Love That Crosses Dimensions

by Misty Shadowbrook (Dagger_Stiletto)

Summary:

Following an unforeseen break-up with Ginny, Harry finds out soulmates are real. While struggling with his heartbreak and discovering the secrets of soul matches, an inexplicable event throws him into a whole different world where the Potters are alive and want nothing more than to be his family. In fact, a lot of people in his past are alive, and Harry must adjust to life in this new world while deciding whether he wants to go back to where he came from.

Notes:

Soulmate AUs are my favorite fics to read. I am a sucker for the destined love ideas that people come up with, and when this idea hit, I couldn't help but write it. I don't know if it is up to par, but I can't put the idea aside.

I intend for this to have two or three chapters. I will add tags as I go. If I miss any, let me know so I can add them.

This work was beta-read by my lovely friend dvoiddubs! Check them out on Twitter and YouTube for their amazing voice-acting and dubs! Support my friend-bean!

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Harry is twenty-two years old when he finds out about the existence of soulmates, and he can't help but feel a little cheated, on top of the heartbreak. Every Witch and Wizard, and Squib, Purebloods, Halfbloods, and Muggleborns alike, are born with a soul fragment meant to mesh with one, or more, person that is created just for them. Those of the Wizarding World would only ever reach their full potential magically and emotionally, as human beings in general, after meeting and bonding with their match, or matches. Occasionally, they have two matches, their souls made of three parts, and even more rarely, there are four-part matches.

The fact that they are born with a soul already fragmented suddenly makes more sense that Voldemort went absolutely bonkers splitting his soul so many times.

Soulmates could be platonic and/or romantic, but everyone had at least one other part to their soul. When they touch skin-on-skin, a bright light would sparkle and glow at the point of contact, blue for platonic, gold for romantic matches, and a warmth and a so-called “sense of rightness” would spread through the soul. A strengthening of the magical core and the mind.

Hearing how the presence of a soulmate manifests makes Harry realize yet another motivation for complete strangers to try and touch him. Of course the unbonded public would want to be soulmates with the Boy-Who-Lived, no matter their age or gender or whether he knows about the customs!

Discovering your soulmate is supposed to be a joyous occasion, no matter who matches.

Apparently, even if it means someone is left behind from a relationship abruptly ending because he didn't know something like this could happen.

Harry didn't know. He didn't know until Ginny met her soulmate, touched him, and dumped Harry like a sack of rocks without more explanation than “I found my soulmate.” He hadn't known Ginny only considered Harry as an acceptable stand-in until her perfect match came along. He'd put everything he could into this relationship, had truly loved her for years! To be dropped so readily was soul-crushing.

His friends didn't understand why he was—still is—so devastated when he should have been happy for her, and he couldn't understand how people who professed to love him could be so callous as they were to his heartbreak, how they seemed to hold him in contempt when he tried to just talk about it, until his ignorance finally came to light. Then they felt pity for him that he didn't know about soulmates as being far more than just a metaphor or rhetoric.

Well how was he supposed to know when 90% of his life in the Wizarding World had been spent just trying to survive?

After Hermione sat down and explained it all to Harry, about soul matches and how to recognize the manifestation, she automatically led into a rant about how Britain's educational system needed to change to include things that would prepare students for life in ways other than just how to wield a wand and stir a potion, and teach basic Wizarding culture to students who didn't grow up in or near said culture.

These reactions didn't yield the emotional support he needed, and it made him realize all the more how devastating the deaths in the war were. Sirius and Remus had been soulmates. His mom and dad, and Snape had been Mom's platonic soul match. The Longbottoms. Twins often shared the same bondmates and a platonic match with each other, which means George and his soulmate would always feel a piece missing.

While Ron and his family, Hermione, and a few other mutual friends celebrate Ginny's preliminary bonding and plan the ceremonial handfasting, Harry withdraws and spends more time than usual with Teddy and Andromeda, doting on the adorable toddler. Andromeda quietly supports him, never expressly sympathizing but also far more understanding of his position and pain as she watches him interact and play with her four-year-old grandson. Teddy is a perfect mix of Remus and Nymphadora temperament-wise, incredibly smart and sweet, and he already shows signs of being a Metamorphmagi like his mother had been. Harry wonders if he can learn the Animagus talent with Remus' DNA in his veins.

Harry feels alienated. He feels betrayed. He feels ignored and cast aside. They expect him to be happy for Ginny, even though they now know that he'd been completely committed to their relationship, having had no reason to believe that it wouldn't last since he'd been oblivious to the knowledge that the universe hadn't sanctioned it. He's unbearably lonely, and he was so used to sleeping beside Ginny that he can't sleep more than a few hours a night, and not until the wee hours of the morning.

He takes a brief hiatus from his apprenticeship with Ollivander, unable to focus appropriately on carving the wood casings, cleaning and preparing the cores, and polishing the finished wands. He obsesses over the cleanliness of his home, having moved into Grimmauld Place. He cleans, he disposes of broken or molded furniture, donates items he doesn't need or want, works on preserving heirlooms that he doesn't want to just fade with the Black name. Kreacher, whose temperament had improved after the war, is hard-pressed not to protest, appearing to understand that Harry needs an outlet, even if he doesn't approve of it.

The two months following the initial break up, his friends don't really contact him, don't really act like friends, and he doesn't bother reaching out after those first few times he had been shut down. He can't forgive so easily the mistreatment or abandonment, and he resolves to move on, focus on his home, his apprenticeship which is only a month or so away from being completed, and his relationship with Teddy and Andromeda.

Life goes on. He works through the pain and grief, stuffs down his loneliness, and learns to sleep alone again. He completes his apprenticeship and stays on at Ollivander's indefinitely, not officially employed but wanting to at least stick around and help the older Wizard until he decides if he wants to stay here permanently, start his own business, or work as a private specialist for wand repair. He reconciles with George, glad that someone at least understands loss and loneliness, even if it's not exactly the same.

Then his focus shifts. He starts seeing the closeness among those officially bonded with their soulmates, sees their happiness, their stability. He sees a few meetings in public, and the wonder and joy in their expressions and voices are almost too painful and private to look at. His chest hurts, lungs seizing with longing. He wants it, that inherent sense of belonging and irrevocable love. He could care less about the magic, the increased power; his power has always been too much, too large, too bright since he defeated Lord Voldemort, sometimes to the point that he worried his holly wand wouldn't be able to handle it. He wants the connection, the promise of a family, even if it's a family of one other person.

So he researches. Headmistress McGonagall allows him access to Hogwarts' library, and he cross-references them with books in the Black library in Grimmauld Place. He reads old newspaper articles, does all the research he possibly can. To what end, he doesn't quite know. He hyperfocuses without a clear destination, running high on emotions and desperation. He obsesses almost on a level that Hermione had displayed in Hogwarts and when she'd been pursuing a cause she believed was worthwhile to further her career and create change for the good of society.

“What exactly are you looking to accomplish with all this, Haz?” George asks one day when he drops by to visit, and probably to make sure Harry hasn't expired under a pile of dusty tomes, newspapers, and scrolls.

“I'm not sure,” Harry admits from his place curled up in a comfy armchair. He watches George peruse through his collected materials, rifling through a stack of notes. “But it feels necessary. Feels important.”

“Are you sure it's not just a form of avoidance?” the tall ginger asks, setting the notes down where he found them and leans back against the desk to face Harry.

“I don't know. I don't think so. I'm still doing the things I normally do. I'm not ignoring my job or spending time with Teddy. I just do this the rest of the time.” He shrugs.

“Mum says you haven't replied to her letters,” George says casually.

He squirms, feeling heat around his neck. “I don't know what to say. None of them have apologized for the way they treated me, and aside from you, she's the only one that has contacted me. Exactly three letters. The first one was to ask if I could return a garment of Ginny's that she lost and I don't have because Ginny couldn't be bothered to ask herself, and the second was an invitation to Ginny's Handfasting Ceremony.” He ducks his head and takes a careful breath.

“Please tell me she didn't,” George sighs, just short of groaning as he drops his head back.

“I didn't throw it away yet.” He points to the desk. “Top right drawer.”

George looks and groans fully this time, then walks to the fireplace, tossing the invitation and letter in. “Unbelievable. Sorry, Haz. Ginny's the only girl, and you know Mum coddled her more than all of us. This is the only Handfasting Ceremony she'll be in charge of planning.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Guess she's a little blinded by the excitement, and she always thought of you as another son, so of course she'd invite you to important events.”

Harry shrugs again, looking at the fireplace where the invitation, lovely and elegant as it was, is already reduced to ash. Alongside his hurt at the oversight, he's also impressed with the monologue George had just issued; when Fred was alive, they'd swapped back and forth in conversation and actions, like a dance, both of them linked so deeply that they finished sentences, even if the other had only just walked into the conversation literal seconds before. Since the loss of his twin and bondmate, George has had to get used to speaking all on his own, and even years after, he'll drift off sometimes, waiting for Fred to pick up the tail end of his sentences; when it doesn't happen, the sentence just remains unfinished, and George often remains melancholy for the rest of the conversation.

“I understand, George. But aside from you, none of them have really contacted me, and they don't understand how I could be hurt or upset in the face of someone finding their perfect person. Muggles don't have soulmates. They fantasize and hope and pray they meet their forever-person, but it's not a reality.” He looks to George now. “I didn't know I was just a stepping stone or a fling. I never would have agreed to date her if there was an inkling that we weren't in it for the long haul. I would have asked her to marry me eventually, and she would have rejected me, and I'd be in the same place as I am now. Because I was only ever a placeholder, without even knowing it.”

He quirks a sardonic smile, and George looks gutted. “Now all I have is this place, and wands, and this research of a subject I went eleven years living in the Wizarding World without ever knowing. All the memories we made are tainted now because my hopes and dreams I attached to them were never a possibility. And now my only hope is to find my soulmate? Because I know I could never do this again. Not with the possibility of losing them to someone else, or causing them the same pain I've gone through, looming over my head.”

“I'm sorry, Harry,” George whispers brokenly, taking a few long strides to wrap him in a tight hug.

“I never realized how often and how many people try to touch me,” he whispers into his friend's jumper, clutching at his ribs. “But now I can't stop noticing it. It bothered me before, but now I'm in a constant state of awareness and a sick sense of terror combined with longing, and that's terrifying too.” He takes a few shaky breaths, inhaling the scent of family and belonging mixed with spices and a hint of incendiary power used in George's pranks that clung to the older man's jumper.

“Is the research at least helping?” George asks, rubbing his hands up and down, not seeming to mind the unusually long embrace.

“I think so?” He shakes his head a little, one hand coming up to rub stinging eyes where tears had formed and readied themselves to fall but never had. “At the very least it's preparing me for what I should expect if I should meet my soulmate.”

“When.”

“Huh?” Harry tilts his head and blinks in confusion.

“When you find your soulmate,” George says with confidence.

“You don't know that. Nothing is a solid guarantee. Some people never find their match,” Harry denies.

“But you will, Harry,” George professes with quiet but steely conviction, and he pulls back to look down at Harry intently. “Out of all of us, you deserve it most. You deserve to be happy, Harry, and the universe will make sure that, one way or another, you'll get your happy ending, your forever and a day love of your life. And you won't think twice about your time with Ginny because as good as you think it was, what you have with your perfect person will be ten times better.”

This time Harry gives an embarrassed smile. These Weasleys always know how to tug at his heartstrings, whether through actions or words. He hugs George a little while longer until he feels ready to pull away and move on to different topics of conversation. George goes along with it, but after this, he makes a point of talking and/or dropping by more often. Harry doesn't mind at all, grateful that someone cares enough to do when his other friends and adopted family are too focused on other things.

When Harry found as much information as he can on soulmates and the workings of the bonds, found some rather interesting theories that have yet to be proven or debunked about soul matches maybe making interdimensional travel possible, and debunked beliefs, debunked rituals that were believed to assist in magically locating a soulmate—apparently the universe of Fates or whatever determines the soul matches don't allow for “cheating”—his obsession slacks off. He never loses his paranoia and avoids situations that will allow for random people to be touching him without his prior knowledge or consent, even going so far as to conjure a mild flexible shield charm that stops unapproved contact within centimeters of their skin actually touching his.

Ginny's Handfasting Ceremony takes place seven months after she meets her soulmate and subsequent breakup with Harry. He has minimum contact with the Weasley clan outside of George and Molly, whom George had scolded about her unintentional callousness and disregard of Harry's feelings, especially when she had deigned to complain about never seeing him, not long after their conversation; she, of course, apologized, near tears, and did her best to make it up to Harry, and Harry allows her to dote on him and visit whenever she wants, feeling that their relationship had mended almost naturally.

Hermione and Ron don't show up as often as they used to before the whole blow-up, and he doesn't know why. He feels that they've gone through worse things and come out on the other side. He can always attribute Hermione's inattentiveness to her obsessive personality and workaholic tendencies—she really is determined to change some of the requirements in the school board so other Muggleborns and Muggle-raised Wizarding children won't miss out on important facts of the Wizarding World and the culture that going along with it. Ron, however, doesn't have the same excuse, and Harry thinks it's just one of those things that Ron either just isn't thinking about, or he's perceived some unforgivable act on Harry's part that he's going to hold against him until one of them breaks.

Harry doesn't intend to. He did nothing wrong, and his reaction to being dumped and abandoned was and still is valid, no matter what Ron or anyone else thought on the matter. Harry had deserved more, had deserved better, than the treatment he'd received during and following his relationship with Ginny, and he expected more from the people he considered family.

In November, Ollivander decides to go on holiday, and rather than leave the shop in Harry's more than capable hands, he closes it up and commands Harry to take his own holiday. Harry protests, but Ollivander hears nothing of it, even goes so far as to temporarily reclaim Harry's copy of the key to the shop.

“I will be back in two weeks,” he says, patting a flabbergasted Harry on the shoulder with amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Go relax and enjoy yourself. You have not taken a vacation since I have known you professionally, and that little break was more of a medical leave than a holiday, so don't try convincing me otherwise. I will see you at the end of the month, Harry.”

So now Harry has only time to wander Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. He searches for a few gifts, takes a few robes to Madam Malkin's for repair. He visits George and plays a few harmless pranks on him for once, though he'd never know until Harry is safely ensconced in Grimmauld Place. He visits Hogwarts, sitting in on some classes for old times' sake; visits with McGonagall—“call me Minerva, please Harry, I am no longer your professor”—and fills her in on his life since the last time they spoke was right after New Year's.

The “vacation” becomes boring after that, and Harry finds himself increasingly restless. He has to find other things with which to occupy himself. He works on honing his wandmaking and repairing skills, brushes up on the different cores and their effects on wands. He travels to the Chamber of Secrets and harvest a pouch full of the scales from the basilisk's corpse, along with some of her horns, deciding he'd experiment with those; he remembers reading that Salazar Slytherin had a wand made of a basilisk horn, so he wonders if he can replicate it. He's confident enough in his skill and the strength of his magic to be able to contain any ill-effects should a combination react badly with the chosen materials to encase the cores.

He goes again to Hogwarts a different day with a messenger bag with empty pouches, a pouch of Galleons in case he needs them, and the pouch of scales and horns. He also brings his wand, heavy boots, and a heavy cloak for the late autumn chill. He visits Dumbledore's tomb, paying his respect and speaking softly to the white marble as he touches it reverently.

Then he heads to the Forbidden Forest in search of new woods and magical materials he can try using with his collection of basilisk scales and horns, unicorn tail and mane hairs, and dragon heartstrings graciously provided by Charlie. He scours the forest carefully, collecting different materials he finds interesting and thinks might make a new core or an interesting wand casing. Of course, he's very careful, remains respectful, and avoids the areas over which he knows the creatures are especially territorial. The hike is oddly peaceful, though he doesn't allow this fact to lull him into a false sense of security. At no point does he intend to be one of those souls that enter but never exit the Forbidden Forest.

A thrill of excitement dances through him when he finds some shed runespoor skin, and he casts some preservation charms before he tucks it away in an empty pouch and then into the messenger bag. He also finds a tangle of silvery unicorn tail hair in a thorny bush. Skirting the edge of the clearing he knows Centaurs frequent, he finds some of their tail hairs, too. A sparkling pair of wings on a log looks a little like a sprite's or fairy's wings, and he collects them just in case they're useful. He trips over a piece of antler and collects that, too, to identify later.

When his wand buzzes with the clock alarm charm he'd set to make sure he doesn't stay too long, Harry heads back to the edge of the forest so he won't be caught there in its depths after dark. He gathers a few of the rare potion ingredients he notices along the way, intending on selling them to Draco Malfoy at his apothecary in Hogsmeade later this week.

He comes out of the Forbidden Forest and leans against one of the outermost trees to take a small breather, having pumped his legs a little more than usual towards the last half hour to make sure he made it in time. He adjusts his warm cloak and checks the pouches in his messenger bag. Once he feels ready, satisfied that he'd made it out of tree cover before the sun set completely, Harry pushes off the tree and takes a couple steps away from the treeline towards the castle.

A crack like lightning splits the air, startling Harry into almost stumbling. Battle instincts from years ago seize him, and Harry whips around, wand drawn, and scans the school grounds for the source of the sound. It almost sounded like Apparation, but Hogwarts' wards, strengthened since the war, prevent Apparation for the safety of the students. He hears another thunderous crack from his left, and he whirls to face it, eyes wide and breath catching in his throat.

Harry swallows when his eyes land on the White Tomb, Albus Dumbledore's final resting place. He hesitantly approaches, senses on high alert, and thinks he can hear a high-pitched whistling through the air the closer he got. His heart pounds heavily in his chest, and dread coils in his stomach when he sees the heavy slab of marble broken in four uneven pieces. Panicking, he quickly whispered multiple charms to repair and seal up Dumbledore's tomb again.

All the while, Harry scans the grounds for the culprit that had vandalized the revered Headmaster's grave. Something coils inside his throat, telling him that it certainly wasn't a student.

He turns away from the pristine marble tomb once the covering is fully repaired. Wand still drawn and at the ready, feet light and stance loose, he takes a few steps away from the grave.

The whistling sharpens, and a flash in the corner of his eye makes Harry whip around again and shoot off a Stunner, only for it to dissipate in thin air. Something dark and thin comes rocketing at his head, and he dodges with a startled shout. The object wheels around to follow him, and he can't see very well in the darkening twilight, so Harry throws up a spell that tosses a sphere to hover above him and cast light over the immediate area in a ten-meter radius.

His breath, visible in the air in front of him, catches at what he sees is attacking him.

It's the Elder Wand.

The distinctive wand gleams in the darkness, ominous and eerie, power throbbing off of it to an almost visible degree. His magic inexplicably reaches towards it, as if recognizing an old friend from years ago, even though he had only actively been its official Master for a single battle, and he ruthlessly reigns in his magic, scowling.

It shoots a spell at him, completely independent of a Wizard or Witch to wield it. Harry throws up a shield, but the spell circumvents it, curving around the shield like water, and strikes his wand and arm.

The pain lancing through his left arm makes him drop the wand and fall to a knee, clutching the injured limb while his wand flies from his grasp less than a meter away. It burns and aches in the bone, like electricity had been directly applied to the marrow. It hangs limp. Wincing, he glances at his wand, ready to attempt to use it with his non-dominant hand, heart pounding harshly in his ribcage.

His wand lies in the grass, smoking and singed, a deep crack splitting along the shaft to expose the phoenix feather core.

“Mr. Potter!” he hears behind him, and he would recognize Professor McGonagall's voice anywhere. “What is happening here?!” Feet rapidly approach from the direction of the castle, at least three people rushing to his aid.

“The Elder Wand escaped Dumbledore's tomb,” he shouts, watching the wand hover in the air meters in front of him, an ominous threat that hums like a swarm of bees. He grabs his wand, grateful his brief stint as an Auror had taught him how to use either hand to wield a wand in the event an opponent attempted to incapacitate them. He feels its magic spark and sputter in a way he knows means he won't be able to use it any time soon without serious repair. “It attacked me and damaged my wand, Headmistress. Be careful.” He can barely move his arm, pain making it hard to think right now.

