.

Harry couldn’t move to pick up his silverware, or to respond to the joking comments of those sitting near him. He couldn’t even look up from his plate, too transfixed with the meal in front of him.

Tom had called it a cassoulet, a comfort dish that he’d slow-cooked carefully and diligently, a dish he was sure Harry would enjoy. As was often the case with Tom’s many varied dinners, Harry didn’t recognize the name, but was relatively sure he’d enjoy it nonetheless – Tom’s cooking was always wonderful, after all, and Harry didn’t really need to know the ingredients to appreciate a good meal.

The cassoulet looked hearty and warm, the rich smell of perfectly cooked meat rising from it in wafts of steam, alluring and delicious. In the stew, Harry could see the ingredients that made up the dish far more clearly.

Beans, coated in the stew. Sliced lamb, floating in the dish, skin delectably crispy despite the tenderness of the meat itself.

And sausages.

Harry hadn’t forgotten what Dawlish had said at the crime scene. 

It made a twisted sort of sense. Regulus’ comments at the Black house, his seemingly irrelevant references to Tom, and the nagging feeling that something just wasn’t quite right about how he’d died on the floor of Tom’s office. Tom’s strange ability to predict the misfortune that would befall those who inconvenienced Harry, from Umbridge to Creevey. The heart that Tom had served him for dinner just hours after Umbridge’s body had been found without a heart. The way that Voldemort knew him so intimately, knew of his deepest feelings and thoughts, of his history with the Dursleys, of the horrible darkness inside of him.

He looked up from his plate slowly, immediately making eye contact with Tom. Tom had been watching him already, his eyes focused on Harry’s face with feverish intensity, his own fork untouched in his fixation. Eager to watch Harry eat, as he so often was.

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry took a bite, feeling his teeth tear through the skin of the sausage, watching Tom’s lashes flutter in pleasure, his body slackening, his lips twisting involuntarily into an innocently blissful smile.

He chewed. He swallowed. 

Tom’s cooking was delicious, as always.

Harry wasn’t sure why he’d expected any differently.

Chapter Text

Harry shoved another bite of the delicious remains of his Aunt and Uncle into his mouth with a scowl, reflecting upon everything he’d just realized.

So. 

For years, Harry had been married to Voldemort, the wizarding world’s most prolific, fear-inspiring serial killer, uncatchable and unidentifiable, without bounds to his cruelty. All along, as he’d raced from crime scene to crime scene, agonizing over evidence and arguing with his colleagues for hours and hours, stressed to death about what Voldemort could do to hurt Tom, it had been his own husband – it had been Tom, the same man who brought him flowers on unhappy days, who had the most awful, ridiculous sense of humor, who was ticklish right under his ribcage, who cooked him all of his meals without a word of complaint. 

For years, Tom had watched Harry fall asleep in his arms before sneaking out to slaughter innocents and string them up in the streets. Tom had looked Harry in the eyes as Harry ranted and raved about the glory and cruelty of Voldemort’s kills, pretending to be an uninvolved third party. Tom had fed him Voldemort’s victims, probably sprinkling in a different appendage of some poor sucker immortalized in Harry’s case files with every casual stir-fry or barbecue night.

What an asshole.

Upon reflection, Tom did perfectly fit Voldemort’s profile – two control freaks with superiority complexes, both very sure that they knew best and amused at those who couldn’t follow along, and of course, both very much in love with Harry. Part of Harry couldn’t believe he didn’t realize it sooner, even as he acknowledged that it would take a depressingly paranoid mindset to immediately identify a spouse as a primary suspect in a murder case. All of a sudden, Tom’s perfectly well-meaning, loving support in Harry’s times of hardship took on a whole new meaning – he was such an asshole for lying about this, for always badgering Harry about his thoughts on Voldemort like a kid indiscreetly trying to feel out their first crush, for pretending as if he’d ever been nervous about the threat Voldemort could pose.

Yes, Harry was pissed. 

But somehow, a swell of overwhelming relief had overcome his anger, leaving him a bit closer to mild annoyance than apoplectic rage.

Any other Auror would have immediately taken action without a second thought – they’d arrest Tom on the spot, gathering evidence from the plates of each attendee and locking down the house as a crime scene. They’d be disgusted with themselves for eating blindly at his table, but their fury would truly center around Tom – he would be the true villain in their eyes, the greatest source of evil in their world, the perpetrator of unthinkably extreme acts of violence.

Harry, however, was not like the other Aurors. He’d always had issues figuring out his moral compass, and with how much of an upstanding citizen Tom had seemed to be, he’d figured that he’d benefit from a bit more of an objective structure to show him right from wrong. The Auror force had been meant to help him – to shape his morality in a way that would make everybody happy, that would make Tom proud and give him the guidance he needed.

But clearly, Tom didn’t give a shit about the Auror force’s definition of morality, seemingly only paying attention to it in order to most accurately defy its core principles.

Tom should have told Harry the truth. He’d been absurd for keeping Harry in the dark for so long, lying to Harry’s face about his whereabouts, misleading him so tauntingly during their many conversations about Voldemort. 

And yet, though it pushed his empathy to its limits, Harry could understand where Tom had been coming from. If Tom had admitted his other identity earlier on, Harry couldn’t guarantee that he would have accepted him as he was – instead, he’d been courted by Voldemort, slowly and surely becoming more appreciative of the beauty of Voldemort’s work until he could hardly bear to imagine the man in Azkaban.

Harry loved Tom, despite it all – he couldn’t imagine a world where he felt otherwise. And he loved Voldemort, had grown to care for him more and more with each heartachingly sweet love letter, seduced by the brutality and softness behind each display.

And where did that leave Harry now?

Across the table, Tom had brought Slughorn to stitches, the drunken man cracking up with laughter at some playful jab at one of their mutual acquaintances. Draco, sat beside Harry, was leaning in too, a reluctantly amused smirk playing at his lips, charmed by Tom as all people were eventually. Tom seemed so unfairly pleased with himself – and why shouldn’t he be? The wizarding world’s most influential figures were all feasting upon human meat under his roof, the Aurors weren’t even close to catching him, and his husband had been unknowingly praising his secret identity near-daily after being wooed by his bloody love letters. 

At the end of the day, Harry would make it work. He loved Tom and Voldemort both, and the relief of knowing he could keep both of them safely in his life was still leaving him near-breathless as he tried hiding his dinner table epiphany from the guests. Tom would be waiting so eagerly for Harry to put the pieces together, so giddy from the anticipation of the grand reveal to come. 

But after all the grief that Harry had suffered at Tom’s hands, it just wouldn’t be fair for him to make it that easy for him. 

No, Harry would have to make his own play, here – something that would ensure Tom would take him seriously in the future, something to scare Tom off from ever pulling this kind of shit again, something to make him sweat.  

Perhaps it wasn’t the most healthy method of conflict resolution.

But really, Tom had started it.

With new resolve, Harry gathered himself up, sawing off another bite of what was probably Uncle Vernon’s small intestine with gusto. 

“So, Draco,” said Harry, turning his upper body to better face the man next to him. Draco turned to him, eyes wide – Harry rarely initiated conversation, though he’d fall into Draco’s teasing antagonism easily enough. “What were you saying earlier about your new Mind-Healing paper? It sounded absolutely fascinating.”

Draco blinked rapidly, a slight pink blush dotting his high cheekbones. “Ah – my research on manifestations of jealousy in traumatized wizards? Sure you’re clever enough to comprehend it, Potter? ”

Instead of rising to the bait, Harry slowly smiled back, twirling his fork idly in one hand.

“Try me.”

***

Tom shot another glance across the table at Harry, working hard to keep the frustration off of his face. 

The whole feast was for him, as Tom’s cooking always was. Each dish was crafted with the vision of Harry’s blissful first bites in mind, each table setting meant to perfectly complement Harry’s coloring, each new course meant to delight and excite him.

But Harry had spent nearly all of dinner chatting up Draco Malfoy.

Tom hadn’t ever invited Malfoy to one of his parties before, hyper-aware of the odd dynamic Draco and Harry had shared back in their Hogwarts days. Speaking frankly, the tension between the two of them was uncomfortably homoerotic, a deep-seated aggression that seemed to have once been perilously near tipping over the line into a torrid romance. Tom had thoroughly snagged Harry up before Malfoy had ever had the change to get his slimy little hands on Harry, of course, but from how he always seemed so eager to seek Harry out and so interested in any little stories of Harry that Tom shared, Tom knew that Malfoy’s obsession had not been adequately swayed, whether or not Malfoy was fully aware of his feelings.