A brilliant stream of gold shoots passed Harry from behind and above him, but the sentient wand easily deflects it with a twirl. An explosion of dirt bursts up where the spell impacts, shaking the ground. Professor Sinistra, McGonagall, and the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Harry hasn't met yet all run in front to defend him, spread like a shield as he sways on his feet, clutching his aching arm. A pulse of energy ripples from the Elder Wand, and Harry sways unsteadily, his holly wand sparking and sputtering in his loose grip, as if responding to the legendary wand's threats.

McGonagall casts a shield over them even as the DADA professor fires off an offensive spell that Harry doesn't catch the name of, but it smells like smoke from a wood burner. The streak of red lightning transforms to flames as it races along the wand's shaft, but said wand spins over and over, creating a burning inferno that it then flings back at them. The flaming tornado screams its way back, leaving scorch through the grass, and Professor Sinistra and the Headmistress leap to call upon the water of the lake to douse the magical fire before it can spread to the forest or harm one of them.

While the women are distracted, the Elder Wand shatters McGonagall's shield, with apparent ease, and rockets back toward Harry, the buzzing noise traded for the high-pitched whistling that apparently indicates its flight as it sails though the air at high speeds.

Harry isn't fast enough to dodge or fire off his own defensive spell. All he can manage is to bring up his arm, defective wand poised, and then the Elder Wand slams into him. He screams as he's violently lifted from the ground and flung meters back, like a player in Muggle rugby being tackled. He flails wildly, trying to defend himself in any way possible, magic lashing out despite how it previously wanted to greet the wand, survival instincts overriding everything. The breath is knocked roughly out of him as he lands on his back, his fingertips are shocked and burnt from the malfunctioning holly wand, and the pain that shrieks through him damn near knocks him out.

His vision tunnels, and he watches as the Elder Wand attacks his wand directly, like a snake striking another smaller interloper, splitting it completely in half. The phoenix feather flutters free of the casing, the wood splintering, and pain lances through Harry's chest like a knife trying to gut him.

And then the Elder Wand consumes the holly wand.

That's the only description for it. Magic thrums and pulses through the air, and a dome of hardened air with spiderwebs of green crackling lightning forms around him and the Elder Wand, blocking the professors from rushing back to rescue Harry. The Elder Wand pulsates and seems to get bigger, and the holly wand breaks down further, disintegrating while Harry watches, horrified. The resulting dust, as his wand literally screams, streams through the air and seems to be sucked into the tip of the Deathly Hallow.

Harry tries to stand, although he doesn't know what he could do to stop anything. He shouts and pushes out a pulse of wandless, raw, destructive magic at the pair of wands, but it rolls off them like water off a duck's back. The holly continues to disintegrate even as it struggles against the superior tool, and the Elder Wand reverberates with power.

Dead silence spreads through the night as the last of Harry's faithful wand is completely absorbed. Harry's legs collapse under him, and he pants, shuddering, eyes wide and horrified while the three Witches outside goggle in awestruck trepidation.

The Elder Wand definitely looks a little larger, the carvings altered into smooth swirls rather than the hundreds of odd pockmarks, and the power emanating from it seems to have increased exponentially. The buzzing swarm has grown louder, and Harry can feel the vibrations on his skin, digging in his ears. The air trembles. He feels almost feverish, confused and throbbing with agony, chest aching with the loss of his wand and the strength at which his heart is galloping, and he feels like the pressure of the magic bearing down on him and the grief combined will make him sick.

The Headmistress steps back, and the other two professors follow. From inside the dome, gazing passed the Elder Ward, Harry watches as the three Witches press their wands together, their lips moving in an unusually long incantation.

A concussive blast sounds throughout the school grounds, making the ground shake and the trees tremble. Colored streams of light—red, white, gold, blue, and violet—erupt from their wands, swirling around each other even as they speed toward the dome. They burst apart and curve all around the dome before colliding against the crackling walls in an attempt to break in and dissolve the shield. When those streamers fade, several more gush out to strike at slightly different points of contact, constantly battering until the shield starts to crack.

But as soon as the splintering dome fractures clear through, it is like air is violently sucked out, creating a brutal vacuum that asphyxiates Harry almost instantly. He gasps but gets no air, weakly crumpling to the ground once more as he fights to breathe, his good hand clawing at an invisible hand around his throat. He thinks he can hear the women crying out in alarm, and the dome fractures further, pressure crushing down on his helpless form.

The Elder Wand shrills, a sound of rage, maybe a battlecry, and the magic that bursts from it dissolves the rest of the protective shell. The wand zips across the distance to Harry, and Harry's last bit of breath releases in a scream as it stabs the meat of his chest over his heart.

Several things happen in the next few minutes, too fast for Harry to truly comprehend.

The green lightning retracts back to the Elder Wand while it is still embedded by several centimeters into his pectoral muscle, sending surprisingly mild static through Harry's weakened body. The professors aren't fast enough to pull back or cancel their spell. At the same time, the streams of color slam into him full force. Harry is sure that he's dying. His heart stutters under the strain, lungs trying to collapse in his chest. A golden glow spreads over him, beginning from the place where the tip of the wand is still in his chest, and he has the irrational sensation of being swallowed by magic.

The Elder Wand extracts itself from his flesh, and blood spurts forth, staining his light-colored shirt. It does some kind of complicated gesture over him as the world tilts and warps around him. Harry gasps and feels like he's melting, even as the wound heals and leaves behind an oddly starburst-shaped scar.

The world is too loud with the sound of his sputtering heartbeat, the screaming of his nerve-endings, the voices of the terrified professors, the rushing and roaring of trembling trees and violent winds, and the buzz of angry magics surrounding him. The Elder Wand slots itself into his hand, and he clenches his fingers almost instinctively. Magic stronger than he's ever felt before with a tinge of the taste of his old phoenix feather wand flares through his already overwhelmed senses. It numbs a lot of the pain, and he takes a breath for the first time in minutes.

But the combination of magics tearing up the air and across the ground and through his body are too much, too intense, all at once to not create something catastrophic, and terrific in so many senses of the word. Reality bends and contorts, and blackness deeper than even the abyss under the oceans spreads like spilled ink around Harry. His body lifts off the ground, and then it feels like something is sucking him forcefully in an indecipherable direction. The sudden silence is deafening, and Hogwarts castle and the lake and the professors melt and drip out of sight, of existences, replaced by a myriad of ever changing swirls of color and bright flashing points of light.

He gets the sensation that he's being flung at unfathomable speeds over an undetermined distance. His body, the cells and atoms that make up his entire being, stretch and shrink and twist, over and over in unpredictable patterns. He's taken apart and smashed together again endlessly. He writhes but remains motionless, screams but remains silent. He is both everything and nothing all at once, there but nowhere, a thousand contradictions simultaneously.

Tears stream from his eyes and float around him like diamond bubbles. He gasps and tries to release the Elder Wand, but it sticks to his palm stubbornly. His messenger bag beats against his thigh and hip intermittently, the crossbody shoulder strap rasping against his chest. Harry soundlessly moans and closes his eyes against the disorienting colors and lights, and he worries he might be sick soon, on top of everything else, stomach roiling and bile rising.

His body slams into an odd resistance, a little like he'd belly-flopped into a pool after falling from an extreme height, further confusing him since he hadn't been falling per se, more like being dragged and thrown forward forever. He tries to move his arms as though he is swimming, but agony holds his damaged left arm limp, hanging uselessly. He's hauled forward regardless, endlessly, and he can still breathe despite the watery feel to the atmosphere. For several minutes, or hours, or days, he's pulled through it, and then he breaks through into something cold like winter air.

The directional orientation of his body shifts abruptly, the action dizzyingly nauseating.

Then Harry is literally falling, and his body regains the feeling of being solid and whole, though still racked with pain. The lights beyond his eyelids change enough that he opens them in further confusion. He shrieks when he sees himself dropping through the sky in an unfamiliar place, hurtling toward the snow-covered roof of a rural house. His body passes through the wards like they're nothing.

A pulse of wandless magic barely has enough time to form a shield around before he makes impact with it.

He crashes clean through the roof, falls into a room, breaks through the floor, and crashes through the ceiling of the room below the first before landing in a broken heap on top of a low table, whose legs collapse underneath his weight.

Harry blacks out.

Long moments later, he jerks back into awareness and throws up his right arm, hand grasping the Elder Wand tightly as he casts a nonverbal shield charm before the hand of a Wizard he hasn't yet identified can touch him. He wheezes in distress and cowers under the shell of the shield, shouting hoarsely in fright and scrambling backwards over the debris resultant of his literal crash landing. He doesn't stop until his back hits a wall. The shield automatically morphs to form a type of closed-off bubble, using the wall as a support to protect him from all angles.

His eyes focus, and his breath dies in his lungs. The sound of a wounded animal claws its way from his throat as his green gaze lands on the Wizard that had attempted to touch him.

Albus Dumbledore.

“You're dead,” he blurts, panicking.

“I don't think you have any grounds to be making threats,” someone snaps beyond his old and very much not-dead Headmaster.

“This isn't real,” Harry continues, senseless, mumbling and desperate as panic and wrongness eats away at him. “You're dead. I saw you die, this isn't real.”

His eyes snap to the side at movement further into the room. Unsteadily, he gazes around the drawing room he's fallen into, and the dread in his stomach grows, twanging and digging like an animal trying to tear out his guts as he takes in each new face staring at him. Severus Snape. Remus Lupin. Sirius Black, and a younger man that looks like a younger version of him. Two others he doesn't know, has only seen in portraits and knows them to be long dead.

And in one of the many comfortable chairs beside the demolished table...sits a young Tom Riddle.

A phantom pain pulses through his scar, and he thinks he feels wetness ooze from it.

“I'm dead,” Harry whispers, numbness creeping through his veins, deadening the emotional and physical agony plaguing his body. “I have to be dead. I've died again, the Elder Wand murdered me next to Dumbledore's tomb, and now I'm in some sort of purgatory with other dead souls.”

“The boy's raving mad,” the first unfamiliar man mutters, eyeing Harry warily.

“He did just fall through two layers of house,” says the one that looks like but can't possibly be Sirius Black as he looks curiously up through the Harry-shaped holes made by his body. “I imagine he hit his head. Scrambled his brains a bit.”

“He's bleeding from a few places on his head,” agrees not-Remus as he carefully approaches.

Harry automatically adds three layers more to his Shield Charm. Distantly, he finds it odd that he has yet to say or even think of a literal spell; he'd just willed the shield into existence. It shouldn't be possible. How he even has the magical strength to do it and maintain it is beyond him when he is so bone-deep tired. He can't even feel his magic anymore.

“Dear boy,” Dumbledore says as Remus draws up short, but he falls silent when Harry makes another wounded animal noise as the endearment, his expression grave with concern. “No one in this room is dead, I assure you. Not even you. We will not hurt you.” He bends a little as if to try to get a better look at Harry's face.

“Be careful, Albus,” the second unfamiliar Wizard cautions from over by the fireplace. “He doesn't seem stable, and your kindness will be your downfall one day.”

“Can't harm what's already dead,” Harry babbles, curling in on himself, making his body as small as he can. “We're all dead. Can't harm the dead. See the dead, hear the dead, feel the dead. Can't hurt, can't harm.” He can't stop shaking, twitching, but also inexplicably feels like sleeping even as his eyes constantly flit and rove about the room. “You're all dead. We're all dead. I died. Died again. Once wasn't enough. Died again...”

Would he be missed back home? Wherever home is...

“I believe he may be going into shock,” Snape remarks, and Harry sees him stride over in a calculated move, pulling out a potions vial. He approaches as if moving toward a wild animal, crouches down half a meter outside the reinforced bubble. “Young man, I believe you would benefit from a Calming Draught. We can call a Healer for you as well. Mr. Gaunt has a private Healer if you prefer not to go to St. Mungo's.” His voice is calm and level, ringing true in his memory because even when he was angry, Snape rarely ever raised his voice. What Harry can't reconcile is the gentleness in his eyes, the youth and softness in his face, and the lack of snake bite marks on his neck where Nagini attacked him.

Harry sways in his spot, more of a side-to-side rocking motion reminiscent of an inconsolable asylum patient, bewildered, eyes unfocusing and refocusing intermittently. “Can't calm the dead, can't heal the dead,” he mumbles, words slurring. He blinks rapidly when something drips into and stings his eye, and he nearly gouges it out with his wand when he reaches up to wipe and rub.

“Am I to assume all of us died peaceful deaths?” Snape asks, and Harry looks up in confusion.

“No,” he answers after a moment. Did Snape not remember? Although to be fair, Harry's not quite sure how he died either. Did one lose their memories when sent to purgatory? “You killed Dumbledore so Malfoy wouldn't have to, and you died when Nagini bit you.”

An affronted noise comes from deeper in the room. “She would never—!”

“Tom, please,” Dumbledore quells with a shushing motion.

“And how did you die?” Snape asks, trying to keep Harry's focus.

Harry stares at him, as well as he can through watering and unfocusing eyes. “I don't remember.”

“If you have died, you died violently,” the former professor tells him. “You're bleeding from your head, your arms, and it looks like you've had a recent wound on your chest. If you have died and are bleeding still, would those of us here who died similarly not also be bleeding? Especially I from a rather large snake bite?”

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he licks his lips. His eyes dart over to Dumbledore, and he flexes his fingers. Snape makes sense, but the situation is suspect. All of these people should be dead. Is he hallucinating then? But why these people? Nothing else is making sense, and he doesn't know how long he can keep the shield up. No one has been aggressive towards him thus far. They're acting like they don't know him...

Harry lets out a soft breath and drops his shield, hoping he is making the right decision, or that at least real death will be swift. Snape's expression remains placid, though he thinks he sees his lips quirk briefly in approval. The man reaches forward carefully, passing over the vial. Harry cautiously reaches over, and the top pops off when the Elder Wand touches it. Information on the potion files into his brain, as if he had cast a spell, but he knows he didn't, and it freaks him out. He hastily accepts the Calming Draught, gulping it down.

As artificial calm washes over him, Harry unfolds from his defensive curl, carefully dropping his legs down flat and sprawled in front of him on the floor. He shudders and drops his head back against the wall, swallowing. He still feels overwhelmed, but it's in the background as the potion does its job. He fidgets, restless, wand tapping along his leg, but he's motionless otherwise.

“What is your name, dear boy?” Dumbledore asks, taking the opportunity to step as close as Snape is kneeling.

Harry swallows his grief down, throat clicking audibly. He'd so missed Dumbledore's voice, his kindness, the twinkle in his warm eyes, and the brightness of his robes. This Dumbledore doesn't know him or remember him, or someone is playing a cruel joke. With his luck lately, it isn't out of the question. “Harry Potter,” he croaks as a tear slides down his cheek.

The atmosphere in the room changes, and Harry shivers as he drops his head to look back at the men staring at him as though he has three heads. He glances to the sides to make sure he doesn't; magic does weird shit sometimes. He flinches when slender fingers reach up and push his unruly curls away from his face, but he doesn't lash out like he would have seconds ago.

“Someone call the Potters,” Riddle says urgently, having come closer to peer at Harry as Snape holds his hair back. On the edge of his attention, Harry observes Sirius and his lookalike, suddenly wide-eyed and highstrung, scurry out of the house, presumably to do just that.

"He definitely shares their features,” the Potions Master says, and it's odd not to hear a sneer about how much he looks like James come from the man. It's surreal.

“There is no way that's Harry,” one of the strangers snaps, pointing at Harry accusingly with his cane, a little like Lucius Malfoy would. “That poor child died over a decade ago. Don't bother the Potters with this lying, barmy wretch!” He stamps the floor with the cane, scowling.

“It's very difficult to lie under the effects of a Calming Draught,” Dumbledore remarks, tone placating as he uses a soft hanky to wipe Harry's face of blood and sweat. He casts a soft Warming Charm when he sees the minute shivers dancing through the younger man's body. “The resemblance truly is remarkable, Abraxas.”

Abraxas... Abraxas Malfoy? The cane makes sense now.

“Difficult, not impossible,” the one called Abraxas retorts.

Harry feebly reaches out to lightly tug at Dumbledore's robes. “'M not lying,” he swears in a rasp, swallowing. “You can read my memories. My name is Harry Potter.”

“I can, indeed, young man,” Dumbledore agrees with a nod, expression intrigued for a moment before giving way to seriousness. “Are you giving me permission to use Legilimency?”

Harry bobs his head. “Yeah. You're the only one that's never hurt me with it before, sir. I trust you.”

“Curious.” The man that had so far remained by the fire leans forward, trying to peer around Dumbledore and Snape. “That suggest he's been at the receiving end of a mind-rapist. Perhaps we should summon the Aurors. He could be the victim of a crime, an assault which tore his mind and sent him careening through Gaunt's home.”

“Let me see what I can find before we go to such extremes,” Dumbledore says. “I promise not to be in there too long, Harry. I just need a few keys of information so I know how best to help, and to confirm your identity. Breathe calm and deep and try not to Occlude me unless you have to.”

“I understand.” Harry slumps, completely limp, too tired to do anything else. Snape's hands come up to help him into a more comfortable position. Absently, Harry sees Sirius and Doppelganger return with three or four people in cloaks. Tom Riddle goes to meet them, presumably to update them on what is about to happen.

“Harry, my boy, I need your eyes for this,” the former Headmaster calls patiently.

“Sorry.” He turns his attention to his old friend and idly rubs his fingers over the changed surface of the Elder Wand, tracing the swirls.

If not for how the memories flit over his mind's eye, Harry never would have known Albus Dumbledore is inside his head. His touch is gentle, almost delicate, and he thinks he probably can only feel him now because the experienced Wizard wants him to, likely as a courtesy since Harry is cooperating fully; it's nothing like Snape's constant battering and the utter violation he'd suffered. He regrets allowing the Wizard free reign as he sees the majority of his worst memories and very few of the good ones, reliving them all over again, but the Calming Draught keeps him from getting too upset, and he figures Dumbledore only needs to be reminded of the things he already knows. All throughout, the older Wizard is very respectful, and when he ends the spell, Harry only feels sleepy, not panicky and fueled with adrenaline.

“Oh, my poor boy,” Dumbledore murmurs softly, and he gently runs his hand over Harry's hair and down to cup his cheek tenderly. The twinkle in his eyes is muted, expression somber. Even his beard seems to droop. “I am so sorry. How you have suffered.”

Mindlessly, Harry nods, agreeing. “Tired,” he whispers, barely audible.

“Rest.” Hands gently soothe over him, easing him down to lie flat on the floor. “Severus and I will guard you in your sleep. You are safe.”

Again, Harry nods. He allows his exhaustion to take him, darkness closing in regardless of his consent. On a subconscious level, he knows that something important he doesn't yet comprehend has happened. For now, he will let the Fates take over. He'll deal with it when he awakes.

 

~*~

 

“Albus?”

The man shakes himself out of his melancholy pondering, blinking to drag himself back into the present. He looks over to the new occupants of the room, standing with the brothers Black and Thomas Gaunt. James and Lily Potter, and Fleamont and Euphemia Potter behind them, are dusted in melting snow. While Fleamont's face is stoic and quiet, the others faces clearly convey painfully hopeful expressions. Lily clasps her hands to her breast, James holds her shoulders in his hands, and Fleamont clasps his son's shoulder and one of his wife's hands. Sirius, the godfather in question, clings to his younger brother's cloak, a little wild-eyed as he waits just as anxiously as the Potters.

“Is it him?” Lily whispers, her voice breathless with anticipation.

Oh, this will hurt, but he cannot lie to one of his dearest friends. Albus sighs and stands up straight, leaving Snape to tend to the young man. “This, indeed, is Harry James Potter,” he says gravely, but he hurries along before anyone can say or do anything else. “But he is not our Harry James Potter.”

“What do you mean?” James asks, forehead creasing in confusion.

Albus turns his gaze briefly to Thomas. “Please summon your Healer, Tom, my boy. Harry needs some serious treatment.” He takes his seat in the chair he'd occupied before the poor lad had fallen through Tom's roof. He observes Remus has busied himself with repairing what he can until Tom can get a professional to fully repair the damages.

“While it is true this young man is Harry Potter, and he is the son of Lily Evans and James Potter, he is not the son of our James and Lily,” Albus explains as his dear Gellert comes up behind his chair to rub his husband's shoulders.

“What? But how is that possible?” Lily demands, eyes wide with disbelief, continuously flickering over to the injured young man Severus carefully tends to as he slumbers on the hardwood.

“From what I saw of his memories, Harry was the victim of multiple magics clashing, and it resulted in on interdimensional tear between universes. He was transported here against his volition from his own world to ours, and who knows how many universes he was ripped through before he landed here.” He shakes his head, feeling a deep sadness for the boy, which easily overwhelms his awe and curiosity over the physics and theory behind the evidence of interdimensional travel. As no one has ever had the ability to prove such a thing to be possible, let alone begin to study the mechanics of it, the mere fact that it was a result of completely accidental and tragic methods means that it is very unlikely they can help Harry get home.

“Then...that would mean that his raving was not the result of an injury or mental illness,” Thomas says quietly, his thundercloud gray eyes contemplative and bright as he observes the young man. “It is likely the result of his home world.”

“He said that all of us are dead,” Sirius chokes out, and now he grasps his brother's wrist protectively.

“We are,” Albus agrees with a nod. “Except for Gellert, perhaps. His fate was unclear and not a focus in Harry's life.” He reaches up to coil a hand around one of Gellert's, and those fingers squeeze back quietly. “But all of us present are dead in his world in some form or another. I do not know if falling through The Veil is truly considered a death.” He involuntarily makes eye contact with Sirius, who shudders and looks away quickly, swallowing. “Harry grew up in a version of the British Wizarding World ravaged by war, and he had the grave misfortune of being a key part of it since infancy.”

His eyes turn to James and Lily, who listen without gazing away from the young man that is their son, yet not. “I regret to say that your family treated him just as horribly as they did in our world, Lily.”

Lily flinches and makes a noise that sounds like a stifled sob, lower lip quivering. As in this Harry's world, Petunia was a Squib who remained jealous of her sister well into her adulthood and married Vernon Dursley who only nurtured her spiteful nature. Lily had done all she could to try to keep an amicable relationship with her sister, had wanted Dudley and Harry to be good friends.

Harry, the sweet boy that he was, had not told his parents how Aunt Petunia and Uncle Dursley hurt him and said awful borderline terroristic things during the biweekly Fridays that he stayed with them while Lily and James worked long shifts as their jobs. Perhaps if he had, tragedy would not have befallen him at the hands of the most hateful Muggle Albus has ever had the displeasure of meeting.

The Dursleys took Harry with them on a trip to the beach a week after Harry's eleventh birthday.

They did not return home with him. They acted as though they had no idea where the boy was when Lily and James had returned to take him home. As if a happy, bright eleven-year-old boy run away without provocation.

An extensive weeks long search only resulted in procuring Harry's bloodstained and tattered clothes washing up onto the beach in a sheltered cove not too far away from the beach the Dursleys had visited. His body was never recovered. Both parents were sentenced to life in prison, and Dudley was placed with distant cousins on Lily's Muggle side of the family.

“In another world,” Lily shakily murmurs. “In another dimension, Harry is an orphan.” Her eyes, teary and brilliant green, flick to Albus. “Something happens, and he is orphaned. And my sister mistreated him?”

Emotions squeezing his chest, Albus nods. “My counterpart saw fit to place him with the Dursleys on the grounds of blood protection wards from a mother's love. His godfather, Sirius, was wrongfully imprisoned for the apparent betrayal of the Potters that led to their demise.”

“Blood protection wards do not work if there is no love amongst the family,” Tom declares with a scowl.

“An oversight, perhaps. Or a product from Harry's inability to reach out and tell others of his abuse.” Albus glances over at the young man whose life has not been an easy one. “He tried in primary school, but the Dursleys were quite adept in avoiding true investigation, and Harry suffered retaliation enough that he stopped trying.”

“You were only supposed to prove his honesty and look at what happened to bring him here, Albus,” Severus says reproachfully. “Not look into his entire life story.”

“The boy is suffering magical exhaustion and a concussion, among other injuries. Rather than Occlude his deepest secrets, he practically shoved them at me. He also, in his confusion, seemed to think that I only needed a reminder of things I am already supposed to know, given that he is a bit delirious and unaware of the truth of our existence. Out of everyone in this room, I am the one he felt safest with, and I was the one to send him to his first death.”

“What?” Fleamont demands, aghast.

Albus nods gravely, clinging to his husband's hand. “I had convinced Harry that his death was necessary via the Killing Curse to destroy the Horcrux in his scar.”

Every last person in the room shudders in revulsion and horror. Horcruxes are Banned and Forbidden Magic that even the avid Dark and Gray Wizards avoid unless they are well and truly mad and depraved. Heavy and intricate magics had been put in place to immediately alert the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if such rituals are being conducted. Extreme sentences are doled out for offenses. The mere mention of them made most people cringe in horror and distaste. The detriment to one's soul is severe and not at all justifiable to the additional lives lost for the creation.

And the Tom Riddle in Harry's world had made seven of them.

“How can he be here, then if the Killing Curse was cast?” Euphemia asks tremulously, looking near fainting as she finally looks away from her only grandchild, one she lost so long ago. “No one just walks away from that.”

Before he can answer, a house elf arrives, guiding Healer Emerus McAvoy behind him. Albus quiets, making a gesture suggesting that they will continue the conversation after the good Healer has left. The Potters subside unhappily, quiet as they watch the man immediately attend to their unexpected guest, Snape shuffling to the side but not removing himself completely. Should the young Wizard awaken, it would be best to have a familiar face nearby lest he panic and become defensive once more.

Healer McAvoy is thorough and professional, even going so far as to erect a privacy barrier to hide the young Potter's body from view when he makes the clothes on his body go transparent. The cloak and messenger bag are removed, and Snape busies himself with casting cleaning charms and a charm to mend a few scuffs and tears in both.

Eventually, Healer McAvoy drops the privacy charm, having returned the lad's clothes to normal. “This young man was certainly put through the ringer,” he remarks, voice layered with a charming Irish accent. “The top priority is recovery from severe magical exhaustion. He was also hit with some sort of nerve-killing curse that may cause permanent nerve damage in his left arm. I have healed the majority of a severe concussion, and he may still suffer headaches, dizziness, and confusion for the next few days. I also took care of the lacerations along his arms and scalp, although I am unsure as to the cause of the bleeding in the mark above his eye, as it is a very old scar.” He gestures to a mark on his chest that is barely visible currently with Albus sitting at a distance. “That injury is fairly new and mildly perplexing, hastily healed, and I sensed a connection stemming from it to his wand. Without knowing the story behind it, I can only presume he feared being disarmed and bound his wand to him with magic. Again, this is only speculation.

“It is obvious he was in an attack of some kind. On top of the injury to his arm, the rest of his nervous system is frayed, like it has been subjected to electrocution. His blood cells are also reacting sluggishly, which could be from the same curse or a separate one. This means his immune system is compromised and will be quite vulnerable for an unknown amount of time. He is underweight and shows signs of an ongoing recovery from childhood neglect and starvation.”

Healer McAvoy gently lifts Harry's right arm, tilting it to show Severus something on the hand. “These scars were carved into him repeatedly, suggesting torture from a Blood Quill, and due to the frequency, Dark Magic still remains under the surface of his skin.” He puts Harry's arm down carefully and gives the boy's head a gentle pat. “I estimate he is about twenty-two to twenty-four years old, and he is thus far Unbonded to a soulmate.”

“So, in conclusion,” the man says as he stands straight and tall, “this young man requires no less than ten days of rest and food and several potions that I imagine our dear Potions Master can provide. He will need an Immunity Booster, a Cleansing Potion for the dispelling of the Dark Magic in his hand, Nerve Repair elixir, and a nutrient potion to help with the Immunity Booster.”

“A pain potion and a sling would likely benefit his injured arm, as the muscles and joint of his shoulder will become strained with the inability to move them properly. However, he will still need to exercise his shoulder so the joint doesn't freeze up. Even though the curse was a nerve-killer, it only did so in a sense that the arm is unable to respond to the majority of commands from the brain. He will still be able to feel pain, which will likely be on the severe side of moderate.” He looks around the room. “Will anyone be providing the young man lodgings?”

“He will come with us,” Fleamont announces firmly. Although Albus is unsure of the wisdom behind the decision, no one else has the heart to deny the man the right to house his grandson from a different universe.

“Very good,” the Healer says with a nod. “If you need me, please contact me through Mr. Gaunt.” He bows, accepting Tom's thanks graciously as he heads toward the door before taking his leave.

The room is quiet for a few moments. Lily and James can no longer contain themselves, and they rush over to the other side of the room. They kneel beside the resting Wizard, and Albus feels his chest ache with sympathy and regret as they fawn over him, their fingers almost too delicate in their touches, as though afraid he'd disappear before their eyes.

“Albus,” Gellert urges softly, thumb rubbing his hand to get his attention. “How did young Potter survive the Killing Curse?”

“Ah, yes.” He clears his throat, aware of the eyes on his form. “I must iterate that this is very sensitive information. We must not let what I am about to tell you get into the wrong hands. You all are my most trusted friends, but these are this young man's secrets. We must not endanger him by leaking them.”

“No one here will do anything of the sort, Albus,” Abraxas says, both hands on the pommel of his cane as he leans on it. “We all know a thing or two on secrecy. Young Potter shall not come to harm due to waggling tongues.”

The rest of those in attendance all nod their heads, and a rush of magic, like a warm breeze that coils around their torsos, swirls around the room, surprising everyone but Tom Gaunt. He inclines his head, acknowledging their concern. “It's an enchantment I set in the walls. Promises made of this level of importance are reinforced by the magic. Not as strong as an Unbreakable, but there is a level of intestinal discomfort that will make one's life miserable for a month should a vow be broken,” Tom explains unapologetically.

More confident and at peace, Albus decides to reveal the knowledge he holds with the promise of magical retribution on anyone who broke the verbal oath. “Throughout the course of young Harry's life,” he begins, “he has gone through many trials in the effort to defeat a Dark Lord that had become obsessed with attempting to kill him. In the process, he acquired all three Deathly Hallows. The Resurrection stone hidden within the first Golden Snitch he captured in Quidditch, the Cloak of Invisibility as a gift from my persona in his world after James had left it in my care, and the Elder Wand in a duel.

“He survived the Killing Curse twice.” Albus pauses and waves his hand for the room's occupants to calm down before he could continue, their voices loud in their disbelief and horror. “The first time had been when the Dark Lord threw the Killing Curse at him and dear Lily, who refused to stand down and stood between. She fell, and her soul protected Harry, causing the curse to rebound and slay the Dark Lord instead. The man was a wraith for years after, and because he was forced from his mortal form, a piece broke off and attached to Harry's scar as a Horcrux, fueled by the accidental ritual with Lily's sacrifice. The Resurrection Stone was in his hand right up until the Killing Curse struck him for the second time in his life. Possessing all three Hallows means that he is the Master of Death, aptly named the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice by the Wizarding World of his universe.”

He gestures to the wand still clutched in Harry's grasp even in sleep. “Harry put the wand he used to defeat the Dark Lord in my tomb, as it had been mine for many years before it was stolen; he believed no one should have that much power. However, it would seem the Elder Wand from his world did not agree. It appears that the wand, which I have always believed to be far more sentient than any normal wand could be, decided it would be with its rightful Master, and consumed Harry's original wand.”

Albus rises and moves forward, and Severus obligingly moves to the side for the older Wizard to kneel. He turns Harry's arm over and lifts where his fingers are still wrapped around his wand. A quiet buzz comes from it in warning, as if daring Dumbledore to attempt to separate them. “This wand has the feel of two cores,” he murmurs with a frown, feeling the duality resonating from the center of the wand. “The original Elder Wand was made with a thestral tail hair core and the wood of an elder tree, but this one seems to have assimilated Harry's holly wand, not just disposed of or consumed it.” Swirls of the pale wood of the holly almost glowed through the darker elder wood, making it seem more ethereal, and even in rest, there is an otherworldly awareness about that wand, an intelligence and vigilance, that Albus hasn't felt form his own or even from Gellert's Elder Wand.

Gellert steps forward curiously, towering over his crouched partner, and his Elder Wand makes an odd noise, like a chirp mixed with a bee's buzzing, and Harry's Elder-and-Holly responds similarly. “How curious,” Gellert murmurs, and Albus sees the light in his eyes from so long ago that both of them shared as children, that love for the mystery and intrigue for the legends of the Deathly Hallows and the power within the Elder Wand. “The Elder Wand was not satisfied being separated from or allowing another wand to serve it's Master. It consumed and combined its power and materials with the holly-and-phoenix-feather wand, and it's twined around the core and the wood to become stronger. Then it used Blood Magic to tie itself to Harry forevermore. That's where the wound from his chest likely came from.”

“Why didn't yours do that?” Lily wonders curiously, fingers stroking through Harry's tangled mess of curls, black as night, the wildness all from the Potter side of the family.

“Perhaps because once I achieved its loyalty, I never tried to separate from it,” Gellert replies thoughtfully. “We bonded, but I am not the Master of any other Hallows. Perhaps that is the true reason. The laws of magic are still a mystery to us in the end. We can only speculate at this juncture.”

Before anyone can say anything further, Harry shifts with a frown on his face, obviously in discomfort. Severus passes the boy's messenger bag to Fleamont, muttering that he had potions to make, obviously fueled by his sense of duty to Lily's son, though he promises Euphemia he will be by Potter Place once he had the first round of potions made for Harry. Fleamont and his wife stand back as Lily and James fawn over Harry, coaxing him back to wakefulness.

Groggy emerald eyes open, and they take a few moments to focus. He blinks blearily at Lily, who smiles at him tremulously. “Hi,” he whispers quietly, and Albus feels like he is witnessing something not meant for his eyes.

Gellert helps his husband up from the floor, brushing off his robes, and they both back up away from the Potters.

“Hello, darling boy,” Lily responds, her quivering voice full of joy and awe, dangerously close to breaking. “I've missed you.”

Harry's head rolls a little to look at James, who offers his own hesitant but happy grin, hand firm where it rests on the boy's leg. The young man swallows, licks his lips. “You're not mine, are you?” he inquires seriously, heartache shadowing the words.

“We can be, Harry.” Lily's voice is insistent, charged with love and desperation. “We want to be. We had our Harry for eleven years before we lost him. Let us be yours, Harry. We can be your family, I swear. We have so much love we want to give.”

The young Wizard is quiet, and his expression suggests he's trying to think long and hard about it, likely not wanting to make any rash decisions. Ultimately though, he struggles up into a sitting position, accepting help from Lily to get into the mostly upright position, and he painstakingly attempts to secure his wand in the holster inside his shirt sleeve. A frown creases his face in displeasure at the ill-fit, as the Elder Wand appears too long for it.

“There's no need to make important decisions right now, Harry,” James assures him, hand rubbing up and down on its place on the boy's thigh. “Let's get you up. We're going to take you to our home so you can rest in comfort.”

“Why?” Harry blinks in confusion, although he goes along with allowing them to help him stand easily enough.

“Would you rather a room at St. Mungo's?”

“I have my own house,” Harry protests, swaying on his feet. Now that he is standing, they can see the young man isn't particularly tall. In fact, he's shorter than Lily by several centimeters. Albus suspects it is a result from the neglect he suffered being raised by the Dursleys, as his father and grandfather were at least 180cm. Lily wraps her arm around him, and James stands at his other side so they could support him as he sways unsteadily.

“I live at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place,” Harry replies. “Sirius left it to me when he passed.” The thickness in his voice, the way he swallows, is a shadow of the grief the boy obviously still feels at this particular death.

“Number Twelve doesn't belong to me,” Sirius pipes up for the first time, pressed against Remus' side. “I haven't lived there since third year. My parents still live there though.”

Harry frowns. “So I don't have a home here... This makes no sense.” He puts his hand to his forehead, right at the scar, as though it hurts him.

They manage to coax him a few steps forward while he's distracted, all stumbling and unsteady awkwardness in his weakness. He pauses when he sees Fleamont and Euphemia, and his breath hitches. It's clear he knows who Fleamont, at the very least, is. The Potter genes are strong, and the men look like clones of each other with minor differences. Fleamont has deep brown eyes, but James has Euphemia's hazel, and his jawline is softer than his father's.

“I don't understand,” Harry whispers softly. His hand comes back up to his head, to that scar, and Albus wonders if he feels a reminiscent ache from the Horcrux that died long ago, like an echo.

“Hello Harry,” Fleamont and Euphemia greet together, the older Witch clasping her hands while her husband continues to clutch the messenger bag. “We're your grandparents,” Euphemia continues. “You grew up in another world, and you grew up so beautiful.” She takes a few steps toward him, carefully, arms half-lifted and reaching for him.

“Another world?” the younger Wizard squeaks, startled, eyes wide like a frightened deer's, and he likely would have staggered if not for James' and Lily's hold on him. “What do you mean, another world?”

Albus sighs, wishing the grandparents had waited until Harry had had more time to rest before they dropped more bombs on him. He steps forward and doesn't miss how Harry turns to him so trustingly, even after all the secrets the other him had kept, the harm he had allowed to happen and had either neglected or failed to protect this poor boy. To the very end, Harry had loved and respected the Dumbledore of his world.

“Dear boy,” he beckons quietly, and Harry stumbles over to stand as close as he dares. Albus takes a breath, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder. “The magics that surrounded you on the Hogwarts school grounds created a wormhole and threw you across countless dimensions until you landed here in my world. In our world, none of us died. Our Dark Lord was killed many years ago, and it was not Gellert or Voldemort. Our Harry Potter was murdered by the Dursleys when he had just turned eleven years old.” He cups the side of Harry's face, gazing into wide green eyes with his own kind blue. “Darling boy, we are happy to see you, but you are not ours.” He closes his eyes against the agony deep in those green orbs, emerald hues that have seen and known too much pain for such a short life.

“That is not to say that we do not accept you,” Gellert steps in, coming the few steps forward to stand beside Albus. “If you allow us, we would love you just as much as we did our Harry, who was taken from us too soon. Your parents and grandparents, and Sirius, would do anything for the opportunity, even if you are not technically ours.”

“You could become ours, Bambi,” Sirius whispers vehemently, looking like he wants to crowd into the boy's space.

“I always hated that nickname,” James grumbles, and even though it likely isn't the intention, it seems to startle a laugh out of Harry, who had started to look shell-shocked but now has a crinkle of delight creasing his face.

“Sirius always said you did,” Harry gasps, wiping his face. “Mum did, too, because she was afraid you all would be upset if I had an Animagus form completely different from what you expected, and I wouldn't be Bambi anymore.”

“You'd always be Bambi, even if you were a slug Animagus, just for the fact that you're James' offspring,” Regulus says with a smile, Sirius nodding enthusiastically.

“And because it bothers James so much,” Remus murmurs conspiratorially, to which James squawks in outrage.

“You have a place here with us if you want it, Harry,” James speaks up after a moment, turning his attention from his “traitorous” friends. He takes the few strides needed to cross the short distance, and he turns Harry into a firm hug, gathering his son's smaller form against his. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to the top of Harry's head. Harry hesitates a few breaths in before bringing his arm up to return the embrace, the left arm hanging limply.

“I think an important point that needs to be addressed is that decisions do not need to be made right now,” Tom interjects calmly, the first thing he's said in quite a while, and Abraxas has been a silent observer for the majority of the evening as well. “A major series of events have occurred for all of us, although there are certainly different perspectives and reactions all around. The most important course of action at the moment is as my Healer stated; Mr. Potter has quite a few injuries he needs to recover from, and it would be best for him to stay with his family, regardless of which world they are, or he is, from, or to recover in St. Mungo's. The rest should be put on the back burner, at least for the next few days.”

“Quite right, Tom, my boy, thank you,” Albus chirps with a grin, to which Tom nods. “We will see you again, Harry, rest assured. Go with the Potters so you may heal. I think we should all vacate in any event. I'm sure Tom would like to have his home to himself again.”

A few people chuckle halfheartedly. Harry still looks a little unsure, but what little energy he has is quickly flagging. He goes along with James, whose arms remain completely around him until they make it to Lily. Lily spends some time fussing with putting on the cloak that has suffered a bit in his trip literally through the house, wanting him to be appropriately dressed. Then she pulls out her wand to cast a Warming Charm, but it startles Harry, who has far too much experience with strangers pulling wands on him with the intent to harm.