Harry, however, had very clearly moved on from Draco Malfoy, always annoyed when Malfoy sought him out for their little spats, avoiding get-togethers where he’d have to come across him. In Harry’s words, he’d be friendly with Malfoy for Tom’s sake, as the two were closely-connected colleagues, but without Tom’s presence, Harry would be quite content to never come across Malfoy’s smarmy smirk again.

So why was Harry fawning over Malfoy’s every word across from him?

He’d prepared the food perfectly to ensure no risk of disease or infection, and yet Tom couldn’t help but feel vaguely nauseous. Malfoy wasn’t particularly clever, or handsome, or funny. Why would Harry rather speak to Malfoy than Tom, his own husband, someone who was all three of those things and more? Was it his platinum-blond hair? Had Malfoy slipped something into Harry’s drink? Had the trauma of Harry’s recent experiences shaped his brain into something so vastly different from what Tom had been orchestrating, somehow giving him an attraction to vain, shallow, unsuccessful men?

“And that’s when I knew I’d done it,” Malfoy was saying to Harry, waving around a fork with a single piece of sausage on it. He’d been holding the same bite for nearly four minutes now, too obsessed with the sound of his own voice to interrupt himself by eating. “It’s true that the patient may never be the same – the mind is far too complex of a beast to be so easily tamed. But now, he has the tools he needs to handle his trauma when he feels it beginning to interfere with his life. He can rejoin society due to my guidance.”

“That’s beautiful,” said Harry, eyes wide. At least Harry was enjoying the food – Malfoy wasn’t exactly giving Harry much of a chance to talk, which did make eating easier, but Tom was not pleased by the way Malfoy stuttered in his speech when Harry’s lashes fluttered in pleasure over a particularly delicious bite of his Aunt Petunia. “He must be so grateful to you.”

Malfoy visibly puffed up. Without conscious thought, Tom found his fingers curling around the handle of his steak knife, grip white-knuckled and tight.

“Say, Tom,” said Slughorn from his right, jostling his elbow with a thoughtless nudge. Imagining the spray of blood that would gush from Slughorn’s neck with just a single movement of his arm, Tom turned to face him, smiling obediently. “Is that Hector Dagworth-Granger of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers down the table? Would you mind introducing the two of us? Professional curiosity – you know how it is.”

“Certainly,” agreed Tom pleasantly, refusing to glance back at Harry and Malfoy across from him even as Harry laughed at another one of Malfoy’s uninspired quips. “It would be my pleasure.”

***

Harry wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist from behind, sneaking up on him as he closed the door to the last of the night’s dinner guests. “That was a lovely party. You did amazing, Tom.”

Tom swayed back into him, resting his own hands atop Harry's arms. “You had fun, dear? Enjoyed the food?”

“Really delicious,” murmured Harry, resting his head on the crook of Tom’s neck. “I loved every dish. You’ve outdone yourself.”

Tom let Harry hold onto him a little longer before gently separating, turning to face Harry directly. “Were you alright? I know Kingsley rattled you a bit in the beginning, and with the unfortunate timing of what happened to your relatives…I hope Draco was an adequate distraction?”

Now that Harry knew to look for it, there was a glint of something strange in Tom’s eyes, a tad too overeager for such a casual question. Tom’s concern for Harry’s emotional state was real, perhaps, but secondary to his reaction to his most recent display, to how Kingsley’s words had impacted his quest to discover Voldemort. 

Sneaky bastard.

“It was a good thing,” said Harry quietly, straightening up. “Kingsley really freaked me out. I was spiraling after he talked to me, really losing it, and I thought about what you’d say to a patient. About what’s more important, between your job and your mental health.”

“My clever husband, learning all my tricks,” said Tom with a fond grin. “I’d better watch out before you take my job.”

Harry grinned back weakly before letting his smile falter away. “You’ve always told me that you’ll love me no matter what. That I’m not defined by my work as an Auror, and they’re luckier to have me than I am to have them.” 

Tom nodded along, patiently waiting for Harry to get to the point.

Harry took a quick breath. “I’m going to quit the Auror force.”

Tom’s face froze completely. Harry watched him blink rapidly with morbid fascination, entranced by the complete state of shock he’d thrust Tom into. It was really the least he could do.

“But– the Voldemort case?” asked Tom, clearing his throat. “Are you sure? I know you were worried about our safety while he remains at large. Have you changed your mind?”

“Well, we’ll have to be careful, of course,” said Harry matter-of-factly, relishing the way Tom’s face had slowly begun to pale. “I can look into getting us a security team. Re-warding our house so that we get alerted if anyone gets in or out. Dark magic detectors and the like. I am an Auror, after all. I have access to all sorts of defensive resources – we’ll just have to sacrifice a bit of our privacy and freedom of movement for the sake of our lives until the Aurors have caught him.”

“Very true,” said Tom faintly. 

“And I know you’d talked about his love letters being kind of like Myrtle’s,” continued Harry, sadistically pleased at the grimace that crossed Tom’s face. “And how it wasn’t worth letting fear ruin the lives we have so far. I think going too deep into the Voldemort case will ruin me, Tom. I want us to be happy together over anything else – don’t you?”

“Your happiness is always my priority,” said Tom slowly. “Can you be happy like this? With Voldemort on the loose, and the case unsolved?”

Harry crinkled his eyes, softening his expression. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Honestly? All I need to be happy is you.”

He had Tom trapped – how could he argue with that?

“Anyway, let’s get to the dishes!” said Harry with a little clap, making his way to the kitchen. 

Tom, frozen behind him for far too long, trailed after, speechless for once in his life.

***

“Are you alright, Tom?” asked Draco, waving his hand rudely in front of Tom’s eyes. He was more annoyed than concerned – really, Tom had been so spacey all day, even though Draco had been such a gracious host. For once, Draco was hosting Tom in his own home, a quaint, three-story townhouse his parents had purchased for him once he was old enough to live on his own, and he’d even poured him a glass of the good wine his parents had given him the last time Draco visited. The least Tom could do was engage in conversation.

Tom’s eyes snapped up, his sudden alertness taking Draco off guard. “I’m sorry, Draco – I’ve been quite distracted recently. What were you saying about your work with Crabbe Jr.?” 

Draco frowned, not yet placated. “What’s been distracting you? I’ve never seen you so out of it.”

“It’s not at all relevant to our conversations,” snapped Tom, curling his lip in disdain. “Harry just surprised me recently, that’s all.”

At the sound of Harry’s name, Draco felt a familiar twisting of anticipation in his stomach, something almost like butterflies. He couldn’t believe Tom had settled down with the likes of Harry, Draco’s childhood nemesis – they were such an odd match. At least through Tom, Draco found himself with more opportunities to antagonize Harry, always enjoying their little spats whenever they crossed paths. He didn’t like Harry, obviously – Harry was an ill-mannered, reckless do-gooder with the manners of a farmhand and the unearned arrogance of an attention whore, no matter how pretty his green eyes were or how lovely his laugh was – but somehow, Draco found himself seeking Harry out, time and time again. It was probably just nostalgia.

“Really?” asked Draco, doing his best to sound natural. “What did he do?”

Tom narrowed his eyes at him, as if suspicious, before his face relaxed with a sigh. “He wants to quit as an Auror.”

“He’s quitting?” gasped Draco, his hand flying to his mouth involuntarily. “Why?”

“I don’t get it!” responded Tom, throwing his hands in the air. He stood from his seat, beginning to pace around the sitting room, practically radiating frustration. “He’s been so focused on Voldemort recently. He’s been enjoying his job, really, except for some of the extra attention. Why would he just give up?”

Draco took a moment to think. It seemed completely out of character for the Harry he knew, stubborn and obstinate, a man who just couldn’t let any perceived wrongdoing go. “Maybe he’s found something more interesting to focus on?”

“There’s nothing more interesting going on in his life,” disregarded Tom immediately with a shake of his head. “And he was in deep with the Auror forces, too. Even just a week ago, Harry was so worried about what Kingsley thought of him. How did he go from that to putting in his two weeks notice yesterday? How could he resist Kingsley’s pleas for him to stay?”