He flinches and stumbles back on instinct, but he trips and starts to fall with an aborted shout.

Tom is quick to step forward, and he catches Harry before the younger man can land on the floor and possibly re-injure himself.

A bright white light flashes between them, and a burst of gold glitter plumes around their heads. Their eyes blow wide in surprise, and Tom clutches Harry tighter as the light and golden starlight refuses to fade. Lily's hands fly up to cover her mouth, and the whole of the room stares on in wonder.

What strength Harry had drops away. His legs give out, and Tom controls their descent to the floor with Harry's dead weight. He turns the smaller Wizard around so their eyes can meet, and though Albus wants to give them privacy, he and the others are unable to look away, bearing witness to their Meeting. Tom cups Harry's cheek in his palm tenderly, starlight falling down from the new contact. His storm-gray eyes stare into Harry's impossibly large, awestruck emerald ones.

“We're soulmates,” he whispers, and the sheer joy and wonder in his voice reminds those here who are Bonded of their own Meetings. “I've finally met you. You're here.”

Harry appears speechless. All he can do is stare and nod, his good hand clinging to the wrist of the hand holding his face, the other hand twisting fingers in the fabric of Tom's burgundy robes. Tom lets out a soft breath that is almost a breathless laugh, and he tugs Harry close for a heartfelt embrace, tucking Harry's head under his chin. His eyes close, face serene in a way no one has ever seen him, and Harry relaxes into the hold for the first time they've met him.

Then a little more, and Tom makes a soft huff of surprise. “He fainted,” he says quietly.

“Not at all surprising, really, with all he's been through tonight,” Euphemia remarks.

“Would you mind if I accompanied you to your home, Lady Potter?” Tom inquires, eyes on the older woman. “I would like to hold him a little longer.” He adjusts his grip on the younger Wizard carefully.

“We have known each other long enough to be on a first name basis,” the grandmother says as Fleamont fusses over her cloak. “Call me Euphemia. You are more than welcome to join us. You are part of the family now, yes?” Her smile is soft and maybe a little teary.

James comes around behind Tom and helps him to his feet so he doesn't have to set Harry down. Tom scoops his arm under Harry's legs, carrying him bridal-style, and he holds still as a house elf pops in to fasten a cloak to him. Albus and Gellert agree to lock up his home as he and the Potters head out into the snowy night.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Hello everyone. I am fully aware of just how long it has been since I updated this fic. I truly apologize. I have had a lot of medical issues come up, and in between those, I have had several family issues make themselves known. Hopefully chapter three and possibly four doesn't take as long to get written up and uploaded lol

Anyway, I sincerely hope you all enjoy this update. It's a bit shorter than the first chapter. Again, this has been betaed by the lovely Dvoid Dubs!

Tom cannot believe his good fortune. After 21 years of waiting and searching from the moment he learned of the existence of soulmates, his own almost literally fell into his lap—he'd only missed by a meter or so, really. From a different dimension, even. The concept alone is mind-boggling.

And Harry is beautiful. Wild black curls that seem to have a mind of their own, completely at odds with Tom's own controlled waves. Eyes the color of the purest emeralds, not at all less extraordinary with the shadows of past horrors flitting within their depths. Little scars and calluses mark his arms and hands, speaking of a harder life than the average Witch or Wizard his age, and according to Mrs. Potter, his chest and legs have additional marks, although none seem to have been particularly severe. Tanned skin glows with health, despite the pallor in his face the past few days as Harry recovers from mental and physical exhaustion.

The Potters and their house elves are nearly beside themselves as they care for the young Wizard dumped here by the calamity of magics and Fate. The house elves had rejoiced when they'd seen Tom striding into the house with Harry cradled in his arms, head nestled against his neck, soft breaths puffing over his skin. Daisy, Harry's personal house elf, had broken down in tears upon seeing him, and she babbled for hours even as she tended to all of his needs. She had taken the loss of eleven-year-old Harry just as hard as his parents and reportedly could only soothe herself by helping the other Potter children, coddling them ofttimes. The little elf has thus far checked on Harry every hour, constantly tending to him like a mother does her sick infant. She bathes him with Lily, uses the awesome power house elves possess to safely magic food and water, and the potions Severus provides, into his stomach. Daisy even trims the split ends from his hair.

It has to be Fate. Nothing else makes sense for people from completely different dimensions to be matched perfectly to the basest levels. Harry was meant to come here, and the Potters devote themselves to that notion with an almost obsessive devotion. This Harry is their Harry now, and Tom wholeheartedly agrees.

Following the manifestation of their bond, Euphemia extends an open invitation to Tom Gaunt so he may visit and help tend to his young soulmate while Harry rests under their care. He takes full advantage, visiting Harry in the morning before he goes in to the apothecary he and Severus owned together, Prince and Gaunt Tinctures and Tonics. He returns after ten-plus hours, sometimes with his business partner and friend. He brings Nagini to see his soulmate, supporting the half-grown serpent as she stretches her neck out to flicker her tongue over the younger Wizard, tasting his skin and his magic; she whispers updates of his recovering magical core, commenting on the strength thrumming through him even in his weakened condition. He can't help the smile when she whispers her approval. Her disapproval wouldn't have changed anything, but it matters to him emotionally.

The evenings often end with Tom joining the Potters for dinner. He kisses Harry's cheek goodnight each night before reluctantly returning home.

For nine nights, Harry sleeps, and the people who love him diligently care after him, preparing for when his body rouses from his rejuvenating slumber.

On the tenth day, Severus and Tom decide to close the shop for the day so Severus could spend the day with his ailing mother and Tom could spend more time with the Potters. He stops over just before midday and brings Nagini along, keeping her warm under his Charmed cloak. He carries a new cloak under his arm, a gift for his soulmate, one made with fabric from magical creatures that live in the Arctic with fur designed to withstand the subzero temperatures, royal blue in color with the hem, collar, and hood lined in tawny rabbit fur purely for cosmetic purposes. He would have brought Harry far more gifts, but he knows the younger man will be overwhelmed with enough as it is when he eventually wakes up.

As soon as he enters Potter Place, Nagini drops from around his torso and shoulders to slither in what he can only assume is her chosen path to Harry's room. Tom calls after her in Parseltongue, warning her not to attempt to eat anyone or anything. He doesn't think she'd follow through, but she often jokes or alludes to eating small creatures regardless of their importance or sentimental value to anyone other than Tom. The magically bred boa-like viper hisses something noncommittal in reply and disappears from sight.

Tom checks in with Lady Potter, who insists he call her Euphemia, but he just can't see himself doing so quite yet. He gives her Kneazle kitten a scratch under the chin before continuing on through the mansion toward Harry's room. Daisy pops into existence to take his cloak for him, apologizing for having not immediately tended to him upon his arrival. He waves it off and shifts his hold on the wrapped gift.

When he opens Harry's bedroom door, left agape from Nagini's entry, he doesn't expect to find Nagini reared up on her coils and held at wandpoint.

Harry's awake, sleep crusted at the corners of his eyes, dark circles under them, and hair completely wild with his pajamas rumpled. His hand shakes minutely as he trains his wand on Nagini, emerald eyes frightened, haunted. Tom goes still, heart rapid with worry, and he prepares to twist his wrist just so, so the action will drop his yew wand into his hand from its holster. He opens his mouth to call out to Harry, but it stays hanging when he hears what comes next.

“What are you doing here, Nagini?” Harry demands, in Parseltongue, drawing his legs up towards his body defensively.

“I am visiting my human's mate,” Nagini replies while Tom watches in stunned silence. She sways, watching the wand pointed at her, but she doesn't appear particularly upset or defensive, just wary.

“You're a Parselmouth,” Tom murmurs in wonder, eyes tracing over Harry's face in reverent awe, even as Harry flinches and switches to pointing his wand at him. Nagini tenses her body, ready to strike to defend her human.

“Where am I?” the younger Wizard demands, trying to keep his eye on Nagini and Tom at the same time, on the verge of panic.

“You're in your grandparents' house,” Tom replies patiently, trying not to stare too hard at the Elder-Holly wand or Harry's face.

“My grandparents are dead,” Harry snaps bluntly, like someone who never had parents or grandparents to mourn. Tom can relate.

“I understand you likely have some memory gaps.” He tries to keep his voice level and calm, hoping to soothe his anxious soulmate. “You did fall through several layers of my house and land with a concussion, among other injuries. Do you remember?”

Harry's face says creased in a disconcerted frown, but after a few moments, he nods. Then it seems that more memories come to him, and he blushes, dropping his arm a bit. Nagini relaxes her posture, and Harry continues to watch her warily.

“She won't hurt you, my own,” Tom promises, moving a little closer. He's absently aware he should call a house elf or one of the Potters to let them know Harry has awakened, but he's a little selfish and wants a little bit of time with him to himself, even if it's spent proving to Harry that he and his snake mean him no harm.

“She was...much larger...where I come from,” Harry says a little stiltedly after a while. “And you both were a lot meaner.”

The way he says it, how the words tremble in the air between suggests that they are a severe understatement, belying a deeper trauma than Tom wants to think about. He takes the steps necessary to bring him to the chair that he or the other Potters have used to tend to Harry's bedside. He sits, watching the younger man release his Elder-Holly Wand, although it is still out and within easy reach. Nagini slithers her way over to Tom, careful in her movements, aware that her human's mate is confused and frightened at the moment. Harry shudders, clearly uneasy. With his snake twined around his shoulders and chest, Tom reaches out and places his gift next to Harry's legs. “I got this for you, my soulmate. I hope you like it.” He offers a smile he knows is soft and a little hesitant, the one he used to use to charm older ladies into his favor or young partners into joining him for brief nights of passion.

“Oh, um. I don't. I don't have anything for you,” Harry says, eyes wide, body language embarrassed. He fidgets a little nervously, fingers twitching toward the silver-and-blue gift with curiosity.

“That's all right. I didn't expect anything in return, except maybe your smile.” Tom broadens his own into something more genuine, and although Harry's answering one is small and shy, it warms Tom to see it anyway. “Go ahead and open it, love. I'll have to summon your family soon, but I want to see you open your gift before I do.”

Harry waits a minute, watching Tom, but all he does is sit patiently, fingers stroking over Nagini gently absentmindedly. Then he drags the package into his lap, picking at the paper one-handed. His eyes widen in wonder as he folds the paper away, mouth slightly open with wonder as his hands skim over the soft but sturdy fabric of the winter cloak, petting the downy fur. Tom guesses Harry has an appreciation for textures, judging by the way he continuously switches between stroking the fur and the fabric, and makes a mental note to test the theory later. He wants to learn everything about Harry. The sparkle in his pretty green eyes is enough reason to pursue such ambitions.

“Thank you,” Harry whispers, still a little awkward but clearly pleased. “It's beautiful.”

“You're welcome,” Tom replies, expression soft. He reaches out to brush his fingers over the back of Harry's hand, and they both make a noise at the resulting warmth that spreads from the contact, like ocean waves washing over a sandy shore. Tom switches to scooping the hand up and pressing a kiss to the palm, his heart warm with affection. “I'll call the family in.”

“All right.” Harry bites his lip, eyes flicking to the door behind Tom. He pulls his hand away, using it to shuffle into a straighter sitting position, pillows at his back propping him up, and places his wand in his lap atop the folded cloak.

“Daisy!” Tom calls once Harry seems ready enough. An instant later, the house elf pops in and opens her mouth to ask Tom what he needs, but then she sees Harry and immediately starts babbling excitedly, tears in her eyes.

“Master Harry Potter is being awake! Daisy is being so happy! Daisy missed Harry Potter, yes yes, little baby Master Harry Potter is being all grown up and home and safe!” She hops onto the bed and stands beside him, patting his face with gentle fingers while Harry stares wide-eyed, speechless. It doesn't deter her, however, as she switches into her devoted matron mode. “Daisy will brings Master Harry Potter favorite foods. Master is being too skinny! Daisy must be making him plumper, yes.”

“Daisy, please let his parents know he is awake before you get too engrossed in the kitchen,” Tom requests kindly.

“Yes, yes, Master Tom Gaunt, yes yes. Masters and Mistresses Potters must be seeing Master Harry!” She nods her head, ears flapping wildly, and she disappears.

“Um. I don't think I've ever met her,” Harry remarks after stunned silence.

“Likely not, just based off the little bit Albus told us from the memories you forced him to see,” Tom replies gently. Nagini stretches herself towards the bed, and this time Harry just watches her. “He implied you are the only living Potter in your dimension, which would suggest that even the house elves were not there to tend you.”

“No. I was raised by my aunt and uncle after Mum and Dad died,” the younger male confirms.

“Daisy was your assigned house elf,” Tom tells him. He quirks his lips as Nagini cautiously slithers closer, intent on getting Harry to like her. “She mourned you for years when you disappeared.”

“It's weird when you make it sound like I've been long dead when I just came from a different world,” the young Potter says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I can see that,” Tom nods, resisting the urge to touch Harry, anywhere and everywhere, wherever he would let him. “At the same time, it's a little odd to refer to you or the original Harry as 'the other Harry.' Especially since you are my Harry.” This time Harry appears dazzled by Tom's smile, and he allows his hand to be clasped in long fingers.

That is the end of their time alone for a while. Lily and James Potter stampede in to start fawning over Harry, who appears overwhelmed and struggling to understand what is happening. Tom sits back and observes, catching every reaction and nuance. It is clear he's not quite used to so much tactile affection, at least not all at once. Lily is constantly touching his face, shoulders, and hair, and James has taken to trying to work Harry's injured, limp arm in a series of exercises Healer McAvoy had led them through. All the while they talk, chattering away about how happy they are even if Harry isn't the one they birthed and raised, that he's welcome here as long as he wants to be, how they'd love to integrate him as an official family member, that they'd support him and learn to love him as his own person and not a shadow of their true son.

In the middle of it all, Daisy brings a tray of food, a light meal of chicken and broth, toast, fruit, juice, and water. She insists on helping to balance the tray on his lap since he only has one working arm, and she nearly bursts into tears again when Harry warmly thanks her.

Lady and Lord Potter—Fleamont and Euphemia—come to Harry's room not long after Daisy, and Lily and James obligingly move aside so the grandparents can officially introduce themselves and do their own fawning. Harry admits that he's never met his grandparents from either side, that aside from what was in the vault James and Lily had left him, everything of the Potters' had been destroyed, stolen, or lost. It prompts Fleamont to promise to introduce Harry to their lineage, and Lily to promise to introduce him to the less awful members of her side of the family.

Also, by the time he has reached the middle of his meal, Nagini has coiled herself around him, head on his shoulder, and Harry seems to have accepted it as something he'll just have to get used to.

“It helps that she's smaller than when I met her in my world,” Harry says to Tom later, carefully touching her scales. “You also were a lot older, too.”

“How much older?” Tom asks, curious. By then, everyone has calmed down and moved away from Harry so they aren't crowding him. He's sprawled out on the bed more comfortably with Lily and James perched at the foot of the bed, Lord and Lady Potter resting comfortably in two other chairs. Harry looks like his energy is waning, which isn't all that surprising when he's just awoken from a ten-day coma.

“You were 72 when you died. I was just shy of 17,” Harry replies carefully, like he's holding something back.

Tom winces. He had not thought his alter-self could have been too far off from as he is now, but he was over 50 years older than Harry! But clearly the Tom of Harry's dimension had not been comparable, as Harry had not bonded to him. He'd bonded to Tom Gaunt of this realm, so clearly this world is superior! “Did I at least age well?” Tom asks, trying to bring some lightness to the conversation.

Of course it backfires on him when Harry shakes his head. “To be fair, it was more a result of some bad choices than genetics,” he adds, fingers plucking at the blanket over his legs. “If that helps.”

“I'm not sure that it does. Not unless I don't make the same mistakes,” Tom muses, fingers tapping his legs.

Green eyes glance briefly at the other people in the room, then land back on Tom, flickering quick like an insect's wing, barely noticeable unless someone is watching like Tom is. The implication is clear: he'd like to not talk about it right now, in front of the Potters. That's just fine with Tom. It only means that he can have Harry all to himself again in the near future. Not that he doesn't want Harry to be around his family, but he craves the privacy, to have all of Harry's attention on him. Maybe that makes him selfish, but he thinks he has a right to be.

Although involuntarily, the younger Wizard makes it easy to deflect; he leans back against the pillows and headboard with a sigh that turns into a yawn. He's very clearly drooping now, eyes struggling to stay open as his energy wans.

Ever the attentive grandmother, Euphemia decides it is time for Harry to return to his rest and hustles the family out the door with kisses and soft pats to his hair and arms. Before leaving, Euphemia levels a firm look on Tom, and he knows he is being urged to leave as well. He inclines his head, and she retreats, closing the door.

Tom stands after a moment and moves over to the bed. He helps Harry to wiggle down into a more comfortable position. He bends over him for a moment, breathing softly, giving Harry plenty of time to pull away, and then presses a gentle, lingering kiss to the other man's mouth. Harry sighs into his mouth and lightly presses back with his own. After a moment, he pulls back, licking his lips to chase the taste of his soulmate.

“Go to sleep, dearest,” he whispers, stroking his cheek. “I will see you again soon.” He doesn't leave the room until Harry has fallen firmly under the pull of slumber. There will be plenty of time later to learn all he wants from Harry.

 

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 

After a day or two of alternating between sleeping, reading, and eating, Harry decides he's had enough of smelling himself. Though it is humiliating, he asks Daisy to help him bathe. The little house elf, who seems young by house elf standards, especially compared to Kreacher, gladly draws a steaming bath with scented bath oils she tells him will help with his tiredness and the pain he feels in his limp arm. He can do most of it himself, but his hair is a challenge, so Daisy diligently scrubs shampoo, then conditioner, through the strands. She also trims the ends while he soaks in the medicated warmth. When he is ready to come out, she helps him dry off and get dressed in comfortable trousers, a jumper, and socks.

He never thought taking a bath or shower would take so much energy, but he ends up napping afterwards.

Meals are his favorite times, always spent with one or more of his family. He knows they aren't his, but it's so easy to be with them. Despite the nostalgia for times and love he never felt, becoming part of this dimension's Potter family is as easy as breathing.

He will never admit it out loud, but he thinks Euphemia is his favorite out of all the Potters.

She is the most tactile, the most expressive in her affection for her only grandson. His parents clearly love him, but there is a disconnect, a clear longing for the eleven-year-old they lost and he for the parents he's only ever known through stories and photos. Euphemia acts as though there is none of that. As if he had just been on an extended trip away from them. She asks about his life, expresses concern and interest, offers advice or her opinion on any given subject. She has developed the habit of combing her fingers through his hair, which more often than not sends him to sleep. She's compassionate, protective, and she prefers that he call her Nana, despite how his cousins, who attempt to visit their long-lost cousin in support of his arrival, tell him it is more proper for Lady Potter to be addressed as Grandmother.

“Our Harry was the only one who has ever called any of us more improper names,” Great-Aunt Dorea says during her visit when he is awake. “Euphemia adored it. She would fight anyone if they tried to stamp out Harry's uniqueness. 'There's far too much propriety and stuffiness in this world,' she would say. 'I will carry the name Nana with pride, for it is my grandson that matters in our relationship, not the views of outsiders who can't fathom it.'”

Harry vows to stay true to it. Mum and Dad, Nana, and if Fleamont doesn't mind it, Granddad.

Sirius visits him frequently, with Remus or his brother Regulus, who Harry had never met in his world. In this one, the brothers are close, even holding hands or clinging to each others' robes, as though afraid one or the other will disappear if they let go for long. There is history there, one that Harry isn't sure he wants to know. Remus is Sirius' soulmate here, too, and it makes him happy to know that they are happy here, able to be together without the trauma or the years apart. Remus isn't a werewolf, but his father had been. He'd taken the bite while saving his son, had survived years without treatment, and Remus made it his life's mission to fight for rights for Magical Creatures to honor his deceased parent.

Severus is Lily's platonic soulmate and a far kinder man in this universe, as he had not suffered the many traumas Snape had. Of course, Lily had been a force to be reckoned with, a Ravenclaw that could not abide bullying, and though they still don't necessarily like each other, James and Severus came to a mutual understanding and called truce, as much out of self-preservation as it was to keep their Lily happy. Eleven-year-old Harry had apparently called Severus Uncle Sev.