“I mean, he’s been working on the same case for a while, hasn’t he?” asked Draco, a bit surprised by the vehemence in Tom’s voice. He’d never seen Tom so emotional – how oddly irrational for the usually controlled man. “Perhaps he just got bored of Voldemort’s kills. One dead body is the same as all the others, at the end of the day.”

Tom turned to stare at Draco for an impossibly long moment, his expression incredulous. 

“What?” asked Draco, suddenly self-conscious. He glanced down to see if he’d spilled anything on his shirt.

“I really can’t do this today,” said Tom, shaking his head in disbelief. “Let’s get to the point of my visit.”

And in one swift movement, Tom raised his wand to Draco’s forehead. 

“Obliviate.”

Draco blinked rapidly, having lost his train of thought completely. Tom sat across from him, sipping on the wine Draco had served, frowning sympathetically – the sight of his concerned face triggered nothing but vague unease, something Draco chalked up to the embarrassment of completely blanking in front of Tom Riddle.

“Everything alright, Draco?” asked Tom, brows furrowed. “You were talking about Crabbe Jr.’s Rorschach tests?”

It all came back to Draco in a flash. “Oh, yes! You won’t believe this, Tom – he’s started to see fire in every single inkblot test. He’s saying he burned to death in a past life, and that the fire’s following him across dimensions as divine punishment for falling into sin. Isn’t that just about the most certifiably insane thing you’ve ever heard? He was near-functional when he first came to me!” 

And as Tom nodded along and smirked at all the right moments, Draco was surprised at just how quickly time flew by when the two spent time together.

Almost as if fifteen minutes had been missing from the past hour of his life, fifteen minutes during which Tom Riddle would have had full access to his home and his mind. 

But how could Draco ever distrust someone as reliable as Tom?

***

“Are you really quitting?” asked Spinnet quietly. The two of them were sorting through Voldemort’s case files together, checking for any similarities between his older work and his most recent kill. Harry was glad he wasn’t spending his last two weeks on the force dealing with the likes of Dawlish – they weren’t quite friends, but he respected Spinnet, always clever and cautious, and he liked to think the approval was mutual. “Kingsley let the team know you’d put in your notice, but he doesn’t think you’ll follow through with it. I think he’s too scared to believe it. He’s not confident we can catch Voldemort without you.”

“Honestly, I should have quit weeks ago,” said Harry. Kingsley had yelled and threatened and pleaded and yelled some more with Harry for hours on end, but his mind was made up. There was nothing left for him with the Auror force, not now that he knew what he did about Voldemort. And Kingsley was just a little too sharp for Harry to risk keeping in contact with – if anyone could catch Voldemort, it would be him, and Harry wasn’t about to risk Tom’s freedom for the sake of keeping a job with miserable hours and gruelling assignments. “I’m too close to the case. If Voldemort is writing me love letters with the bodies of people connected to me, I can’t be neutral and rational about this. It’s going to drive me insane if I’m not careful.”

Spinnet nodded, flipping through another file. The two worked silently for a few more minutes, passing files back and forth, before Spinnet spoke again.

“I’ll miss you, Harry.”

Harry looked up, startled. Spinnet kept her head down, scanning documents as if she hadn’t said a thing. 

“Yeah,” said Harry quietly. He had spent so much of his adult life with her, working side-by-side, fighting together against criminals. She’d saved his ass more than once, and he’d saved her. During rough weeks at work, he’d spend more time with her than he did with even Tom, going through the comradery-building drudgery of late nights at the office. He’d once really believed that the Auror forces would be good for him. That they’d give him a purpose, give him meaning. “Yeah, I’ll miss you, too.”

They worked together in silence for a while longer.

It was strange, knowing that in only a few weeks, he’d be barred from the file room, no longer possessing the authority to access the depths of the Ministry. He might never see Spinnet again without the excuse of work, might begin to forget the snacks she liked to sneak at her desk or the perpetual frown she wore when she was stressed. He wouldn’t be pulled into Ministry meetings with Kingsley, where he’d have to sit and look presentable, where Kingsley would encourage him to pay close attention, preparing him to play the game of corporate politics as he trained Harry, as if grooming him as a potential successor in the far-off future.

He didn’t regret his decision. He would always choose Tom above all else, no matter how frustrating Tom could be.

But as he and Spinnet finally left the file room, talking idly about what the Ministry cafeteria was serving for lunch, he couldn’t help but feel the loss of what had been such an important part of his life.

Leaving would be bittersweet. 

***

Myrtle Warren, contrary to what her near-daily love letters may have led Tom and Harry to believe, did not think of Tom Riddle every waking moment. In fact, she lived a wonderfully rich, colorful life, where she felt quite fulfilled and very satisfied with where her choices had led her.

As a full-time gig, she wrote impressively raunchy bodice-rippers for both Muggle and Magical publishers, with her pen name “Moaning Myrtle” gathering its own respectable following. Perhaps she wasn’t exactly in the big leagues with her publications – readers seemed to be trending towards the wildly rugged, muscular men of “Needy Nymphadora” novels, while Myrtle preferred her love interests lithe and sophisticated – but she earned enough to take care of her own basic needs, with a little more left over for recreation.

Her current novel was perhaps one of her favorites yet. Her readers loved the relationship dynamic she wrote, which was consistent across all her books – always a skinny, nerdy girl that nobody could understand getting swept off of her feet by a powerful, wealthy man who would burn down the world for her. But she could bring that exact same dynamic into all sorts of fictional universes – in this next novel, her main character was an aspiring journalist tasked with interviewing a celebrity psychiatrist, a charismatic man who would uncover just how kinky the seemingly innocent main character could be with his intimate knowledge of the human psyche. She had wondrously grand plans for how their passion would develop – how he’d be the only would who had ever understood her and the trauma of her past, how he’d be so madly in love with her willingness to submit to his dominant sexual proclivities, how he’d use his psychiatrist-y insight to mentally crush her enemies.

It was not self-insert fanfiction of her and Tom Riddle. That would be absurd.

After a long day of writing in her apartment, Myrtle would sometimes reward herself with trips to the strip club – just for writing inspiration, of course, so that she could better describe the male body. She rarely left the house for anything else, outside of groceries – her job was completely solitary, and it wasn’t as if she had any friends or loved ones she’d want to visit. Two of the nearest strip clubs had banned her for “making their male dancers uncomfortable,” which was really quite ridiculous when all she’d done was engage their pale, dark-haired dancers in honest, vulnerable conversation for as long as she could monopolize them, but she could bounce back – there was a third strip club that wasn’t too far away, after all. She even had a new favorite dancer there, a skinny man named Fernando with perfect cheekbones. Perhaps she’d wait for him outside of the club someday soon; he’d be so pleased to see her outside of working hours. They could get to know each other without the barrier of the flashing lights and trashy music inside. It would be romantic.

Someday, she imagined that one of the strippers would fall desperately in love with her. He’d see that she wasn’t like other girls, not nearly as shallow and vapid, so clever and so special. He’d whisk her off her feet, take her home to his sprawling mansion, and fuck her slowly in his massive bed, making her squirm and shriek and sigh. He’d know it was her first time, and he’d fight off his urge to absolutely ravish her because he would care for her comfort and pleasure so much, even as his lust threatened to overcome his rational brain. They’d bathe together after, enjoying the afterglow, and Myrtle would never be alone again.

Yes, Myrtle was still a virgin. She was sure that once she did find the right man, she would be great in bed – after all, didn’t she write about sex for a living? Perhaps she had no experience, but she could make up for that with what she’d learned from romance books and overheard strip club gossip. She was just waiting to find The One. There were a lot of adult virgins out there, she knew, and there was nothing wrong with taking her time. It didn’t have to be Fernando. In fact, perhaps it didn’t even need to be one of the strippers she visited so regularly.

A part of her was still holding out hope that The One for her would be Tom Riddle.

Myrtle didn’t think of Tom Riddle every waking moment. But she did think of him every day, of how he’d saved her from Horrid Olive Hornby, of how he’d even fought with the professors to try and make sure she’d be treated better in the future. Tom wouldn’t do that for just anyone – he must have seen something special in her, must have recognized a kindred spirit. She’d been sure it was just a matter of time until Tom reached out to her again, sending him countless love letters so that he’d never get shy and second-guess that his affection was mutual – perhaps he was waiting to graduate, or for her to graduate, or to get a promotion at work, or to get a house big enough for the two of them…

Tom had really thrown her off when he’d married another man. 

There was nothing wrong with being gay, of course – Myrtle certainly wasn’t homophobic. She even had a gay side character in her book Seducing the Sexy Siren, who took the protagonist shopping for a new outfit! But it felt viscerally wrong to imagine Tom kissing another man, or even going further than kissing. And for him to supposedly be married to Harry Potter, a messy-haired, dorky-looking man working a job for meatheads?

She just couldn’t quite believe it.

So she kept the love letters coming, sending heartfelt missives to Tom whenever she had the chance. Surely, he was with Harry Potter for some reason she just couldn’t understand yet, but soon enough, he’d leave Harry behind, knowing that Myrtle had something special that Harry could never offer him. Her job was to make sure he could always feel safe in coming home to her, never wavering in his knowledge of her love for him. She would always be ready for him.

Yes, Myrtle lived a perfectly content life. She didn’t have to work with girls who would bully her or boys who would call her names. She didn’t need to leave her home for frivolous social obligations or work events. If she ever got lonely, she could spend a bit of money at the strip club and enjoy some really delightful company for the night. And someday, she knew that Tom Riddle would come for her, bringing her out of her cramped apartment into the glamorous, high-profile world he thrived in, finally serving as real-life inspiration for what would become the sexiest, kinkiest novels ever written.

And so what if she was horribly, desperately lonely? It was all temporary – things would absolutely begin to look up for her as soon as Tom was by her side.

She could live like this a little while longer.

It was with this resolve that Myrtle began working on her next love letter. Her hours were irregular without a boss to enforce any sort of timesheet – sometimes, the best inspiration came at 2:00am, and her ideas were flowing freely with Tom as her muse.

She was in the middle of comparing his Adam’s apple to a forbidden fruit she wanted to digest with just her tongue alone when a rustle from behind startled her, her quill slipping across her parchment.

“Who’s there?” she shouted, whirling around. The man that stood in her bedroom was shockingly familiar – it took her barely a heartbeat to place him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Harry Potter, Tom Riddle’s “husband,” cringed, looking almost embarrassed. “Hi, Myrtle. I thought you’d be asleep. Guess I’m still new to this, huh?”

Myrtle had fantasized about a strange man appearing in her bedroom many times before. He’d cover her mouth with one hand, tear off her clothes with his other. He’d be so overcome with desire that he wouldn’t care that he’d just broken into Myrtle’s home, wouldn’t wait for Myrtle’s reciprocation – he’d just take what he wanted, uncaring of the consequences.

The idea had seemed so incredibly hot at the time, but with the reality of a strange man in her bedroom, Myrtle felt violated. Scared, even. She hadn’t imagined it feeling like this, not at all.

“What do you want?” said Myrtle, her voice cracking a bit. “I don’t have much money.”

Harry frowned, idle discomfort crossing his face as if he’d just been caught in a mild white lie. “I wasn’t really ready for this conversation.”

“I wasn’t ready for you to break into my apartment!” cried Myrtle. “Get out of my house!”

“I can’t do that.” Harry took a deep breath, completely disregarding her command. Myrtle glanced around the bedroom for her wand – where on earth had she left it? “Myrtle, the letters you write to Tom are really fucking creepy. They make me uncomfortable. They make him uncomfortable.”

“You don’t understand,” whispered Myrtle, suddenly enraged. “He loves me. You’re just a placeholder – surely you can tell that Tom isn’t actually interested in men? I need him to know that I’m waiting for him. That I’ll always love him.”

“That’s delusional,” snapped Harry, expression darkening. Myrtle took a step back at the pure venom in his tone – Harry had always seemed like a harmless fool to her, but when forced to confront him face-to-face, he was somehow terrifying, speaking with the steadfast resolve of a man who knew he was above consequences. “Tom did you a favor once back at Hogwarts. That’s no reason to harass him for years afterwards.”

“You know what?” said Myrtle. She had spotted her wand – it was just behind Harry, sitting innocently on her bedside table next to her reading light and her diary. “I think you’re just jealous that Tom and I share a real connection. You can tell he’s never loved you, that he’s hidden the truth of how he feels about me for all these years. You’re just trying to scare off your competition.”

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. It was the exact opening Myrtle was waiting for.

As Harry was still processing her words, she leapt for her wand, pushing her chair out of the way as she ran towards her bedside table. Once she had her wand, she could scare Harry off, make him leave her apartment. She’d file a complaint in the morning, too – maybe if Harry got jail time, Tom would leave him sooner.

“Sorry, Myrtle,” murmured Harry from behind her. “Had to pick someone he’d appreciate.”

Her fingers had just brushed the pine wood of her wand when her vision went dark.

***

Tom hesitated in front of the front door, nervously anticipating what he’d encounter inside.

Harry had been off recently, ever since the dinner party. He was pleasant enough, generally polite, but something about his demeanor felt cold, as if he’d put a wall between the two of them. He’d brushed off Tom’s casual comments about the shift as ridiculous, jokes so absurd they weren’t worth discussing.

But Tom was never ridiculous. Something was definitely wrong with Harry, and Tom was scared to find out exactly what had changed his husband so awfully.

The entire week had been the most tortuous agony, second only to believing that Regulus had killed Harry so many weeks ago. He hadn’t been able to focus on a single one of his patients, could barely make it through a session without disassociating, his mind constantly racing as he tried to pinpoint just what the problem could possibly be. If Harry hadn’t been so thoroughly trained at Legilimency in his position as an Auror, he could have just broken into his mind, but as it was, there was no way Tom could get away with intruding into his mindscape without getting caught. 

No, Tom would have to figure it out the old-fashioned way – by imagining worst-case scenarios in increasingly excruciating detail.

Had Harry changed his mind about Voldemort? Had killing the Dursleys been just a step too far? He’d known that Harry would be shocked to see the bodies of his Aunt and Uncle (and Dudley Dursley’s head – he’d fed most of the boy’s body to his parents, leaving very little outside of the brute’s oversized head that would have been worth including in his display), but he thought that Harry would ultimately be relieved to have those blights upon his childhood struck down. Had he misread Harry that thoroughly? Was this oversight enough for Harry to foreswear his passion for Voldemort, quitting his job and re-examining every other aspect of his life in his grief?

Perhaps Kingsley had pushed Harry too hard – Kingsley had a habit of expecting far more from Harry than he could reasonably deliver, setting himself up for disappointment and taking it out on Harry. In tandem with the increasing pressure from the Ministry and the misery-inducing publicity of his role after Creevey had blasted his involvement in the Voldemort case so publicly, any normal man could be expected to find the stress of the job a bit too much. But Tom had never believed Harry would be the type to fold under force, always seeing him as a resilient and vengeful, the type to strike back twice as hard rather than to flee in fear. Could he have misjudged Harry so thoroughly? No, it couldn’t be possible – no one knew Harry as well as Tom. There had to be another reason.

Or did it have nothing to do with Voldemort, and everything to do with Harry himself? The two of them weren’t getting any younger – perhaps Harry had simply decided he was no longer interested in the chase. He wanted to settle down, no longer as interested in a life of action and adventure, leaving it behind to the next generation.

None of it felt right.

Tom forced himself to consider the absolute most horrible scenario, one that had haunted him more than any other.

Perhaps Harry had fallen out of love with him.

And fell in love with Draco Malfoy instead.

The very thought of it sent a physical shiver down Tom Riddle’s spine, the visuals flooding his mind deeply sickening. Harry had never liked Draco Malfoy, had always found him an obnoxious asshole even as Draco nurtured his foolish childhood crush, but tastes could change – Tom had encountered many patients during his years as a Mind Healer who found themselves suddenly dissatisfied with their spouses, enchanted instead with someone new, someone different and exciting. And Harry had seemed so uncharacteristically friendly with Draco during the dinner party – why else would Harry ever seek out Draco’s conversation over Tom’s? 

He’d never pitied the patients of his who’d been dumped or rejected. They weren’t even remotely relatable – he was completely confident in the stability of his relationship, knowing that what he had with Harry was forever. But he had no idea where to even begin understanding what was going through Harry’s mind now – had he been foolish and overconfident, overcome with hubris at this crucial juncture?