Tom...Tom is enchanting. He is Tom Riddle in very few ways. He is every bit as attractive as Tom Riddle before his unfortunate mutated transformation, but he is broader in shoulder with a softness to his face that speaks of compassion and health. His eyes aren't Tom Riddle's dark brown or Voldemort's eerie crimson; they are a dark gray, like storm clouds, passionate and capable of thunderous power and emotion if provoked. Wickedly intelligent, breathtakingly gorgeous, he's charismatic and gentle without appearing weak or fake.

His name is Thomas Gaunt, not Tom Riddle.

On a day where Harry is feeling more energetic, and Healer McAvoy-call-me-Emerus tells him he is cleared for non-strenuous activities, he takes a walk through Godric's Hollow, the town basically owned by the Potters, what with how many of them reside there outside of Potter Place at the furthest reach of its borders. He starts asking around about available houses he could purchase because as much as he likes living in Potter Place, he wants his own space to come home to.

He knows he should've been more upset with not being able to go back to his home, his world. He knows he should be researching and keeping himself distant, not getting attached to the people here, no matter who or how nice they are. He shouldn't be settling into life and looking for a permanent residence or trying to plan a future. He shouldn't be agreeing to hang out with his godfather or babysitting little cousins, shouldn't be looking for a job, shouldn't be planning on getting an owl or registering at the Ministry or getting new clothes or allowing Fleamont to reactivate the vault at Gringotts he'd set up for this world's Harry when he was born so that Harry doesn't have to start from scratch.

But Harry is happy here. All he's ever wanted was a family, and now he can have one. He can be a part of a family and have his soulmate and make a life for himself. He knows he will be missed in his first world, and he feels bad about that, but he knows they will all be okay without him. He hopes someone will take care of Kreacher and Teddy for him. The old elf likely won't deal well with the loss of yet another master, and poor Teddy will need someone to be there if anything happens to Andromeda. He hopes Molly will take the boy in.

Tom finds him on his way back to Potter Place, and he has a charming smile at the ready for him. He reaches out as if to hold Harry's hand, and Harry reaches out to meet him halfway, feeling that tingling warmth as well as the curling affection in his chest as it settles protectively around Harry's heart, something he never felt with Ginny.

“I am pleased to see you feeling better,” Tom says, angling himself to walk beside Harry, fingers twining with Harry's.

“Yeah, I wanted to get out and walk around after being cooped up.” He brushes his thumb shyly across the back of Tom's hand. “It isn't very late, I'm surprised you aren't at the apothecary.”

“We don't open for Tuesdays,” Tom replies, bringing their clasped hands up to his mouth to kiss Harry's fingers, sending bashful heat flooding his ears. “I wanted to see if you'd like to join me for lunch at my home.”

Harry grins. “Yeah, sure. Do you think I could change?” He indicates his very casual attire—trousers and a jumper.

Tom runs a mock-critical but very appreciative eye over Harry. His lips quirk, and his fingers squeeze the slightest bit. “Perhaps we should fetch a cloak. The days are getting colder as they wan lately, and if feels as though it may snow again.”

“All right.” Harry walks with his soulmate back to Potter Place in amiable silence, soaking in each other's presence. Upon entering, Harry calls out for Daisy, who appears readily, and he hands her his collected materials—the newspapers and assorted ads—to be taken to his room and requests his cloak. She fetches it, the one Tom had purchased for him, ever the romantic meddler, and when she attempted to fasten it around his shoulders for him, Tom gently divests her of the task, tenderly fastening the garment while Harry fights down his blush, deep red like a beet.

Tom fusses briefly with the way the fur rests and frames his face and neck, then brushes the backs of his knuckles over Harry's blush-warm cheek. “Charming,” he teases fondly. He chuckles when Harry ducks his head a little, and his arm curls around Harry's shoulders.

“Daisy, let Nana know I'm spending the afternoon and possibly the evening with Tom,” Harry manages to say without stammering, heart fluttering with nerves.

“Yes, yes, Daisy will be doing this, yes, Master Harry,” Daisy chirps, nodding eagerly so her ears flap with her enthusiasm.

Tom takes him to the closest Apparation point, and Harry tamps down his instinctive hesitance at allowing anyone—even this version of Tom—to Side-Apparate him to locations unknown. They land on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, and Tom coils his arm around Harry's shoulders again, hugging him close, so close their hips constantly bump and rub as they walk down a winding path, almost to the treeline. In turn, mostly to make their embrace more comfortable, Harry slides his good arm around Tom's back, hand coming to rest on the taller man's waist above the opposite hip.

Tom's home is modest but beautiful, a nice size to allow for multiple guests while definitely not mansion-sized or overly opulent. Harry waits for Tom to key Harry into the wards, blushing as Tom explains how Harry tore through his wards as well as his house over two weeks ago—something Harry barely remembers, likely due to the head trauma. At least he sounds more impressed than angry at having had to put time and money into repairs. Now the wards will simply accept Harry rather than ripping and shredding like so much paper from Harry's formidable magic, and there would be no risk of his soulmate not being accepted into his home.

Tugging him along gently, the Potions Master guides Harry over the neat acreage of the property, indicating the greenhouse and the separate building he'd had built for his potions work and experiments. Heading inside with a promise to let the experimental wand maker investigate that particular building later, he takes them inside and leads Harry on a brief tour through his home as well, and Harry is charmed despite himself. He apologizes again for damaging his home upon his unexpected crash-landing arrival, but Tom dismisses it with a casual wave of his hand. Repairs had been easy enough, and “It gave me a reason to get a coffee table I actually like,” as it had been a housewarming gift from Albus he hadn't the lack of heart to toss.

“I even get to change the décor to something more pleasing because of it,” Tom adds with a playful wink. He sits Harry on the sofa, and a house elf immediately appears with a tray laden with tea and little fingerfoods for lunch. Tom picks a sandwich with sliced roast chicken and cheese, handing it to Harry with a smile.

Nagini comes to join them, delighted that Harry is here in her territory, and she coils herself around him in the snake equivalent of a hug. In turn, Harry strokes her scales as he eats, asking her about the day's adventures and if she is keeping Tom out of trouble, to which the man splutters mock-indignantly; she is the troublemaker out of the two of them, thank you very much!

“I was wondering if you would be more willing to tell me about my self from your world,” Tom says well after they'd eaten and more or less cuddle on the couch as they enjoyed tea and the warmth of the fireplace and each other's presence.

Harry blinks as he looks over at Tom and feels like he should have known this would come up. Tom is tenacious and curious, almost to a fault, and it was only natural to wonder about an alter ego if one is aware of such realities and phenomena.

Curling his legs up under him, he turns his body to more fully face Tom. Nagini shifts to allow the movement, though she has become lazy and warm with sleep. He takes a few moments to figure out how he wants to start, watching Tom's patient but unendingly curious expression.

“It's not a pleasant story,” he feels the need to warn.

“I had gathered that impression off of the little bit of information Albus shared when you shoved your memories at him,” Tom acknowledges. “I would still like to know, regardless.”

“As long as you're prepared...”

“Yes, please, Harry.”

The Boy-Who-Lived remains quiet for a few moments longer, eyes searching Tom's handsome face and pretty eyes for any indicators to the contrary. Finding none, he takes a steadying breath and braces himself for the telling of a story that isn't entirely his to tell.

“You were born in 1926 and the product of love potion-induced rape,” Harry begins, then pauses with a scowl of distaste, sourness spreading in his mouth. “He was. His mother dosed a Muggle. She died when he was born, left him on an orphanage stoop with the name Tom Marvolo Riddle before passing away.” Tom scrunches his nose in disdain, and Harry pauses, charmed by the cute gesture, although he'll keep the descriptor to himself for now.

“He was in Wool's Orphanage while the Muggles were at war with one another. It was speculated he could not feel love because of how he was conceived. He was smart, devastatingly so, and knew he was different even though he had no idea of the Wizarding World just yet, but he also had a distinct lack of emotional development, resorting to fits of cold, calculated rage and sometimes even murder, at first just of small animals, although I've noticed in the news it always seems to start there with psycho- and sociopaths.”

Harry is glad he had switched to using the pronoun “he”, as his Tom looks unsettles and infinitely more disturbed the more Harry speaks of his counterpart, only further proving exactly how unalike they are. He nudges Nagini and sends her to coil about Tom, sensing he may need the additional comfort. It is a hard story to tell, but it is also a hard tale to hear.

He tells Tom of some of the things Riddle had done in the orphanage, his tendencies to terrorize humans and animals alike, and a little of how he acted in school once Dumbledore had arrived to tell him of the Wizarding World. His depraved nature only worsened as the years went by, and not even learning of his true heritage improved anything. He nurtured a hatred so deep that he felt no remorse for those he harmed, although clearly brilliant enough to elude punishment, and he excelled in his classes and at performing magic.

Harry's soulmate becomes less and less enchanted as the retelling wears on. Harry isn't sure how it feels to hear that the you from a different dimension showed signs of insanity and evil even from an early age, but Harry knows it can't be pleasant or easy to digest. He wonders how many similarities there are between the two Toms that are making the experience worse on the one in front of him.

Then comes the stories on how Voldemort impacted Harry's life personally. This is far harder for him to choke out, as it means reliving past horrors and traumas in story form. It means telling Tom of his abuse and neglect, and how he'd had to dodge death so many times in his short life, only to end up sacrificing himself in the end to end the life of another.

It means telling his soulmate that in a different world, he turned into a horrific monster that did terrible things and caused the deaths of many innocent people, including Harry's parents. Including Dumbledore. Including Snape via Nagini's bite.

Including his own.

Tom—Thomas Marvolo Gaunt—looks sick to his stomach by the end, and he has Nagini coiled around him for comfort, to ground himself. Harry swallows back his regret and refrains from reaching out, instead curling into himself, subconsciously protecting himself from an emotional or verbal blow he's learned growing up as a pariah in some form or another. He wishes for his cloak to wrap up in, another barrier to shield himself.

“I am grateful that you are mine and not his,” Tom chokes out eventually, still horrified but also distressed by Harry's defensive posture. His stormy eyes latch onto Harry, as if afraid he'll disappear right in front of him.

Harry's laugh sounds painful even to his own ears. “Yeah. Me, too.”

After a moment, Tom reaches over to link fingers with Harry's. He gently tugs until Harry is snugged up against his side. Nagini shifts to wrap a coil around him, too, holding both of her distressed humans close. “My name is Thomas Marvolo Gaunt,” the older wizard whispers softly, fingers caressing Harry's wrist delicately as the faint flames flicker to the edges of their vision. “I was the result of rape, but it was my sire brutalizing my mother after leading her on to believe he loved her despite her...disfigurements. She passed away a few months after my birth, and my grandfather was not sane or able enough to care for an infant, so he sent me to an orphanage for magical children.”

So already, from the very start, Tom had had a different upbringing, one far more nurtured and less fraught with darkness. Harry nestles his head against Tom's neck, the numb hand twitching clumsily enough to caress Nagini's scales while his other squeezes Tom's, thumb stroking across the back of it. It's easy to sink into Tom's voice, letting him talk about his life in this world and allowing it to soothe the wounds made by the Tom-turned-Voldemort of his world.

“Minister Dumbledore had a foster program going for promising young Witches and Wizards, and based on my marks in primary school, I was eligible for the program,” Tom continued, voice low and steady. “Seeing the potential in me, he fostered me himself rather than housing me with one of the ten other families that volunteered for the program. After a year in the program, I started at Hogwarts, and then my uncle, Morfin Gaunt, reached out, claiming he'd never been informed of my existence and he wanted me to have contact to my lineage and all that comes with it. Uncle Morfin's lifestyle wasn't conducive to missing me, so I stayed in Dumbledore's custody, but I was able to stay in contact with Uncle, and he visited during hols and my birthday.

“Being in Minister Dumbledore's and Mr. Grindelwald's care afforded me the best tutors when I showed interest in experimental potions, and during a summer program, I bonded with Nagini. She has been a loyal companion since then, especially when my schoolmates shunned me for my gift with Parseltongue. The Minister, when he discovered the cruelty of my peers, he tracked down several renowned Parselmouths to hold a seminar at Hogwarts to spread awareness and put to rest the incorrect assumptions on the rare gift. I'm still in contact with them, and I participate in the annual seminars in the magical schools of Europe.

“On summer hols, Uncle sometimes would take me and Nagini traveling, and I was constantly on the lookout for you, even as I soaked up all the knowledge and sights,” Tom admits, stroking over Harry's arm, rousing him a little from the semi-trance he'd fallen into listening to the older man's soothing voice. His chest is warm with relief to know that even though it wasn't without its hardships, Tom had a much better upbringing and far less trauma and strife. Harry tilts his head, blushing a little to find those stormy eyes gazing down at him in adoration.

The older Wizard quirks a grin and continues in that smooth voice. “I found a love in experimental potions and bounced off the walls ecstatic when Severus, the greatest Potions Master in Europe, agreed to an apprenticeship with me straight out of Hogwarts. Grandfather passed and left me the family house, but I held no love for it, so aside from some of the heirlooms and the things he'd held onto after my mother passed, I left it to Uncle to handle. I used the inheritance moneywhat little there was, a graduation gift from Albus and Gellert, and my earnings from working at the shop to buy my own place. I wanted someplace fresh where happy memories would be made, untainted by the beginning of my life. And I wanted it to be a home you, whoever you may be, would want to come home to, when you were ready.”

“It's a lovely home,” Harry murmurs, touched to his core that someone would prepare to incorporate him into their life without having ever met him. Not knowing if they ever would meet him. The level of care and consideration for his wants and well-being is deeper than he ever experienced when he was in a relationship with Ginny, who had known him for years and should have known at least some of his wants and needs. He settles closer, more content than he has felt in a long while.

Tom's hand lifts to cup the side of Harry's face, tilting it so they are facing each other more fully. His thumb delicately brushes Harry's skin, tracing his cheekbone while the tips of long fingers curve around his jaw. Without any real thought, his lips part softly, which seems to invite the hand to shift so the thumb presses lightly to the plush bottom lip. A shiver dances down his spine, and he somehow manages to keep his breathing under control despite the shift in his emotions. This is the closest he's been to another human in a more-than-platonic fashion in a very long time, and Tom is stunningly gorgeous, astonishingly considerate, his skin soft and touch careful.

Harry can feel his lashes flutter and tremble, and he licks his lip without any real thought, tongue barely skimming Tom's thumb.

Heat flares in Tom's dark silver gaze, darkening them enticingly. “May I kiss you, Harry?” he asks in that chocolate smooth voice, low with emotion with a taste of rasp that hints at sweaty, passion-filled nights, the delicious burn and soreness of overworked muscles and lovebites, and reverent touches and soft kisses in the morning. The mere fact that the man asked for permission makes him ache and yearn, endlessly charmed and weak with the thought that he could be so cherished.

“Yes,” Harry whispers back, breath stuttering, barely able to find his own voice as his heart kicks up, skipping a few beats with dizzy anticipation.

Tom's smile is sweet, blindingly breathtaking, and then he bends to press their lips together.

Emerald eyes fall closed. The kiss is so achingly tender. Harry can taste their shared lunch still on their lips, but deeper than that is the tingle of Tom's magic, buzzing and swarming at the edge of his senses. Warmth floods his blood, and Harry sighs into the kiss, lips moving to meet and cling to Tom's in an almost chaste embrace. A soft mewl, an embarrassing noise to be sure, escapes him when Tom pulls back, but the other man only tilts their heads for a better angle and dives back in.

Harry brings his mobile hand up to cling to Tom's shirt, and he shifts to turn himself towards Tom more. A hand skims down his other arm, and their fingers link intimately. Harry leans closer still, wanting as much contact as he can get while his senses are consumed with the sensations of skin on skin, gentle but insistent pressure, mingling breath, and tingling magic. Fireworks flicker in his mind, sparked with the utter chemistry between them, a sensation he's never experienced before. He never knew things could be better than Ginny, his only other kiss with Cho a few years before the Weasley, and that one had been woefully dissatisfying. With Tom, everything feels crisp and tingly, yet warm and safe. He wants to roll in this feeling, wrap it around himself like a blanket.

Tom's arm drops to circle his waist, and Harry returns the motion by releasing his hold on Tom's shirt to life his arm and circle Tom's broad, strong shoulders. Their fingers remain linked. Harry vaguely registers that Nagini has left, vacating the space between the humans for better things while they sink into one another. Harry pulls back briefly to catch a full breath, and they share a smile when their eyes meet. Tom looks just as wrecked as Harry feels; eyes glazed with lust and pleasure, skin flushed, lips wet and a little swollen despite how truly superficial the kisses have remained thus far. He drinks it in, a sense of pride curling through his chest that he could have this effect on someone else. It doesn't take long for Harry to lean back in for more, met halfway by his soulmate's eager enthusiasm.

Harry shudders and presses as close as he can, tentatively touching his tongue to Tom's lip in a gesture of boldness he normally wouldn't express. Tom inhales deep and opens his mouth, tongue coming out to delicately slide against Harry's. A moan is shared between them. Their hands tighten around each other. Tom's hand slides under the hem of Harry's shirt, flattening warm and solid to the small of his back, caressing sensitive skin; Harry's fingers delve up into Tom's stylized curls, feeling the soft texture despite the likely expensive product holding it, the faint burst of fragrance from whatever shampoo he uses tickling his nostrils. Their tongues pass back and forth between each other's mouths, exploring and caressing, heedless of excess saliva dribbling from the corners of their mouths as they lose themselves in each other. Tom huffs a laugh when their noses bump awkwardly or when Harry's glasses nudge into his cheeks, but they dive in regardless, learning the best angles and pressure to satisfy and arouse both partners.

Everything around them melds together, a haze outside the press of lips, the slide of tongues and spit, warmth between their bodies and puffs of shared breaths, and the occasional clack of teeth as they learn what works best for both of them. It feels like they spend hours just kissing and swapping magic and saliva, as close as they can get while still clothed. Lust hovers on the edges, but only just, neither of them ready to take it further just yet. It becomes hard to remember where Harry ends and Tom begins. Eventually, though, they come up for air, to recoup.

Somehow they've ended up sprawled, Harry's legs spread and framing Tom's taller form. Tom gazes down at Harry, and Harry licks his lips, finding them swollen and sensitive. Their hands are still linked, amazingly. Tom's other arm holds him up from crushing the smaller man, and Harry's drifts down to rub circles into Tom's back. Tenderly, their foreheads touch.

Harry doesn't know what to say or do now. This is a level of intimacy he's never had with anyone, and in a way, he's grateful for it. He can still experience firsts with his soulmate, even if they're a little awkward. Maybe more shy than awkward, given that they're in the beginnings of their relationship. Harry adjusts his legs, carefully arranging them to curve around Tom's longer limbs while not pressing their hips together. Now that they're not focused on kissing and sucking out each other's souls from their mouths, he can feel the tightness in his trousers, aware of the new residency his blood has taken further south than normal. He blushes, embarrassed, hoping Tom either doesn't notice or will have the decency not to comment.

Tom's forehead shifts on his, and their noses brush gently. He lets out a small huff with his smile, deciding yes, it's shyness, not awkwardness, that he's feeling. He wants to hide away and snuggle in at the same time, unsure of what else to do now that they aren't liplocked.

“Hey,” Tom calls softly, breath ghosting over Harry's face. “Are you okay?”

Harry's stupid little heart flutters, touched at the concern Tom shows, which honestly should have just been the bare minimum but means the world to him all the same. “Yeah. Just...not used to being this close,” he responds a little bashfully. “Even when I was dating Ginny, this wasn't a common thing...”

Tom frown a little in confusion. “You dated?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah,” Harry responds nervously, feeling the mood taking a sudden plummet. “I didn't actually know about soulmates until a few months ago, to be honest.” He fidgets, anxious, worried about what Tom will think now that he knows Harry hadn't saved himself, regardless of why. His eyes aim to the side, too nervous and mildly ashamed to maintain eye contact.

“What do you mean you didn't know?” The older man's face is flabbergasted, voice incredulous, and he sits up, leaving Harry feeling bereft, even though their fingers remain entwined.