He couldn’t even blame Harry from hiding whatever was bothering him. After all, he’d been hiding his other identity from Harry since he’d first begun displaying his kills – perhaps the disconnect was his own fault. Harry was always startlingly perceptive, a trait that had made him an irreplaceable Auror. If he could tell that Tom had been hiding something from him, or woken up to find the bed empty, or found some strange mismatch between Tom’s words and his behavior, Harry could have assumed the worst, pulling away to avoid being hurt again.

Regardless of his own mistakes, if Harry ended up leaving him for Draco Malfoy, Tom would make absolutely sure that pairing wouldn’t last for a second. In fact, Harry would find any future lovers meeting unfortunate ends. Luckily, Tom already had laid the groundwork for his plans for Draco, and he wouldn’t need much at all to end him, but he couldn’t imagine the agony of watching Harry courted by strange men and women, swept off of his feet by idiots who would never cherish him as Tom did, desecrated uncaringly by the hands and mouths of the unworthy.

The conjured image of Draco’s lips on Harry’s burned behind Tom’s eyes, and he shook his head violently to dispel it, his hand still hovering above the handle to the front door.

The anguish of ignorance was intolerable.

Tom was terrified to confront Harry, terrified to find out just what the problem was – he’d kept his little inquiries subtle and avoidable for a reason. But at this point, Tom felt as if the unknowing had shifted from purgatory to hell itself.

He had to be direct. He couldn’t let Harry dance around the subject this time.

With his heart thumping rapidly in his chest, Tom opened the door, taking a deep breath.

“I’m home, dear.”

***

Harry was cooking.

Tom knew that Harry had cooked a fair amount growing up, and he’d always been happy to serve as a sous chef for Tom on occasion, but seeing Harry preparing his own meals by himself was an unusual sight. He seemed to be pan-searing steaks – they smelled wonderful, the delicious aroma of melting fat mixing with what smelled like garlic, shallots, thyme, and rosemary. Tom typically avoided eating food he hadn’t had a hand in preparing, but he would always make an exception for Harry. 

“Welcome home, Tom,” Harry hummed as Tom stepped into the kitchen, keeping his back turned to Tom. Tom frowned involuntarily – Harry hadn’t even twisted to look at him as he’d walked in. “I’m just finishing up on dinner for us – give me one moment to rest these steaks.”

Antsy and impatient, Tom watched as Harry moved at a snail’s pace, slowly setting the steaks onto a cutting board and covering them up.

“So,” hummed Harry, eyes cast down towards the kitchen counter. “How was your day today?”

Tom took a deep breath. He could suffer in confusion no longer.

“My dear Harry,” he began. He’d rehearsed a general idea of what he’d wanted to say alone in his office, but the words weren’t coming to him, and he found himself speaking haltingly and rigidly. “I don’t know what’s going on. I can tell that something has been off between us this past week, and I don’t know why. But I love you, more than I could love the feeling of oxygen in my lungs or the taste of a perfectly seasoned meal, more than I could love any work of art or any natural wonder. I’d give my life for you. I’d do anything for you. I want us to be happy together more than I could ever want anything else in this world, and I will do anything to achieve that. Please, Harry. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

Harry was silent, eyes wide and frightened. He looked worried, certainly – but Tom couldn’t predict what he was worried about. Was he worried that Tom had somehow just gotten the wrong idea, just hoping to console him? Or was he worried that Tom had caught him pulling away, ruining his plans for an easy exit? Tom could feel his heart clenching in his chest at the sight of Harry’s plaintive emerald eyes, more beautiful than anything nature could produce. He couldn’t stand to see those eyes watching another. He would kill — had killed, in fact — to keep Harry’s devotion, to hoard it all to himself, as it should be.

“Is it Draco?” Tom blurted out, almost slapping a hand over his mouth as the words escaped him. Mortified, he felt his cheeks begin to redden – he hadn’t meant to be so humiliatingly transparent.

Harry’s jaw dropped, his eyebrows rising as high as Tom had ever seen them. After a few agonizingly silent seconds, Harry seemed unable to resist – he burst out into peals of laughter, high and shrieking, gasping desperately for breath before collapsing back into fits of giggles once more.

Tom had missed seeing Harry so unrestrained, so joyful. If he ever lost the chance to see this sight, to see his Harry so perfectly amused in the intimacy of their shared home, he’d have to massacre thousands to cope.

Harry wiped his eyes, still fighting the urge to laugh. “You’re awful, Tom. I was going to drag this out longer as payback for how thoroughly you fucked with me, but how the fuck am I supposed to stay distant when you say stuff so ridiculous?”

Tom narrowed his eyes, still blushing slightly from embarrassment. “I saw how much you fawned over his stupid little publication. His research is awful, by the way. His methods are dubious. He runs the same tests until he gets the results he wants and acts as if his singular success was his only attempt. And his analysis is nearsighted and impractical. No part of his paper is worth the ink used to print it.”

“I’m sure,” Harry snickered, seemingly unsurprised and unbothered by Tom’s criticisms.

“But what were you dragging out?” asked Tom, pleading. “How did I ‘thoroughly fuck with you,’ Harry? How can I make up for it?”

“I’ve already retaliated,” answered Harry vaguely, a cruel edge to his sly smile. “You’ll see over dinner.”

“I don’t want to wait until dinner,” argued Tom. “I want to fix things now. Why put it off any longer, dear? Please, let me fix this.”

Harry had the gall to roll his eyes – what an unbearably rude man he had married. “You’re so impatient sometimes for such a careful little mastermind. Fine, Tom. Just have a bite of the steak.”

Tom frowned, running a hand through his hair. “You’ll sit down and have a real conversation with me about this after? No more dodging the question with ridiculous non sequiturs?"

Nodding with mock solemnity, Harry cut up a bite of steak, holding it out to Tom to bite. “I swear on my life.”

Shooting Harry a suspicious look, Tom let his mouth part around the bite, teeth catching on Harry’s wonderful cooking. His eyes slid closed in pleasure – the steak was tender and juicy, well-marinated in Harry’s collection of spices and rubs, still satisfyingly hot from the heat of the pan.

Strangely enough, the flavor was familiar. Tom had served this cut of meat before on many, many occasions.

In a brief second, his eyes snapped open.

Harry, with an obnoxiously smug, shit-eating grin spread wide across his face, tilted his head innocently in response. “Is it any good?”

“Who?” whispered Tom in disbelief. There was no way – he must have been driven half-mad from Harry’s behavior, must have had a brief psychotic break. He reached out unthinkingly to cut another slice of steak.

“Let me at least plate our dinner first, you barbarian,” complained Harry, swatting Tom’s hands away. Tom kept his hands frozen in mid-air – the capacity to consciously move them seemed to have left him, every part of his mind focused on understanding what he’d just tasted.

Harry must have taken pity on Tom, who surely looked just as overwhelmed as he felt. “It’s Myrtle Warren,” he whispered, leaning in to give Tom a quick peck on the cheek. “Now shall we sit down like civilized people?”

Harry knew.

Tom couldn’t say for how long – but Harry, the star talent of the Auror forces, the most clever man he’d ever met, the irreplaceable love of his life, had known that Tom was Voldemort. He’d known that Tom had served him human meat, that he ate each and every one of his victims. 

And not only had Harry accepted him – he’d joined him. 

The euphoria that flooded him was more magical than any spell he’d learned at Hogwarts, so powerful and all-consuming it nearly brought him to tears. He should have never doubted his sly, sweet husband, so bitingly perceptive, so cuttingly sharp – of course he would have Tom pegged with all the hints that Voldemort had left. Of course he would understand Tom, the way he always understood Tom, the way that no one had ever come close to matching. Harry was always the only one who could ever love him in his entirety, but for Harry to move past tolerance into true relish of Voldemort’s lifestyle? 

Tom had to be the happiest man in the world.

“How cruel,” croaked Tom, fighting an onslaught of desperately relieved tears. “To not allow me to join you for your first kill.”

Childish and ridiculously cavalier, Harry stuck out his tongue, picking up the serving platter for the steaks. “Retaliation, remember? And really, it’s still not even, so you’ve got a lot of grovelling left to do. And I won’t go easy on you if I find out you’ve hidden anything else from me, mind you. At our age, you should have just used your words instead of making me put together clues from corpses.”

“Nothing,” said Tom, trailing helplessly after Harry as he made his way into the dining room. “I have nothing more to hide, dear. Never again.”

“Well, to really help make it up to me,” Harry mused, placing the plate on the table. “There’s just one last thing I want.”

“Anything for you,” vowed Tom, completely and utterly honest.

“Next week will be my last on the Aurors before I quit,” said Harry with a shy smile, looking as sweet and innocent as an angel. “I’d like to catch Voldemort before I retire. Go out with a bang, and all that. Tie up all our loose ends. Will you help me?”

As if only now being granted control over his body now that Harry had given him a direction, Tom swept up Harry in his arms, covering his face in kisses, feeling more energized than ever before by the feel of Harry’s warmth under his hands and his breath on his skin. “I’ve been planning for this exact moment for a lifetime, dear.”

And in this moment, with Harry knowing and willing by his side, laughing once more at Tom’s overflow of affection even as he held him closer, Tom couldn’t imagine being any happier.

Chapter Text

By the time Harry had finally relented to hosting a conference for the ever-hungry, ever-desperate press, the flashing cameras that once had near-blinded Harry now felt like familiar annoyances, idle distractions as he tried to string his sentences together. He’d become unfortunately familiar with journalists recently, the press somehow finding him with pinpoint precision every time he went in public, eager to get the exclusive scoop. Even Rita Skeeter had come out of her semi-retirement from active journalism, neglecting her editor-in-chief duties just to try and better pick Harry’s brain.

Harry hoped the press conference might discourage the reporters from following him around on the streets, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He pointed to another face in the crowd at random, already operating on autopilot.

“Lavender Brown, Witch Weekly!” called out the journalist, a smart-looking woman who had been waving her hand for upwards of twenty minutes. “We know the Auror raid on Voldemort’s home found trophies from the bodies of his more recent victims in his attic. What were those trophies?”

“For the sake of the victims’ dignity, I can’t give too much detail,” responded Harry. “But these included the organs and body parts that had been removed from his victims at the scene of the crime. We have reason to believe that Voldemort found the physical evidence of his success rewarding, and he’d keep these trophies until they began to naturally decay.”

Harry had no intention of ever verbalizing that Voldemort was a cannibal, now or ever. Though the case seemed well and truly closed, there was no need to leak any potential insight into Tom’s alternate identity, and Tom’s passion for delicious meat was well-known even outside of his immediate circle.

“One more question!” barked Kingsley from behind Harry, his arms crossed and expression grave. “Make it count!”

Harry couldn’t resist – he pointed to Rita Skeeter for the last question. She was an inconsiderate bitch who valued a good story over any ethical code, yes, but Tom did have a point in his appreciation of her writing – her articles on Voldemort were by far the most entertaining of the lot.

“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet,” Skeeter purred, her quill already leaping into her hand. “We understand that amateur author Myrtle Warren was the last victim of Voldemort, the one who gave the insight that the Auror force needed to identify the culprit. Could you please walk us through exactly what Myrtle’s death illuminated?”

Harry shook his head, amused despite himself. Trust Skeeter to ask a question that would require a rehashing of the entire sequence of events.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the details of how the body was displayed, but for the sake of transparency, I’ll briefly walk everyone here through the crime scene,” Harry began, to enthusiastic nods and note-taking from the reporters. “Myrtle’s body was displayed stuck to the floral wallpaper inside Flourish & Blotts, near their self-help section. Her upper body remained out of the wall, but most of her lower half was missing, giving the illusion of the wall swallowing her up. To keep her head upright, Voldemort had transfigured her glasses, turning the lenses into icicle-like spikes that pierced through her eyes and out the back of her skull to effectively nail her head to the wall, even as the rest of her body hung limp and without support.”

Which had been hard. Harry had wanted to do as much of the display as he could, but in the end, he’d had to let Tom take the lead on the more intricate bits – Harry was every ounce as powerful as his husband, but his magic seemed to thrive more in brute force survival situations, with matching Tom’s ridiculous level of flourish and detail more of a pain to Harry than any sort of pleasure.

But even if he hadn’t been the one to carefully transfigure each element of the Myrtle scene, content allowing Tom to do much of the dirty work, becoming a part of the process had been exhilarating. Harry had been the one to kill her, the one to carve up her meat and serve it, the one to relish in Tom’s pleasure with each bite of his cooking. He’d been able to design every element of the scene – from piercing the eyes that had coveted Tom to having the wall absorb her into obscurity where she belonged, Harry had been able to create the art he’d always cherished so dearly, finally able to reply to the love letters he’d received in their language.

Harry could see why Tom enjoyed it, honestly. At the end of the day, the kills were storytelling and riddles and trickery, lessons and clues that the Aurors were too blind to see peppered in, irreversible condemnations of such infuriating victims. It had joined the inside jokes he and Tom had shared, their language of meaningful eye contact and subtle body language, the intricacies of communication that could never be captured in words – now, they could share an entirely new world, with so many corners still left to explore.

Keeping the pride off of his face, perhaps, was even harder than displaying Myrtle had been.

“Now, within the Auror force, we’d already identified that these kills all seemed to have one common link,” continued Harry, relishing the anticipation in his audience. He’d hated reporters for his entire career, but with the thrill of secret-keeping making his heart race in his chest, he had to reluctantly admit that he was having a wonderful time. “Me.”

The crowd of journalists gasped in front of him, a low murmur thrumming through the crowd nearly drowned out by the renewed sound of cameras flashing.

“I’d realized that the victims seemed to be people who had wronged me in some way, or symbolically indicative of recent problems I’d faced,” said Harry, letting his voice weaken a bit. A show of humanity, vulnerability for the papers to leap onto – perhaps they’d write about Harry being traumatized by the horrors of his career, but who cared? He was retiring, and either way, a seemingly mentally weak man would be far less likely to have a side hustle as an elite serial killer. “From Creevey writing a critical article on me to Muggles who had been unkind to me as a child, the link was becoming undeniable. Myrtle, however, gave away something the others did not – while I’d told some of my peers about my experiences with the other victims before Voldemort got to them, very few people knew of my connection to Myrtle.”

Harry trailed off, staring down at his hands as if lost in thought. 

“What was your connection to Myrtle?” asked Rita impatiently, yanking him out of his daze.

Head snapping back up, Harry continued. “Myrtle had been harassing my husband for years. We’d kept it between us, of course – no need to encourage her by having her hear from anyone that we were monitoring her obsession – but my husband would receive letters from her weekly if not near-daily, with some very concerning contents. It had become a constant burden on us, and Voldemort had realized this, killing Myrtle in order to try and make me happy.”

At this, Harry smiled bitterly, shaking his head. “Of course, murder could never bring me joy. But in this case, it did help me identify who the killer was – after speaking with Tom, he had only ever told one other person about Myrtle, and only a few days before she was found dead.”

“Draco Malfoy,” finished Skeeter, looking near-manic with the pure giddiness in her expression, her quill rapidly flipping through the parchment in her hands.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy,” repeated Harry, bowing his head somberly.

Tom, ever-perfect, had been planning to frame Draco for his kills long before Harry had ever discovered his alternate identity. When he’d gone out to find his victims, he hadn’t only needed to forge his own alibi – he’d also intentionally chosen times where Draco had been without an alibi, adding an entirely new layer of complexity to his kills that Harry was finally able to appreciate. During their last little tête-à-tête, Tom had been able to plant all the evidence he needed into Draco’s home and mindscape – Harry hadn’t needed to do a thing but raise the alarm.

“I hadn’t realized this, of course, until after his arrest, when we had enough evidence from his home to authorize the use of Legilimency on him,” said Harry, making sure he still looked appropriately grim with a casual glance at his reflection in the wide lens of a nearby camera. “But since our Hogwarts day, Draco had harbored…affections for me, affections I had never realized given the happiness of my relationship with my husband. In his mind, in addition to finding vivid memories of each of his kills, we found that his obsession with me had never waned, and that he genuinely felt killing all of those people would make me happy.”

Harry shook his head mutely, as if struck dumb from grief.

“My association with these murders is one of the most upsetting tragedies I can imagine,” continued Harry in a near-whisper, the hubbub of the room fading into silence for once. “The only relief I have is that Draco Malfoy is securely imprisoned in Azkaban thanks to the hard work of the many Aurors who have supported me and all of us throughout this difficult time.”