It is a little like emotional whiplash, going from the highest level of intimacy, excluding sex, to just holding hands. He's not sure how to handle it, how to process it without looking like an emotional mess. He struggles to sit up, drawing his legs away from Tom and to his own chest, though he can't bring himself to pull his hand away. Instinctively, he curls himself into a ball, protecting himself without any real thought.

“I was raised as a Muggle,” Harry mutters, a gentle reminder of his briefly mentioned upbringing. “Even though Aunt Petunia knew about magic and Wizards and Hogwarts and soulmates, she never told me about them. She wanted no parts of any of it, wanted a normal life with her Muggle husband and Muggle son. I don't even know why she kept me, because she certainly didn't want me. None of them did. I was given the bare minimum of care, didn't even get my own bedroom until my second year at Hogwarts because they were afraid of what would happen to them if someone found out that for the first ten years of my life with them, I lived in the cupboard under the stairs.”

He feels Tom's fingers squeeze his own, and the man shuffles a little closer. Harry's body shrinks a little more, eyes clenched shut, in defensive reflex. He feels cornered. He doesn't want to talk about this, feeling raw. He doesn't know why he started, but maybe if he rips off the rest of the bandaid, he won't have to go through it again. Just lay it to rest.

“So my guardians refused to tell me anything, even so far as to lie about how my parents died. Dumbledore, for all that he seemed to care for me, was more focused on keeping me alive so I could die at a specific time. It never occurred to any of my other friends that I wouldn't know what soulmates were, even though they had to show and teach me anything else involving magic and the Wizarding World's traditions and culture.” He sneers, rubs his arm over his face, glasses knocked askew. It still hurts that despite knowing him and his views on monogamy, loyalty, and love, they would be supportive of his relationship with Ginny that would only have ever been temporary.

Because when he found out, he felt violated. He felt robbed of something that should have been his. Something he never had a chance at.

“Harry...”

“After the war, while I was recovering, from having died and killed another man, Ginny asked to date,” Harry says before Tom can say anything more. Just get it done, get it over with. “I didn't know about soulmates. I didn't know I was just a placeholder. I never would have agreed. Never would have let people so close, close enough to touch, to try and trap me in something I had no idea about. People were always trying to grab me, and I never understood why until someone finally sat me down and told me, after a traumatic breakup with someone I had thought would be with me for me for the long-haul.”

Frustrated, he scrubs at his eyes where tears had started to fall. To make it worse, he can feel Tom's gaze on him, seeing the weakness, and he hiccups. Merlin, this is humiliating.

“Just like I have been all my life, I was another tool to be used,” Harry chokes out, his mobile hand shaking where it presses to the mouth still oversensitive from endless kisses. Merlin, he wishes he could go back to doing that. “I wasn't anything to her, and I lost most of my friends because they couldn't understand why I wasn't just happy for her. She had her fun, used me up, got what she always wanted, and I was left with nothing. I don't even know what I'm supposed to be doing in a real relationship because everything is tainted by Ginny.”

He's crying fully now, trembling, and he blubbers a little more about everything that had happened between then and now. Distress and tears blind him, and he doesn't know when Tom moves, but when he calms ages after, voice dying in his throat under the strain of his sobs, try to work himself out of hyperventilating and shaking his way to a full-blown panic attack, Harry's curled up in a ball still, only now he's in Tom's lap, enveloped by long, strong arms and braced against a broad chest. Plush lips are pressed to his temple, one hand in his forever messy hair and the other traveling over every inch of Harry's body it can reach. Tucked safely against Tom, he can feel the vibrations of words coming from the man's throat, but the ringing in his ears drowns it out.

“'M sorry, Tom,” Harry whimpers, turning his face into the safe-haven of the other man's neck. “I would have waited it I'd known. I would have waited!”

“No no, Harry, it's all right,” Tom murmurs urgently, tenderly, holding Harry tightly to him. “I didn't mean to make you feel bad or attacked, sweetheart, I wasn't accusing you. I was just surprised. I'm not upset with you, I promise. Hush, Harry, don't cry, it's all right.”

“I would have saved myself if I'd known,” Harry swears, wanting Tom to know without a doubt how loyal and faithful he is. He would have gladly pledged all of his firsts to this man if he'd only had the knowledge he should have been given, should have been taught and raised with. He would have waited forever if it meant he'd meet the other half of his soul.

“I believe you, Harry,” Tom promises, cupping his face so he could tilt it back. Their eyes meet again finally, and he tenderly kisses Harry's wet nose, thumb stroking away some of his tears. “It's all right, love. Just breath and calm down, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Eventually, Harry calms, although he's not sure if it's from Tom's steady demeanor and reassurances, or simply from exhausting himself throughout his breakdown. He buries his face in Tom's shoulder, shivering a bit, and the other man relaxes back onto the couch. He shifts them around so their legs sprawl and tangle together along the length of the furniture, and his arms cradle Harry as if he's something precious to be cherished and protected. Lips skim Harry's hair and temples, and he lets out a soft, trembling breath.

A house elf brings them refreshments, fretting over Harry and worrying about dehydration; Tom assures the creature he won't allow his soulmate to expire, all while holding a glass to Harry's lips for the younger Wizard to sip from. He almost snorts with amusement as he listens to Tom get a dressing down from a house elf and mumbles that he ought to be glad it isn't Daisy berating him.

“Merlin, love, perish the thought,” Tom agrees with a mock-serious expression. “We'll just relax here for a bit, and then we'll join your family for dinner, all right?”

Harry hums and nods, too tired to do much else. He nestles in his place, warm and comfortable, eyes closed. Tom whispers a gentle cleaning charm to dry Harry's face. He buries his face in Tom's shoulder and neck, sighing, as he drifts into a tired doze, trusting the older man to care for him while he rests.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Hello everyone. I am fully aware of just how long it has been since I updated this fic. I have basically resurrected this fic from the dead. I am so very grateful to everyone who has hung about waiting patiently for an update or sign of life. I don't know what struck me to write this, but after two and a half years, I think it's about time we finally tie up our loose ends!

This chapter is not yet beta-read. I'm going to resurrect my beta-reader later, but I really wanted to post this chapter. I will have a very very short epilogue typed up and posted within a week, and then LTCD will be finished in its entirety.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy, and if you see any major problems with this chapter, please let me know.

Harry finds a lovely two-story house located almost exactly in the middle between Potter Place and Gaunt Manor. It's not nearly as large as either residence, but it has plenty of bedrooms for if he ever wants guests, it is sufficiently rural enough for privacy, and it already has adequate furnishings so he doesn't have to purchase all new. He purchases the house with a portion of the money from the vault that James and Lily had set up for their Harry, and ever since it has simply sat and accrued interest; they insisted he make use of it.

He feels mildly guilty, but he figures that if he ever discovers a way to hop between dimensions without killing himself, he'll reimburse them for the money that he has in his original world. Otherwise, despite the mildly uneasy feeling he occasionally gets in his chest cavity, he sees no reason not to use the funds his family from another dimension is freely offering.

Besides, if he didn't accept it from James and Lily, he knows without a doubt his grandmother would have purchased the house with her own money, whether he consented or not, swooping in behind his back and buying it without an errant blink. Better to accept his deceased counterpart's funds than allow Nana to buy him a house. He still has trouble accepting help from this world's version of his family, but it's easier with his grandmother because he knows without a doubt that she loves him for him. She dotes on him on a level that he's only ever known with Molly Weasley, and not just because he's her grandson, different dimension or no—but because she loves him as an individual regardless. A Potter is a Potter, no matter their origins.

He borrows the Potters' house elves to prepare the new house and hosts a dinner in celebration, all of the Potters invited, along with Dumbledore and his husband, his godparents, Severus, and of course Tom. They all offer to lend or bequeath a house elf to him, but he gracefully declines. The house is well-tended for now, and he can always take an ad out to hire his own if he decides on it later.

Tom thinks it's cute and a little admirable that Harry likes to do menial chores and that he's not afraid to do the work. Harry doesn't have it in him to remind his soulmate that it stems from his magic-less Muggle upbringing.

He discovers that the Ollivander in this world had retired and passed on without leaving a successor behind, so for the past five years, students and adults have had to either make appointments with specialists or go to the shopping centers in other countries for new and/or first wands. Capitalizing on this need for wands in Great Britain's Wizarding World, Harry approaches Dumbledore for advice on how to get his certification without going through another apprenticeship in this world. Tom and Severus are the ones that come in clutch on this one, contacting a friend in Belgium that agrees to certify Harry if Harry can create a wand in his shop within a week that meets his specifications and the standard qualifications.

From there, Gellert helps him hire a reliable Wizarding Space contractor to build a shop in Diagon Alley, along with acquiring a business license. Granddad and Nana frivolously spend money on wand materials to stock his workshop, and he scolds them half-heartedly, more touched than angry but still putting in effort to make a point of letting them know he doesn't want them to do or buy everything for him. It falls on deaf ears. In fact, Lily and James provide leathers and tools, and Uncle Sev brings him some of the ingredients in the apothecary that can also be used for wand materials. Sirius and Remus help with furnishings for the shop, and Regulus sets up spellwork and wards to keep the shop safe free of charge.

He doesn't even try with Tom. He knows the man is going to dote on him, and he secretly craves it anyway. His family he can scold for coddling him, but with Tom, it just feels different. Like the things he does is in preparation for their lives together. Like anything he does and says is solely for Harry and not for any other self-serving reason, and not just because they're in a relationship. They're soulmates. It feels special when Tom gives him things, whether it's attention, time, or gifts. Pixies flutter in his stomach at just a glance from those storm cloud eyes.

All throughout these processes, Harry works on rehabilitating his damaged arm. He wonders if it will ever return to what it used to be, but if not, he at least can move it, and his fingers have almost regained full dexterity. Pain courses through it frequently, and occasionally it will go alarmingly numb, but it's far better than it was at the beginning of his recovery.

With the connections that he has with multiple prominent families and a friendship with the Minister, it takes no time for Harry's business to take off. He's grateful he had the foresight to work on creating at least twenty wands and twenty training wands before he actually opened his shop, mostly made of simple materials and common cores, because he soon has a plethora of orders and special requests to fill out. He makes it known that he will not have speedy creation times, given that he is mildly disabled with only partial use of his one arm, but the quality of his products will always be superb regardless.

Once a routine is set up at the shop, Harry is happy to see Tom change his lunch hour to match his so they can share their meals every day. Although seemingly small, its this little thing—one of many—that has Harry tumbling further in love with Tom. Additionally, he helps with the exercises and stretches Harry needs for the rehabilitation of his arm. They sneak kisses whenever they can. Tom is wonderfully and genuinely affectionate and supportive of Harry and his endeavors. His love and attention is like a soothing balm to Harry's bruised and battered heart, coaxing it to full health, slowly but surely.

Life evens out. A routine of sorts settles in. Harry slowly adjusts to life here in this world that is like his own in several ways, but not in many. And sure, he misses his world. Misses Ollivander and Luna and Neville and the Weasleys. Misses Hermione and his frequent visits with his old professors. He thinks he mourns the loss of Teddy in his life the most, and he prays that Andromeda can find someone to help raise the toddler before it's too late. It's a cause for frequent bouts of melancholy, and Tom tries to comfort him as well as he possibly can. It's a desire, a loss, the man can't fulfill, but he does his best to care for Harry's needs nevertheless.

It takes him a surprisingly and almost disturbingly short amount of time to adjust to handling the transformed version of the Elder Wand. The Elder-Holly Wand. He never thought anything would feel better than his old holly and phoenix feather wand, but the Elder Wand had been ruthless in binding itself to him, and though it had felt good in his grasp, it is the most natural thing he thinks he could ever feel, the combination of the two wands a perfect match. He feels stronger, magic flowing like water without obstacles, fluid and easy as can be.

The wand channels heavy feedback to Harry on an almost constant basis, about anything and everything. It makes his job even easier, as the influx of information helps him pick out compatible materials in an instant, and he narrows down specifics for special orders from clients far quicker than he ever had before—even with his handicap. He instinctively knows the authenticity of any of his wand materials, and on a visit to the apothecary, he saves Severus from a potentially horrific accident when he prevents the Potions Master from adding spoiled newt eyes to his bubbling cauldron; the man had been furious, as they had been a shipment delivered just that morning, and had he used them, the whole lab could have been the site of a nuclear explosion.

Harry spends the rest of that particular evening checking every last ingredient, especially from the shipment, and from that particular vendor, paranoid and unable to rest until he has weeded out every bit of product that is anything less than top quality, even when Tom squawks and fusses over the pricier items.

Likewise, in the background, he is acutely aware of a righteously infuriated Severus Prince chewing out the offending distributor, flaying the man within an inch of his life with the sharp tongue that hasn't changed even across infinite universes. Harry has to bit his lip to keep from laughing. He doesn't wish this fate upon anyone, but it's pretty entertaining when he's not on the receiving end.

Harry comes home late one evening, tired and bone-weary after working on a wand with materials that didn't normally complement each other. In fact, they are almost downright fighting each other, resisting his attempts to get them to meld and cooperate into a feasible wand. It's taking more of his magic and patience than he ever thought it would. However, the client he is trying to create it for had offered a hefty payment—a far larger sum than he takes for the typical wand or the special commissions combined—if he manages to design a handsome wand that actually performs adequately.

The natures of the materials that prove volatile only when in contact with each other are just proving to test his own sense of stubbornness. After four hours, he had to take a break and work on some other side projects to calm himself. In total, today alone, he worked on that wand for eleven hours.

It has been a long day, and he can't wait to fall into bed and sleep the weekend away.

First though, he needs something to eat, and maybe a shower. Or the reverse. Yeah, a shower first, then a meal. Then he can go pass out on whatever soft piece of furniture is nearby at this point.

It sounds like so much effort, though. After such a long day, making himself even a sandwich is going to be a chore he doesn't want to expend the extra energy on, and his arm, while strengthening and recovering nicely, is just about done for the day, hanging limply at his side and aching and pulsing with pain from extended periods of activity.

“Times like these, I really miss Dobby,” he mutters to himself, trudging his way towards the staircase, leaving his boots kicked off haphazardly in the foyer, cloak hung up only because it's a coveted gift from Tom he is loathe to abuse. “Or Kreacher.”

As he puts his foot on the first step, he hears the familiar pop of the arrival of a house elf. With a frown, he turns and gasps, nearly staggering in surprise.

“Kreacher?!”

The ancient house elf stands there in the middle of his house, confused and grumpy as he gazes around the house he's never been in. An absent gesture has Harry's boots righting themselves and tucking themselves in the shoe rack he'd completely neglected in his tired plod through his house. His head snaps around to look at Harry, already large eyes going wide and disbelieving. “Master Potter,” he says, as breathless as Harry thinks he's ever heard from this creature, and a crooked hand reaches out for a moment before the house elf disappears and reappears on the banister of the staircase, right in front of Harry. Now he cups Harry's hands, wonder on his face. “Kreacher thought Master to be gone, lost from us forever. Kreacher has kept the Ancient and Noble House of Black safe and clean, yes, in Master's absence.”

“How are you here, Kreacher?” Harry wonders, amazed, reaching up to gently pat Kreacher's arm in a dazed fashion. Their relationship had evened and smoothed over time, and so he can see that the old elf had truly missed him. “We're in completely different dimensions.”

“Dimensions mean nothing to elves,” Kreacher says firmly, as if it is common knowledge. “Witches say Master Potter died, so Kreacher mourned another lost Master. But Master is alive. Kreacher will bring Master's belongings here. Nasty goblins will relinquish Master's funds to Kreacher.” He gazes around the house. “Is acceptable,” he decides.

“So wait. There aren't doubles of house elves across the dimensions?”

“House elves are only ever one,” Kreacher replies, as if Harry should know this. “There is only one Kreacher, no matter what world or dimensions. Only one Dobby. Only one Winky.”

“So when I said your name, you instantly knew where to go, and it won't create a paradox or some type of apocalyptic interdimensional disaster to have you here because there isn't a duplicate of you in this world.”

Kreacher looks like he isn't entirely sure of all the words Harry used, but he nods anyway.

“And you can travel between worlds without injury?”

“No injury.” He holds out his old arms, turning them this way and that, then does the same with each leg and foot, and finally flips his ears in and out.

“And you believe you can transport my belongings here. What about other people? Could you travel with another person?”

Kreacher tilts his head, eyes narrowed in thought. “Yes. Kreacher can do this.”

“So I could go back if I wanted...”

The idea is mindboggling. Before, it had never been a thought because, given the extraordinary circumstances on how he got here in the first place, Harry had just assumed that he would never be able to go back. Before he could even try to think of possibilities, he became deeply entrenched in the love he found here, the sense of belonging and the family that swarmed around him. His soulmate lives here. He doesn't want to truly leave, but the idea of being able to visit, if he ever wanted to, sparks in his mind now that the potential is there.

“Kreacher could take Master back, yes. Does Master Harry Potter want to go back home?”

“No.” He says it before he can even think of the answer. “No. My soulmate is here. I can't leave him. I don't want to. But I miss my friends, and I miss Teddy.” Cute, sweet Teddy. Does he even know why Uncle Harry hasn't been around, or did Andromeda take the time to explain to the child what they wall thought happened.

“Then visits?”

“Maybe. I don't know.” He rubs his head briefly. “This opens a world of possibilities though. I need to eat, and shower, and sleep, and then tomorrow I want to talk to Tom about this.”

“Master Harry will be showering,” Kreacher says firmly, determination in his hunched spine. “Kreacher be making dinner. Is very late, Master should have eaten already.”

“It has been a long day, Kreacher.”

“No excuses. Sickly Master, doesn't eat enough. Go. Kreacher will bring food.” And with that, the elf popped out of existence. Seconds later, Harry can hear noise coming from his kitchen that suggests Kreacher is rooting around his cupboards for pots or pans.

Harry smiles and resumes his way up the stairs. Never a dull moment in his life.

 

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 

Tom comes over early in the morning, carrying a satchel of potions that he'd observed earlier in the week Harry needs stock of in his cabinets, refills of his prescribed potions as well as the more common household remedies should he come down with the sniffles or a persistent headache, or sprain his ankle because he missed the last step. He's understandably confused when the door is answered by a cantankerous house elf he's never seen before, and Kreacher, of course, is his usual surly, distrusting self, especially when he recognizes the younger version of the man that had been the cause fo the death of his most revered Master.

Harry will have to introduce him to Regulus here, in case he wants to return to the Ancient and Noble House of Black, even if he'll have to put up with Sirius, too. Maybe it will heal some of his pain and anger seeing Regulus alive here.

A thought for another time.

Harry happens to be plodding down the stairs, sleepy but eager to meet his soulmate, who usually shows up around this time on Saturdays so they can spend as much time together as possible; sometimes he gets lucky and manages to convince the early riser to join him back in bed for cuddles and a nap before Harry finally decides to join the world as a semi-functioning adult in the early afternoon. As such, he gets to witness the confusion and concern on his love's face as he's confronted with a crotchety old elf who doesn't at all seem keen on allowing him entry.

“Kreacher,” Harry calls through a yawn, adjusting his glasses and scrubbing a hand over his scalp. “That is Lord Thomas Gaunt of the Ancient House of Slytherin. He is not Tom Riddle, Dark Lord Voldemort. He is also my soulmate. Please let him in before he freezes to my front porch.”

Kreacher hesitates a few seconds longer, but begrudgingly steps aside in the end. Not without a few grumbles and mutters under his breath, eyes suspicious as they gaze after Tom.

Tom steps passed swiftly, frowning at the elf, and he steps out of his snow-laden boots so he won't track anything further into the house. An almost negligent flick of his fingers have the boots tucking themselves in next to Harry's own. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he croons, ever the charmer, gliding close for a kiss. Harry hums, pleased beyond measure, and leans his weight against his soulmate's body. “What an interesting elf you seem to have employed out of the blue.”

“He's my old elf,” Harry replies, pecking soft little kisses along the older man's jawline, still feeling sleepy and warm, content with the man's closeness. “From my world.”

“Really?” The intrigue is a swift switch from his bemusement. “How has this come to pass? How extraordinary!” Tom wraps an arm around Harry even as he turns to try to watch Kreacher as the elf moves around straightening and cleaning, muttering in his grumpy way.