His next announcement was one he’d been looking forward to sharing all day.

“But with that,” said Harry, still quiet, still projecting abject grief to the best of his ability. “This case has had an extreme impact on my personal life and wellness. In the interest of protecting my own privacy and mental well-being, I’m sorry to announce that this will be my final day on the Auror force.”

“What?” screeched Skeeter, hopping out of her chair – it seemed that the rest of the journalists were all inclined to follow her example, as the room suddenly erupted with noise, each newspaper desperate to ask just one more question. Harry stumbled back, his back hitting Kingsley’s strong, reliable chest. 

“No further questions!” barked Kingsley over the barrage of shouted inquiries in his gruff, unstoppable way, his hands gripping Harry’s shoulders, meant to be both a comfort and a shield at once. 

With the speed of camera flashes reaching entirely new heights, Harry stepped out of the conference room with a clueless Kingsley at his back, utterly triumphant, completely free.

***

“I’m not here to argue with you,” said Kingsley, walking up to Harry with both his hands raised in the air, a mock show of surrender. Harry paused where he’d been cleaning out his cubicle and mourning his lack of prior organization – some of these papers were from years ago, and sorting through what needed to be saved and what needed to be destroyed was deeply tedious. “I get why you’re retiring. And we’ll miss you like hell out here, but I get it. You’ve got to look out for yourself, and Merlin knows you’ve given more to yourself to this department than most of us even consider.”

Harry nodded cautiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Thank you, sir. For what it’s worth, I know I’ll miss this job, too.”

Kingsley tilted his head in acknowledgement, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “Not enough to stay?”

Harry couldn’t help but smile back, endeared by Kingsley’s stubbornness now that the end was finally in sight. “Not enough to stay. Not after all of this.”

His small smile dropping into a frown, Kingsley moved closer to Harry, dropping his voice low. “That’s actually what I came to talk to you about.”

Instantly, Harry felt something in his gut clench, the beginnings of adrenaline bringing him to full alertness. “What’s left to cover?”

Kingsley sighed, crossing his arms tightly to his chest. “You’ve always been the most perceptive among us, Harry. And after all you’ve had to go through with this case, you know that I trust you. But…are you sure about this?”

“Sure about what?” asked Harry with a frown. His hand crept slowly towards his wand, just out of Kingsley’s field of vision.

“Draco Malfoy,” sighed Kingsley, brows furrowed. “You get a feel for these things over the years, you know? It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something big, something that would turn this whole case upside down.”

Harry dropped his hand – Kingsley hadn’t discovered anything, after all. 

“I get it,” said Harry, nudging Kingsley with his shoulder. “Pretty weird to not have Voldemort to chase after, right? I thought the same thing at first, but the evidence against Draco is honestly airtight. It took me a bit, but I realized it’s not really nerves about having caught the wrong guy – it’s just so surreal that we got him that it takes a bit to sink in.”

“You think?” asked Kingsley, his voice a bit hopeful. 

“I know,” answered Harry firmly. “We got him, sir. We’ll have to adjust to a life without Voldemort to catch, but I know I’m pretty damn proud that we actually did it.”

Harry watched the show of emotions flashing across Kingsley’s face, the allure of triumph and rest conflicting against the pervasive unease of uncertainty.

“Yes,” answered Kingsley slowly after a pause. He clapped Harry on the shoulder with one hand, his grip as firm as always. “You’re right as always, Harry. I’ll leave you to it, yeah? Don’t be a stranger.”

“Same to you,” said Harry with a grin. Perhaps Kingsley wasn’t fully convinced yet, but at the end of the day, no court of law would ever have the power to push back on the evidence against Draco — their case was simply too thorough.

Besides, Harry couldn’t focus too closely on Kingsley – he and Tom had big plans for after work for him to look forward to instead.

***

Harry didn’t have the chance to even speak as he walked through the front door – upon hearing the clunk of the lock, Tom had immediately ambushed him, sweeping him off of his feet and pulling him in for a deep, messy kiss.

“What’s this all about?” gasped Harry as he came up for air, taking a quick breath before Tom could resume his attack. 

He had no defense against Tom’s answering smile, so unbearably fond – Harry melted into his arms obediently, wrapping his arms around Tom’s neck. 

“I’m just excited for our date today,” said Tom, carefully stroking Harry’s hair off of his forehead, his touch gentle and soothing. “I think we’ll be able to make such a lovely dinner.”

“You haven’t even shown me where we’re going,” teased Harry with a pout. “You’ve been so cruel with all your secrets.”

“We can’t have that, can we?” asked Tom rhetorically, finally separating from Harry to better set up for his dramatic reveal. “Without further ado, then – welcome to the workroom.”

And with a wave of Tom’s wand, the hallway melted before Harry’s eyes, an entirely new room taking its place as if it had been there all along.

***

“Voldemort can kill frequently,” Tom began. “But ultimately, we can’t have an intricate display for every single dinner we share. And though there are wonderful alternatives to human meat out there, I do always intend to have human meat ready to go, in case the right recipe presents itself.”

Harry nodded along, endeared by the clear passion in Tom’s voice. He seemed so earnestly enthusiastic, as if he’d been waiting their whole marriage to share his hobby with Harry, and though Tom was certainly trying to contain his excess of enthusiasm, Harry didn’t miss the way he kept bouncing on the balls of his feet or the involuntary grin that kept creeping up on his flushed face.

“I’ve been keeping this man here, just in case we need something time-sensitive for a last minute meal,” continued Tom with a little flourish. “And tonight, it’ll be your turn to pick a cut of meat.”

“You didn’t,” groaned Harry, finally taking a peek at the man strapped down to a gurney behind Tom. “Tom, you’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

“And you love me for it,” answered Tom, not showing even a hint of remorse.

“Cedric and I went out for a month.” Harry sighed. “I can’t believe you even remember who he is. Honestly, I barely remember who he is.”

“I’m not going to let a man who cheated on you live the rest of his days without regret,” said Tom, quite pleased with himself. “I’m protecting your honor, dear. It’s all because I love you so much.”

“Jealous bastard,” said Harry in amazement. “I hope you’re not telling any of your patients to solve their grudges the way that you do. This cannot be a healthy way to deal with people who piss you off.”

Tom rolled his eyes, not even bothering to answer as he strode closer to poor Cedric Diggory’s prone form. “To focus on what we’re here for, as you know, I’m quite the experienced chef. No matter what body part you choose, I will have a recipe to fit. Go ahead and pick your favorite.”

Harry strode closer, observing the abnormal stillness of Cedric’s body. “Is he still alive?”

“Of course,” said Tom. Harry looked up, amused at the hint of offense that had entered Tom’s tone and catching the insulted frown on his face before Tom could hide it. “My ingredients are always fresh.”

Harry reached out to touch Cedric’s bare arms, running his hands up the man’s biceps. He’d bulked up a bit in the many years since Harry had seen him, his muscles thick and wiry, but he lacked the warmth Harry would have expected from an unconscious man. “How’d you knock him out? Draught of Living Death?”

“Exactly,” answered Tom, tracking Harry’s movements with precision, his eyes locked on where his fingers met Cedric’s right shoulder.

“Do you ever wake them up?” asked Harry quietly. Perhaps he’d solved the mystery of Voldemort’s identity, but he couldn’t help continuing to dissect his profile, eager to discover more and more about his motivations, his methods, his genius. Even now, after his official retirement, he found himself relishing the opportunity to ask the man himself about his operations – their casual dialogue over a mystery that had plagued him for years was still novel enough to be a delight, new puzzle pieces sliding into place every day.  

“Occasionally,” said Tom. “Sometimes, I keep them awake constantly, allowing them to watch and feel every cut I make. On other occasions, I’ll wake them up after a partial harvest, just long enough for them to understand their imminent mortality. Or I’ll just kill them before ever reawakening them. Each body has its own story, dear, and I try to treat each one with the unique consideration it deserves.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, slotting it into his profile, absentmindedly running one hand up and down Cedric’s neck. “How do you choose who to display and who to keep for your own meals?”

Tom, it seemed, had finally had enough of watching Harry touch another man, even if that other man was little more than a comatose slab of meat on its way to their dining room table. Moving carefully, Tom took both of Harry’s hands in his own, forcing Harry to make direct eye contact. 