“I have learned there are no alternate versions of house elves in each world and dimension,” Harry replies. “Kreacher said there is only ever one birth of each elf in time and space, never any clones or duplicates, and house elves' magic transcends it all. I offhandedly said his name last night, because I came home very late and wished I wouldn't have to expend so much energy in trying to feed myself and shower before going to bed, and he suddenly appeared in front of me, as if I had deliberately called him in my home world.”

“Truly fascinating,” Tom remarks, entirely sincerely.

Harry hums in agreement and pops a kiss to Tom's neck, right by his Adam's apple. He straightens to wander into the kitchen, about to commence the motions of fixing himself coffee, tea for Tom, and to try to get something for breakfast. Kreacher appears and glares him into submission, however, taking his duties very seriously. Harry can only imagine he'll be insufferable about this, given that he hasn't been able to serve his Master for the months that Harry has been missing from his home world.

Tom leads him into the sitting room so they can cuddle together. Another thing Harry loves about Tom is how he is not afraid to be affectionate, to curl up next to him and hold him, even when others are present. He doesn't hold back his kisses, although the type of kiss varies on the situation. There are no deep, tongue-filled makeout sessions when there is an audience present, obviously. In the privacy of either of their homes, there are no such reservations on how and when they touch each other, as long as they are both comfortable and feel safe.

Harry always feels safe with Tom.

“He is not the personality type I expected you to look for in a house elf,” Tom admits, amusement coloring his words as his arms cradle around the younger wizard.

“I inherited him. He belonged to the Black household for several generations, and when Sirius passed, I inherited everything from him, including Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and his mean old elf.” Harry absently lifts his hand up to massage at the muscles of his aching arm. He doesn't have to do so for long before Tom takes over, tender and attentive in his ministrations. “He and I have gotten more used to each other, and he's not as angry and resentful since he came to realize a few things about my past. It helps that I killed the Dark Lord that caused the death of his favorite person, my world's Regulus Black. He also has a certain fondness for my godson Teddy.” Harry presses a kiss to Tom's neck, watching the flesh flush with color from the contact, reveling in the sigh of pleasure it elicits from his soulmate.

“Teddy is a Black by blood, correct?”

“Mm, yes, technically. Andromeda was estranged from the family, although not disowned like Sirius, for marrying a Muggleborn, and then her daughter Nymphadora Tonks married Remus Lupin, a werewolf. Teddy has the blood of a Black Metamorphmagi and a half-blood werewolf in his veins. I can't wait to see what he can do when he gets older.”

“I'm sorry you will miss so much, my love,” Tom murmurs sincerely.

“I might not have to, though.”

Tom frowns and turns his head to look at Harry, adjusting himself so he can more easily and gently lead Harry's arm through the stretches and exercises they've kept up religiously. “What do you mean, darling?”

“Kreacher believes that he can travel between the dimensions with another person without injury,” Harry confesses. “Which means, if I wanted, I could go and visit my family and friends that I left behind, reassure them that I didn't die, and still return here to the home I have made with you and my new family.”

“And you would return, right, darling?” Tom says carefully. There is concern on his face, more expressive than Harry is used to seeing on wizards in the same elite category as his Tom. He has always been a regal and poised person, but for Harry, Thomas Gaunt never neglects to show his true emotions.

He's worried he'll lose Harry, lose him to the void that is the other dimension. Even if it wasn't on his face, Harry can read it in the quiver of his muscles, the set of his shoulders. How his fingers try desperately not to clutch at Harry while they manipulate his damaged limb. His magic tingles around Harry, reaching out, tracing over his body and making contact with his, as if to persuade him to stay through this contact alone.

“I'm not leaving you,” Harry promises, shifting around so he can lift his good hand up and tangle the fingers in Tom's immaculate waves. It's a favorite pastime to mess them up whenever he can. “In fact, if at all possible, I would take you with me on these visits. I want Teddy to know you. I want to ask George if he'd like to come and be with the Fred of this world, or if he'd at least like to meet him. I want my professors to know that I didn't die as a result of the magic they used trying to save me from the attack of the Elder Wand, and that I am happier than ever. If I only ever go back once, I want to get my affairs in order so no one else has to suffer. And all the better if my soulmate, my one and only, comes with me and supports me through it all.”

“Of course,” Tom answers the unasked question. “I would follow you anywhere. If you left me behind and stayed there, I would do everything in my power to find a way to you.” And Tom, as his alter ego in Harry's original world had, has a significant amount of power. Harry has no doubt he can achieve anything he sets his mind to. “Is this something we can plan around? I would like to make arrangements so that Severus is not left in the lurch in my absence.”

“I'm still thinking about all of it,” Harry admits. “I only found out that this is even on the plane of possibility last night. You are the first person I have talked to, as well.” He shifts so that he can straddle Tom, and Tom ceases the exercises, instead wrapping his arms around Harry's waist to keep him steady. “I love you,” he murmurs softly, pressing a tender kiss to Tom's mouth. The tingles of their soulmate connection warm his blood, soothe frazzled nerves he didn't know were there, make him melt into the larger, firmer body against him.

“I love you, my own,” Tom replies back, reverent and soft, and his tone leaves no room for doubt. Harry instinctively knows that he can trust in anything that Thomas Gaunt says. He shifts, reaching for something inside his trousers pocket, and presents a small box. The exact size and shape for a ring box.

Harry sits back on the man's strong thighs. His heart flutters, and he wishes he looked far more presentable now, if this is what he thinks it is. He bites his lip, tasting Tom on it, as green eyes flit between the box and Tom's face. Tom's handsome, smiling face.

“Would you do me the honor of bonding with me, Harry James Potter?” Tom asks without much fanfare. He opens the box to reveal a gorgeous band made of black gold, one large round emerald at the center, and then smaller ones in the centers of the Celtic knots that make up the body of the band. It's breathtaking, and Harry is helpless to watch as Tom removes it from its velvet bed.

“Yes,” he gasps, desperate, brain full of white static but no less frantic for him to grab this opportunity with both hands. “There is nothing more I want than to bond with you.”

The smile on Tom's face brightens, impossibly radiant, as the older man slides the band onto Harry's ring finger. It immediately shrinks down to a snug fit, perfect for him, and the sense of rightness that washes over Harry is overwhelming. A single tear falls down his face, unheeded, and Harry stares in awe at the thing of beauty.

“I have one that matches,” Tom tells him, voice exceedingly gentle. “Would you like to put it on me?”

“Yes. Definitely yes,” Harry blurts. “Gimme.”

Tom laughs, breaking the tension but not the tremendousness of this moment, and he pulls the second ring out of the box, hidden under the velvet that had held Harry's in place. Though his fingers tremble with nervousness, Harry takes the band and checks briefly that he has the correct finger before sliding it into place. It's like a foreshadowing of when they will do this again, but as a fully bonded couple, like in Muggle marriage.

They link fingers, and the rings sparkle beside each other.

“I'd like a spring bonding ceremony, if you are amenable,” Tom says, admiring the sight just as intensely as Harry is.

“I'd like it closer to summer,” Harry negotiates. “Still spring, but sliding closer to summer, so it's firmly warm. I hate being cold.”

“I know, my own.”

“And I want Nagini to be awake for it.”

“She is not nearly as sleepy during the summer, precious.”

“That's why I want it closer to summer. No chance of a cold day making her hibernate like a lazy log.”

“I will not tell her you said so.”

“Just tell her I'm planning our bonding ceremony so she can share it with us.”

“My own, she is a snake. She is not going to care about such frivolous two-legger matters.”

“She does care about us, though.” Harry smiles, slumping back into his soulmate's body, tucking himself as close as he can. “Maybe I will be able to use my arm better come the summer.”

“You are already doing exceptionally well, darling. Healer McAvoy was impressed the last time he checked on you, remember?”

“Nana is going to be so excited,” Harry whispers, giddy. He never had a family to be excited for him. The Weasleys had been the closest thing, but it's different having a family by blood, and the connections he had with the Weasleys weakened after Ginny's deception.

“Your grandmother is an exceptional party planner,” Tom agrees, hands sliding along Harry's back, just shy of the top of the swell of his arse. Then they dip to grip Harry's thighs, massaging the muscles. “I am not averse to allowing her to plan our bonding ceremony and reception.”

“She'll love it.” Nana is his biggest fan, after all, and she loves Thomas almost as much.

Kreacher enters the room with breakfast, coffee, and tea, setting the tray to float before them so they won't have to leave the sofa. Harry thanks him, like always, and the elf bustles around the room muttering, but it isn't in the mean-spirited fashion it used to be. It's almost fond now.

“I forgot amid all the other distractions, darling, but I brought you the potions you needed,” Tom says, a cup of tea in one hand as he reaches with the other for the satchel.

“The potions you think I need.”

“The potions everyone should have, darling. These are common household potions that should be in every medicine cabinet.” He nuzzles along Harry's neck, just to hear him giggle and move away, trying to eat his porridge with honey and fruit.

Kreacher appears and wordlessly takes the satchel, disappearing with a little scowl at Harry.

“Ah, so you're going to turn my elf against me so soon after meeting,” Harry accuses playfully around his spoon.

“I cannot help that he sees good sense when you do not, darling,” Tom retorts, gray eyes sparkling with mirth. He reaches to the tray to butter a scone, humming at the warmth and flavor of the fresh baked good.

 

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 

Harry checks his pockets to make sure there is nothing he could lose that he'd be upset about, then reclaims his hold on Tom's hand. It's the third time he's done it, and Tom has an amused little curve to his lips because of it. It just makes him want to kiss it off of his pretty face. Harry thinks he has a right to be nervous.

Today they're going to willingly and deliberately cross dimensions to the one Harry originally came from, and he's going to introduce his soulmate to the people that used to be his only world. He's going to see the ones he grew up with and built relationships with for the first time in months. He deserves to be a little anxious about it. The family here is anxious as well, as they don't want to lose the Harry they've come to love and revere, and Euphemia came dangerously close to dragging an Unbreakable Vow out of Tom to make sure he returned home to where he belongs.

It's not necessary. Harry belongs here forevermore, but there are loose ends he needs to tie in the other world.

Further research, courtesy of Sirius and Regulus, had revealed that their Andromeda had been murdered, resulting in the grief-stricken mindbreak of Bellatrix Black, who was institutionalized, and the unending depression of Narcissa Black. There was no Ted Tonks, no Nymphadora, because Andromeda hadn't lived to see the age of fourteen. So now Harry thinks that maybe he could bring his Andromeda and baby Teddy here without the risk of causing a rift in the space-time continuum, or whatever it is that holds the various universes and timelines together. He'd already talked it over with the remaining Black family of this world, and they seemed receptive. Pureblood elitism here isn't quite so prevalent as it is back home, barely a thought on the mind of the average Wix.

Furthermore, they found out that the Weasley family in this world consists of one person. Fred. Yet another tragedy that wiped out all but one family, an accident with Fiendfyre, and George had covered his twin in an effort to save him. Aurors had arrived to put out the fire, but only one son had survived. Fred had burn scars, though faded significantly, and missing an ear. As a result, he specializes in fire-preventing wards for a living.

“Getting lost in your head again, my own?” Tom asks, his smooth, soothing voice drawing Harry back out once again.

“Yeah. Just a lot to think about. A lot to worry about.”

“Everything will turn out just fine,” Tom assures him once again, squeezing their fingers where they are laced.

Clinging to Tom's hand in what he is sure is probably too tight a grip, Harry reaches hi other hand out to Kreacher. Long, crooked fingers clasp his own, and after waiting a moment to make sure his master is ready, he snaps the fingers of his free hand, and they disappear from this plane of existence.

It's nothing like what Harry had gone through before. None of the pain, the feeling of disintegrating and re-materializing, the discombobulation of being flung arse over teakettle with no sense of direction. The sheer trauma and fear of being thrust into a void and flung across universes and galaxies. He is still aware of which end is which, what body parts he has and doesn't, and that the darkness isn't because he's dead but because he'd squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for all the things that aren't happening. There's barely a few breaths of time before they've landed, feet solid and braced on sturdy ground, and it's only mildly disorienting.

Green eyes flutter open cautiously, and it's almost disappointing to find himself standing in the dining room of Grimmauld Place. It looks exactly the same as how it had the day he'd left to scavenge for wand materials. He takes stock, just for peace of mind, and finds that all of his limbs and digits are in order, barely a ruffle in his robes. His fingers still cling to Tom's, and when he looks over, the man is gazing around curiously, gray eyes alight with interest, seemingly completely at ease with everything around them despite how they'd arrived.

“That was a bit anticlimactic,” Tom remarks, and Harry barks a laugh, releasing Kreacher's hand so the house elf can go off and do as he pleases.

“Yes, well, my first journey across the galaxies was significantly less pleasant,” the younger wizard reminds his soulmate, loosening his grip without releasing Tom's hand completely. “You'll forgive my apprehension.”

Tom hums and brings their hands up to his mouth to kiss Harry's fingers tenderly. “Where shall we go first, my own?”

“George's,” he replies without a second thought. “We'll decide where to go from there. Kreacher, you'll start packing up all my things to take back home, right?”

“Of course, Master Potter,” the elf grouches, waving his hand dismissively, as if he'd had enough of the humans' presences for the time being.

Harry doesn't take offense, laughing as he guides Tom to the Floo. He checks to make sure the connections are still in tact and drags his soulmate through to George's joke shop. It's a bit quiet, but it's a Monday, and there are no holidays coming up soon that Harry is aware of, so it's not too surprising. Tom wordlessly spells away the ash and soot from their clothes like it's second nature, and he gazes around the shop with interest. A chime announces their arrival, a bit different from the bell over the door so George would know that someone Floo'd in.

“Welcome to Weasleys' Wizarding W—” George's voice, coming closer from the room he is approaching from, cuts off as soon as his eyes land on Harry, and he freezes, face slack with surprise and not a little disbelief.

Harry smiles a little sheepishly. “Hey Georgie,” he greets with a short wave.

George jolts, jerkily, and nearly staggers and falls down a short set of steps as he stumbles quickly over to them. He completely ignores Tom in favor of pulling Harry into a tight hug, and Harry doesn't mention the tears wetting his shoulder as he wraps his free arm around his friend in as tight a hug as he can manage.

“I knew you weren't dead, Haz,” Harry's favorite Weasley sobs, squeezing him tight. “Could feel it. Your spoon on Mum's clock pointed to Lost. They all mourned you think you were dead and that the clock was just malfunctioning, but I knew you were still out there somewhere. Ain't Master a' Death for nuffin.” He laughs, a little brokenly, and sniffs hard before pulling back. His hands don't leave Harry, keeping him in contact, as if to reassure himself of his friend's presence despite what his eyes are telling him.

“Yeah, George, it's all right,” Harry assures him, patting his cheek a little clumsily. “I've got a lot to tell you.”

“I bet you do!” George crows, trying to pull back from his uncharacteristic show of tears and soppiness. While he had always been the more emotionally sensitive of the twins, it still takes a lot to make him cry—like the death of said twin. “Let me just shut the shop down for a bit. Not busy anwyas, eh?” He flaps his hands negligently, and Harry tugs Tom along to go up to the apartment that George lives in above the shop.

He's familiar with the layout, so he gets some tea started, figuring his friend will need a little bit of something after everything. Tom hovers but doesn't get in the way, resisting the urge to nose around the apartment like the curious gremlin he often can be sometimes. Harry smiles at him, hopelessly amused and in love, and kisses him gently, warm and content and so happy that Tom came with him. George hoofs it up the stairs to join them not long after, eyes bright with excitement now that the shock has worn off.

“Who's your bloke, Haz?” is the first thing he decides to ask, grinning bright and cunning.

Harry can't help but return the grin, though his is a softer, happier expression. The warmth of Tom's arm brands around his waist. Memories of George trying to reassure him that he was lovable and would find his soulmate one day because he deserved it more than anyone, flash through his mind's eye. “I found my soulmate, Georgie. This is Thomas Gaunt.”

“Bloody hell, Haz, you certainly had an adventure, eh?” George turns his grin on Tom and thrusts out his hand. “George Weasley.”

“A pleasure,” Tom replies genuinely, reserved and polite, though he does reach out to shake George's hand. Harry is just glad there aren't any hidden Jokes in his palm. Fred never would have passed up the opportunity.

“You gotta tell me everything,” George commands.

So Harry does. They sit at the small kitchen table, tea and biscuits between them. Tom's hand never leaves Harry's, even while they're eating. They combine as a team to explain the ins and outs of Harry's more recent “adventure” into the alternate worlds and universes. Harry tells him about the divergences in the people there, as well as the similarities, and how the world is so much different and yet the same. He shows him the differences in his wand, commands the contrary thing not to harm George when curious fingertips skate over it in awe.

It remains quiet, though it vibrates, almost as if enjoying the other human's admiration.

The thing about telling George anything is that he is always energetic and enthusiastic about any little bit of information. He's observant, intelligent, and he takes in every microexpression and every hint of PDA between the two soulmates, looking more and more delighted with all of it the longer they speak. George doesn't even bat an eyelash at the reveal of who Thomas represents, because he can clearly see just how not Voldemort-like this wizard is, beyond the difference in appearance.

“He's your soulmate,” George says simply. “He's gotta be good. Fate doesn't fuck up that badly.”

Harry will never agree on that, but he'll never say it out loud, just in case.

Tom senses his brief internal unease and kisses the side of his head.

George does his part in summarizing what has been happening in this world since the accident. His mother is beside herself with grief, and Hermione and Ron haven't been doing well with theirs, to the point that Hermione, the workaholic busybody that she always has been, has taken a hiatus indefinitely. Ron isn't permitted on field missions with the Aurors, too unstable to be trusted not to compromise himself or his partners, no matter how unintentional it would have been. The way George phrases his sentences makes Harry think there's a little more to it than that, but he doesn't push. Headmistress McGonagall is probably the one taking it the hardest, as she had been involved in the catastrophe when it happened.

Harry resolves that she will be the next person he visits, so she knows that he's alive.

The official consensus is that Harry is missing due to an unexplained magical phenomena. He's not been written off as dead just yet, and Harry imagines that the Wizengamot has been split on the decision on how long to wait before they finally make the devastating announcement. Likely they also are trying to brainstorm what to do about his properties and the seats he has on the Wizengamot that he hasn't used yet but would be completely up for grabs without a named heir to claim them. It's exhausting to think about the type of statement he's going to have to make to the public to alleviate worried minds. He'll have to decide later on what exactly he should say. Tom promises to help him, as he's much better with public relations than Harry has ever wanted to be.

George decides to shut the shop down for the rest of the day and goes with Harry and Tom to Hogwarts to find McGonagall. She is just coming down the spiral stairs to her office when they arrive. The meeting with her is just as emotional and almost explosive as he'd predicted. She cries, clutching at Harry desperately, her grief and guilt palpable. He doesn't resist, holding her just as tightly, and whispers to her, promising he's okay and that he doesn't blame her for anything that happened. His heart hurts for her, to see how devastated she's been over his presumed death.

Once her relieved tears have dried, Harry has to play interference as well when she sees and recognizes Tom. At least at first glance, he looks exactly like Riddle before he started to mutate from his dabbling in Dark Arts and tearing his soul into shreds. She'd seen him in his younger days, as she technically was only nine years younger than him, but by the time she had true contact with him, Riddle had already begun to warp and distort with his madness.

Thankfully, Minerva McGonagall has always been a very intelligent woman, and though she has been known for fits of emotional outburst, she has always been fair and logical. It takes little time for her to be convinced that this is an entirely different person, and she can see the bond between the two younger wizards clearly. Thomas Gaunt is also significantly younger than what Riddle would have been if he'd still been alive. This knowledge becomes the perfect segue into the explanation of what had truly happened that night. George is there to keep everything lighthearted, and Harry is able to nestle close to Tom as they go through the whole story again.

By the time it has all been explained, and a few select memories provided for the Pensieve so that she can be assured there is no chance of corruption or manipulation, Harry is exhausted. His arm aches. The Headmistress hugs him long and hard, and he relaxes into the hold. She'd always been the grandmother he'd never had. She makes Thomas promise to take care of their “young Mr. Potter.” It's a promise Tom makes gladly, pressing a kiss to the back of Harry's hand without a hint of shame.