“Every choice I make is for you,” murmured Tom, his predator’s gaze unwavering and resolute. “I display the bodies with the greatest potential to create beauty that you’ll find pleasing, to make scenes that you’ll enjoy and delight over. I serve the bodies that are more desirable for their meat than for any tableau storytelling or visual display. With every life I take and every slice of meat I cut, I think only of your happiness, of the intrigue and excitement it could spark, of the flavors it could deliver to you. Nothing could ever move me more.”

Any words left in Harry’s throat died away in an instant at Tom’s guileless sincerity. He’d never had Tom like this before, never been given the opportunity to see his husband’s love as the cruel, uncaring thing it was. Tom was as he had always been – still an ambitious, attention-seeking man with an uncommon soft spot for Harry, still a glamorous socialite with particular tastes, still a seemingly suave man hiding a petty, childish sense of humor – but Harry had never gotten to see him in full, only ever experiencing a portion of who Tom really was. Now that he knew of Tom’s work as Voldemort, Harry could know him, a far deeper understanding than what Tom had ever allowed anyone else to reach.

And for the first time, Harry saw how vulnerable it had made Tom. For once, Tom could fear rejection, knowing that with every new facet of his identity he revealed to Harry, he risked Harry’s disgust and horror, risked jeopardizing the stability of the love they’d shared for so long. 

Tom’s love for him was bloody and violent. He was still home-cooked dinners and cheesy love letters, still morning kisses and bouquets of flowers, but he was also headless, reanimated corpses who dragged themselves into heart shapes, nosy journalists with sex offenders on the run hidden inside of their bodies, Harry’s last blood relatives crushed to death directly in front of his office. He took small indiscretions as offenses worthy of execution. He ended the lives of everyday, average humans on a whim. And he toyed with any who attempted to defy him, a genuine sadist, unrelenting in his vengeance.

But how could Harry ever hold that against him when Tom’s cruelties were so loving?

Whether or not Harry had been aware at the time, it had been Tom’s tender care for him in each crime scene’s splatters of blood, Tom’s adoration in each limp body and severed limb. He was loved to the point of sacrifice, an obscene number of deaths dedicated to his happiness, his idle, careless desires deemed more important than so many human lives. He could see Tom’s focused dedication in everything he made, from meals to murders – who could possibly object to such all-consuming devotion?

“I love you,” blurted out Harry unthinkingly, tightening his grip on Tom’s hands. “More than anything in this world. Always.” 

Tom blinked rapidly, startled, before his previous intensity faded into something soft and reverent. “I love you too, dear. Have you chosen your cut of meat?”

“His heart,” said Harry without hesitation, smiling softly at his perfect husband. “Please, Tom?”

“Anything,” whispered Tom, leaning in closer. “Anything for you.”

***

“Thank you again for taking the time to speak to me,” said Kingsley, all smiles and professionalism as he took his seat in Barty Crouch Sr.’s office. Barty Crouch Sr. seemed to have mellowed out over the past year, no longer dragging Kingsley into pointless meetings or trying to turn the Aurors into a glorified military force, but he still took his role as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement seriously. Kingsley knew he couldn’t let himself seem at all unreliable or ill-informed during today’s meeting, not if he wanted to have any chance of being taken seriously.

“Of course, Auror Shacklebolt,” answered Crouch with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You mentioned the Voldemort case in your message?”

Getting straight down to business.

“Yes, sir,” answered Kingsley. “I know that the case was closed over a year ago now, but I strongly believe that we’re missing something. For all that Draco’s memories and alibis perfectly match what we’d anticipate for Voldemort, he simply doesn’t seem to have the character for it. By all accounts, Draco was a frivolous, silly man, guilty of treating his patients poorly, but without the stomach for any sort of physical violence. We need to investigate other possibilities.”

Crouch narrowed his eyes, listening to Kingsley carefully. “Is there any new evidence to suggest this?”

Kingsley grimaced. “No, but–”

“Then leave it alone,” commanded Crouch, cutting Kingsley off mid-protest. “Since we sent Malfoy to Azkaban, there have been no further Voldemort kills. All the evidence points towards his guilt, despite your loose concerns about his profile. Speaking frankly, reopening the case would be a delusional waste of resources that I have no desire to invest in.”

“I just want to be able to interview potential suspects,” bargained Kingsley, pleading. “People who match the profile, just to investigate all avenues. It’s our job to protect and serve, sir.”

“What suspects?” asked Crouch, skeptical.

“Tom Riddle, for one,” answered Kingsley promptly. 

Since Harry had retired last year, Kingsley had thought of him often, wondering what could have possibly moved him away from the Auror forces. He’d been reading through the old case files, refamiliarizing himself with Voldemort, when he’d come across a staggering coincidence – the profile drawn up for Voldemort had been an uncanny match for Harry’s husband, from his magical proficiency to his field of work to even his obsession with Harry. Harry had always been the best and brightest of them all – wouldn’t it have made sense for Harry to uncover the truth first, retiring to better protect his husband? 

Kingsley didn’t have even a shred of evidence outside of his gut instinct, but his gut instinct had brought his career where it was today.

But upon hearing Riddle’s name, Crouch had burst out laughing, all of Kingsley’s credibility destroyed in a second. “Riddle, really? The celebrity Mind Healer?”

Kingsley nodded, stone-faced and humiliated.

“No, Auror Shacklebolt,” chuckled Crouch, wiping a tear from his eye, his tongue flicking out of his mouth in a single, odd motion. As his laughter eased, Crouch steadied himself, carrying himself with complete self-assured confidence – Kingsley could see no opening to push any further. “No. The case is closed, and we’ll keep it that way. I don’t want to hear even a whisper of any sort of reinvestigation. Are we clear?”

“Clear, sir,” forced out Kingsley, bowing his head. “I’ll leave you to your work, then.”

Alone in his office, Barty leaned back in his chair, the jitteriness and tics he only allowed in complete privacy once again taking over his body.

Kingsley’s theories were news to Barty, but perhaps not as surprising as they should have been. He’d always known that Riddle was unconventional, yes, even if he hadn’t known the extent of his strangeness, but at the end of the day, his old Mind Healer’s methods had done so much for him. How could he hold any of Riddle’s special quirks against him?

With another lick of his lips, Barty grabbed a quill and parchment, preparing to pen a message to Riddle. Kingsley wasn’t the type to let sleeping dogs lie, no matter what instruction he received from his superiors, but with Barty’s heads up, he was sure that Riddle would be very well-equipped to handle himself. 

***

The very next week, the Riddle-Potters hosted another dinner party.

Kingsley had unexpectedly resigned from the Auror force a few days earlier, supposedly leaving on a trip to a remote region in Europe to reconnect with himself after many years of working an immensely stressful job, but despite his absence, some of Harry’s old Ministry colleagues were in attendance, from the new Head Auror Spinnet to his old boss Barty Crouch Sr. The food was delicious, with all attendees ranting and raving afterwards about the impossibly flavorful, tender pork served as the main course, and as expected, the Riddle-Potter couple was an even more popular topic of conversation. 

Though they’d always been in the public eye due to their professions, recently, the two had seemed to step back, with Harry’s retirement from the Aurors and Riddle’s withdrawal from some of the old social events that he had frequented so regularly. Theories had spread like wildfire – some said the trauma of the Voldemort case had required Riddle to serve as a caretaker to his mentally-ruined husband, while others believed that perhaps the couple avoided being seen in public due to fractures in their marriage.

But as all the dinner party attendees would unanimously share, nothing could be further from the truth.

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle seemed absolutely, completely in love, as if stuck in a honeymoon phase all these years after their marriage. They were unbearably soft with each other, sending each other yearning glances from across the room whenever they wound up having separate conversations, and seemingly holding hands under the table at points throughout the meal. At one point, as some particularly lascivious gossips shared through titters, the two had escaped to the kitchen to “check on dessert” and returned with mussed up hair and healthy red flushes on their cheeks, though who could say if such accounts were truthful?

Though the Aurors were certainly kept busy by the random spree killings that seemed to pop up periodically, Voldemort had not killed again in years, the wizarding world safe and content in the knowledge that Draco Malfoy was behind bars for the rest of his life.

All was well.