George coos and pinches Harry's cheek when he sees the flush of red overtake his skin. He doesn't manage to dodge the Stinging Hex shoots at him with barely a thought to the Elder-Holly Wand.

Minerva allows them to use her office's Floo, and George joins them for dinner at Grimmauld Place. Surprisingly, Kreacher already has a roast prepared when they come in, and he serves them in the drawing room with the fire in the hearth going. Harry nearly laughs himself sick watching the back and forth between George and his crotchety old house elf. The arm wrapped around his waist keeps him warm and safe, and he happily snuggles into Tom, not at all embarrassed to do it in front of one of his best friends. George watches with interest when Tom starts up the rehabilitative exercises they've thus far put off for the day, even offering to help.

“How are you going to break it to the rest of the family?” George asks after a while, appearing entirely too comfortable lounging on Harry's couch while Tom shamelessly holds Harry in his lap while they curl up in a large, overstuffed armchair.

“Do you think we could just get them all in one big group so I don't have to do this a thousand different times?” Harry asks, the mere thought of it making him want to shrivel up and hide under a rock.

“Yeah, we can do that,” George says with a shrug. “We'll get Andie and Teddy to come over, too. Little tyke has missed you something fierce, Haz. I refused to let them tell him you were dead, so we told him you had to go on a business trip. Until we were sure.”

“I've missed him, too,” Harry admits, head leaning against Tom's shoulder and neck wearily. “I've thought about bringing them over to the world Tom and I live in. If Andromeda didn't want to live in the house I bought, she could live at Potter Place. I think she and Nana would get along swimmingly, and Daisy would love helping to take care of Teddy now that most of the Potter kids are either grown up or well on their way to being too old to need a house elf attending their every whim.”

“So you do intend to go back?” George says carefully. He picks at some imaginary lint on the sofa cushion that makes Kreacher curse under his breath.

“Yeah.” Harry considers treading carefully, but then remembers that George is not one of the ones he's always felt is like a ticking timebomb. He can speak freely, no need to be politically correct or tiptoe around words to soften the blow. The twins had always been upfront and honest—at least when they weren't dancing around things just for fun—and expected the same. “I've built a life there, and Tom has a life there. I feel accepted in a way I've never known before, on a deeper level than even Molly was able to achieve. I don't know if it's the soulbond or what, but I just feel like I belong there more than I ever felt here. If I didn't have you all here, if I didn't love you as deeply as I do, I probably would have never come back, even when Kreacher revealed that he could transport me.”

Harry has grown enough as a person that even though he feels bad about saying it, it's not enough to make him change his mind or take the words back. He knows that living with Thomas Gaunt in that other world is the best thing for him. Contentment and the sense of just belonging has never been so deep as it is when he's with the Potters or in Tom's arms. Even though he didn't originally come from there, he just fit. He isn't giving it up.

“Kreacher has expressed that he can easily bring us over to visit whenever we want,” Tom reminds them, hands lovingly caressing Harry's back and side, one hand cupping one of Harry's knees in a quietly possessive gesture.

George nods thoughtfully. He doesn't seem hurt, just quietly accepting. The curl of anxiety in Harry's chest eases off, glad that he hasn't upset his friend. After a while of quiet, less upsetting conversation, he bids farewell, promising to get a hold of the Weasley clan and Andromeda and Teddy to get all gathered so Harry can make his presence known. Once the redhead has left, Harry slumps, all the energy leaving him in a rush. Tom chuckles softly, delighting in the dead weight rather than complaining about it, and he manages to coax Harry into a soft, sleepy kiss that seems to last forever. In the best possible ways.

Harry could kiss Tom forever and never tire of it.

“I think maybe it is time for bed,” Tom says after some time, their lips still clinging but having naturally fallen away from actively kissing. They share breath, heat, unwilling to part from one another any more than is necessary.

“Mm, probably for the best,” the green-eyed wizard agrees, feeling sleepier and sleepier the longer he sits there. He curls his arm around Tom's shoulders, and Tom casts a mild Featherlight charm, standing with his bundle of soulmate still in his grasp. Harry murmurs soft directions for Tom to take to get to the bedroom Harry used while living here, and the wizard carries them there, as though he'd done it a hundred times.

Harry could hardly wait for him to do it a hundred times more.

This easiness with another person is addicting. He soaks it up like a flower soaks up rain or sunlight. He hates comparing his relationship with Tom to what he had with Ginny, but it's so blatantly different. What he had with Ginny was nothing in comparison. He had been so heartbroken and miserable when they broke up, abandoned and used up, but he knows without a doubt that should something happen to Tom, or if Tom for some reason decided he no longer wished to be bound to and with Harry, Harry would not survive. He would simply disintegrate like so much ash on the wind. He would have no reason to continue to live. Not after having even the smallest taste of the love and connection he has with this wizard. He hopes that Tom feels even a fraction of the same for him.

“Such deep thoughts for a man about to drop dead asleep while being carried to bed,” Tom teases, a gentle smile curving his lips.

“Like a princess,” Harry hums, a little delirious with his exhaustion but oh-so-happy.

“Shall I grovel at your feet, your highness?”

“Mmm, no, but you should sleep beside me.”

Tom pauses, having started to lower Harry down onto the mattress. He finishes the motion and lifts up to look Harry straight in the face, gray eyes searching. “Are you sure about that, my own?”

“Too tired for sex,” Harry feels the need to clarify, “but I would very much like to hold you while we sleep, and wake up beside you.” Another thing they had not done yet. They are engaged now, though; Harry thinks they should be able to take a few more steps in their relationship, even if they are baby steps.

“If you were not too tired, my love, do you think you'd be ready for such activities?” Tom asks, casting a wordless spell to change Harry's attire to pajamas. The touch of his magic makes Harry shiver, hair raising off his arms. The older wizard does the same for himself, unaware of the effect he's had on the younger, dressed in dark green and black silk.

“I'm ready to do everything with you,” Harry confesses, eyes trailing over Tom's body, soft and cozy-looking, and so damn attractive that sometimes Harry can't help but marvel at his visage. “Although maybe we should wait until we're home for it.”

“I think perhaps that is a wonderful idea,” Tom croons in his deeper voice. He steps up on the bed with a knee, looming over Harry while Harry's eyelids get heavier. “I can wait a little longer to have you in body.”

“You already have me in mind and soul.” Harry reaches up to tug Tom down into another kiss, though it's sloppy and unrefined from the weariness weighing him down. “Sleep now.”

“Yes, darling.” Tom moves the blankets and covers so they are snugly ensconced, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry and hooking a long leg over both of his shorter one. Harry turns on his side and tucks his head against Tom's chest, shifting his legs so they're firmly tangled.

It takes very little time for them both to fall asleep, wrapped up in each other and listening to their synced breaths, the feel of their synced heartbeats.

 

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 

By far, Teddy is the easiest person to handle when Harry reveals to his old family that he is alive and well. The little boy screams happily and runs straight for his legs, and Harry stoops and braces to catch him before he can barrel into him and knock him down. He stands up straight and holds the ecstatic child, probably a little too tightly, but neither of them complain. He buries his face in wildly color-changing hair—blue, pink, purple, orange, yellow, magenta—and inhales the strawberry scent of the kid's shampoo he'd provided Andromeda.

It's a great icebreaker, and though there are tears—because of course there are! Everyone had thought him dead!—there's no screaming and yelling and angry demands for explanations. Molly clings to him a little longer than necessary, even with Teddy in his arms. Andromeda looks a little faint, and Harry is glad she was already sitting in a chair when he and Tom walked in behind a jovial George. Harry makes sure to stand in front of Tom, just slightly, because he can see Ron's and Arthur's hands on their wands, staring wildly at Young Voldemort's face. Hermione is protectively cradling a bundle of red-haired joy whom Harry chokes up to realize he missed the birth of.

It also explains why George had been so cagey about talking about his best friends.

Explaining things to Teddy is easy, and his sweet voice pipes up louder than Molly's sniffling and Ginny's wild demands.

“Where were you, Harry?”

“In a different world, across many other galaxies.”

“Was it fun?”

“Not the first time around, no. It hurt, and it was scary, but the people that live where I landed have been very nice and took care of me. Especially in the beginning after my less than stellar landing.”

“What's wrong with your arm?”

“It was injured in the accident. It's going to take a long time to get better.”

“Who's that?” He points a sticky finger over Harry's shoulder, and Harry turns his body a little to smile at Tom, who has a carefully pleasant expression on his face; his body is poised, ready to defend, what with the hostility hovering in the group a few meters away.

“This is Thomas Gaunt,” Harry introduces. “He's my soulmate.” There's a cacophony behind him, around him, all gasps and vocalized disbelief. He barrels on, ignoring it, aware of the mischievous delight pulsing to his right where George stands, eyes bright. “Tom, this is Edward Remus Lupin, my godson.”

“I'm Teddy!” The little boy's hair changes to Harry's shade of black, complete with wild curls, and he thrusts his hand out.

Tom laughs softly and takes it, shaking the little appendage very seriously. Harry is very impressed he makes no issue about the stickiness. “It's nice to meet you, Teddy. I'm Tom.”

“Unca Tom?”

The smile on his face turns far more genuine. It's enough to melt Harry's insides all to warm goo. “If you like.”

Teddy turns back to Harry and says very seriously, “He's pretty, Unca Harry.”

Harry laughs and presses a kiss that turns into blowing a raspberry against Teddy's delightfully chubby cheek. “He's very pretty, isn't he?”

“Boys aren't pretty, Teddy,” Ron says, cautious of Tom but pitching his voice to speak to Teddy in a familiar, loving tone. “Boys are handsome.”

“No, you hammsome, Unca Ron,” Teddy before Hermione can admonish her husband, says firmly, as if Ron is being particularly stupid even to a four-year-old's standards. “Unca Harry and Unca Tom are pretty.”

“Shows you, Ronnikins,” George crows. He is clearly having too much fun with this whole situation.

Honestly, Harry knows that if it wasn't for the presence of the little ones, this could and probably would have turned into an all-out brawl before he even managed to get a word out. This is the best outcome he could have hoped for, given the circumstances.

Eventually, they all calm down, and Harry summons a set of chairs for him and Tom to sit in. Teddy refuses to get down, happy enough to perch in Harry's lap after not seeing him for so many months. Andromeda, as the oldest and calmest of the group, decides to take point on asking for the more in-depth details on what happened to him. Supporting Teddy with one arm, he resumes holding Tom's hand with the other, and Hermione's keen eyes zero in on their matching rings. She's nearly bursting to ask her questions, but she holds back as Andromeda leads the conversation/interrogation.

“Are you bonded?!” she finally demands once they've all seemed to grasp the gist of the story he's finished telling. She bounces little Rose in her arms when the baby fusses at the pitch of her mother's voice.

“No, not yet,” Harry replies, relaxing against Tom's shoulder. “We want to wait for a bit. We're looking at a date in late May or early June, before the weather turns to the true heat of summer.”

“How will we attend if you're living in Gaunt's world?” Molly asks, wringing her hands, distraught.

“Well I can come and go as I please, according to Kreacher,” Harry reminds them. “If Kreacher can cross dimensions and universes, I don't see why other house elves, especially the ones closer to his age, couldn't do it as well.”

“Harry! You can't just use them like pack mules!” Hermione scolds.

Tension lines Tom's body along Harry's side. He appears perfectly calm, but it's obvious to Harry, and to George by the looks of him, that the Slytherin heir is not at all pleased with Hermione's perceived attack. Harry clamps a hand down on Tom's forearm.

“That's really not the point here, Mione, and I don't appreciate you accusing me like that,” Harry says in a firm voice that has Teddy's head perking up. “I've asked Kreacher politely, like a civilized human, if he would help us travel. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here right now. Kreacher even said that as long as we're all touching, he can transport more than just me and Tom if we needed.”

He looks to Andromeda, ignoring Hermione's reddened face, unused to being called out like this. She should know by now what Harry's like, and what he needs to be scolded over. He's an adult who has been making his own decisions without her for years now. “I thought about offering to bring you and Teddy over to our world. You could live in my home until we found you a place to live, or you could live at Potter Place. My Nana has been interested in meeting you. Your sisters there don't have an Andromeda. She was murdered before she even hit puberty. There's a place for you there, if you wanted.”

“I will have to think about it,” Andromeda says sagely.

“I understand. If I have to, I'll just keep jumping between worlds so I can visit Teddy, and if the time comes, he'll come to live with me.” He presses a kiss to the toddler's head, aware that the tyke has drifted off into a light doze against his chest. The sandy blond hair acts as a shield to hide Harry's discomfort at the prospect of Andromeda's death.

“Nothing is set in stone at this juncture,” Tom adds, thumb rubbing lightly across Harry's knuckles.

“And how do you feel about possibly child-rearing someone from a different world?” Ron asks, blue eyes shrewd as he stares at Tom. He's still distrusting of the man that looks so similar to the monster that had been the bane of their existences for so long. Even the evidence of clear contrasts and differences hasn't swayed him. Harry is just very proud of his friend, the hardened Auror, has learned patience and caution.

“Harry is my soulmate,” Tom replies magnanimously. “I support him in all of his endeavors. If there is something I have reservations on or am unsure of, we can communicate and work out something that will satisfy us both.” He lifts the hand he has been holding to his mouth, no shame in his eyes as he kisses it while staring the Weasleys down. “He is the love of my life. There is nothing I wouldn't do to make him happy.”

“Anybody else get cavities from that nauseating overload of sugar?” George asks, a shit-eating grin splitting his face, making his blue blue eyes twinkle, completely drowning out Fleur's tittering—she has to be one of the biggest romantics Harry has ever met.

“Oh George, stop it,” Molly admonishes gently, surreptitiously dabbing at her eyes. She smacks him on the arm for good measure, and he falls sideways dramatically with a wail about child abuse and motherly betrayal. “I'm so happy for you, Harry dear,” she proclaims, putting her hands on his shoulders since she couldn't grab his occupied hands. She kisses his cheeks, then puts a hand on Tom's shoulder. “Welcome to the family, dear. We may not be related by blood, but I always considered Harry one of my own.”

“I appreciate it, Mrs. Weasley,” Tom responds with a careful, respectful nod.

“Molly, dear. Call me Molly.”

And really, that's all Harry needs to hear to know that everything is going to work out okay. Molly has always been that beacon for him. If Molly approves of someone and accepts them into the family, then it might as well be set in stone. She is matronly by nature, but she doesn't bring in strays willynilly. She is fiercely protective of her loved ones—which had never been more clear than when she was the one to completely decimate Bellatrix Lestrange in defense of her daughter. The only thing that could cement the concept would be to see Tom's visage added to her magic clock.

The rest of the evening is far more relaxed. Harry gets to hold baby Rose while Teddy plays with George and Charlie, and he nearly cries when Ron admits that, even though they'd thought Harry to be dead, they'd still named him her godfather. Rose is purported to be a fussy child, but she quietly sucks at her pacifier and watches Harry, whether he's talking and looking at her or joining in on the conversation around him, calm as can be. Hermione swears it's the quietest and calmest she's ever been since birth.

“Harry's the baby whisperer,” Charlie remarks, touching the red hair curling atop his baby niece's head.

“What an odd combination, Master of Death and Baby Whisperer,” Bill teases.

“Boy-Who-Lived, Man-Who-Conquered,” Ginny adds, chin propped on her soulmate's shoulder as she grins.

“He Who Crosses Dimensions and Galaxies,” George sings, pinching Teddy's cheeks to make the boy squeal and wiggle away.

“I have too many names,” Harry sighs, though he's smiling.

“At least these are nicer than what Ferretface gave you,” Ron snarks, barely feeling the slap his wife delivers to his arm.

“I think I like the names I have for you far better,” Tom murmurs with a soft smile, and he can see the Weasley brothers pretend to gag, but they can suffer. How long has Harry had to endure watching any of them be shmoopy and cutesy with their significant others? He's even born witness to Molly and Arthur being lovey dovey, although they usually try to keep it to a minimum since they have so many people in their home at any given point. It's Harry's turn now.

Dinner is amazing as usual, and Harry can't help the burst of pride on Molly's behalf when Tom compliments the delicious food. Molly's cooking had always been one of his favorite things about staying with or visiting the Weasleys, even if it was just a snack or sweet. Harry holds Rose all throughout the meal and even feeds her when Hermione comes over with a bottle. After dinner, they all retire to the living room with the multiple sofas, and Teddy crawls up into his lap, cuddling him and Rose. Eventually, surrounded with the warmth and weight of the children and supported at his side and back by his sturdy soulmate, even Harry starts to doze off, so the gathering comes to a natural conclusion. As reluctant as he is to do it, he hands the children off to their respective guardians, and Tom guides him safely back to Grimmauld Place with the promise to visit them again before the end of their week-long stay.

The rest of their “visit” to Harry's world goes fairly smoothly. Rather than wait, Harry utilizes Tom in issuing an official statement to the Wizarding World to clear up the misconceptions of his disappearance, although they leave out interdimensional travel and some of the finer details. Tom is easily able to circumvent probing and digging into his own identity beyond the claim of soulmate, keeping the line of questioning focused solely on Harry while also preventing the vultures reporters often prove to be from getting too personal about their inquiries. Harry wishes he'd had Tom with him all the other times he'd been forced into an interview. Once that particular bit of unpleasantness is done and over with, Harry is able to shift his focus onto other things.

After that debacle, Harry spends most of the time getting his affairs in order, the multiple and his Gringotts accounts. It turns out that Gringotts and the goblins also have interdimensional capabilities, like the house elves, and they have cross-dimensional communications with the goblins in Tom's world. The hardest part is just tracking down which world they had come from. Once Harry goes to ask what he can do about possibly transferring his funds and the artifacts in his vaults, the goblins begin a transfer to the Gringotts account the Potters had set up and re-instated once he'd agreed to be a part of their family again even though he'd been born to a different world's Potters. He doesn't understand all of it, but it cuts out a lot of the work and effort he had assumed he would have to commit to the matter. While they're at it, he requests that they set up Teddy's trust fund Harry had started to be able to be accessed in either world so he could pull from it if necessary, no matter where he is.

Because Tom asks, and spends the better part of an hour convincing him with hot, passionate kisses and adventurous touches, Harry takes him to see Number Four Privet Drive. The Dursleys had moved back in after the war. Dudley had moved out as soon as he could, however, extricating himself from his parents' toxic views, negative attitudes, and hostile living environment to heal and better himself, with some much needed therapy. The Dursleys aren't home, and Harry and Tom case Notice-Me-Not charms on themselves so they can enter the house without suspicion.

It looks almost exactly the same as when Harry had left for good. The couch is different, the television larger and more modern. There's a new stone in the kitchen. The paint in the downstairs half-bath has been changed from a boring beige to a pastel blue.

Harry shows Tom the cupboard under the stairs, and he casts a spell that allows the man to see what it used to look like since everything had been cleared out—the broken toys, the old cot, the moth-eaten blankets, his drawings. The only things that remain the same are the cobwebs in the corner and the locks on the door. The spell shows the cupboard's history, fast-forwarded, like CCTV footage, or viewing through a Pensieve without the immersion. It makes him a little ill, seeing it all again, but from an outsider's perspective, and he has to close his eyes to shield himself from bad memories he rarely can escape from anyway. He ends it when the scenes arrive to the years that Harry no longer lived in it, storing his trunks and otherwise forgotten.

After, Harry leads him upstairs to the bedroom he'd been moved to. There's still a catflap in the door. The bars across the window have been removed, but whoever did the work didn't know how to patch the holes well enough to not be noticeable. It's plain and generic. It looks like it's just a spare room now.

Tom is methodical as he examines all of the parts and pieces of his soulmate's past that Harry would honestly rather just forget. He has too much good happening for him, too much good to look forward to, to reminisce on the past. He thinks that maybe Tom wants to understand better, see for himself what Harry went through, so he can better appreciate the wizard that he will be tying himself to in a few short months. Aside from guiding Tom through the house and casting the spells, he hangs back, not wanting to delve too deep into those bad memories. He doesn't remember a time he was ever actually happy here. Even now, he feels disjointed and spacey, like he's not really inside his own body.

His first hint of happiness had been at Diagon Alley, when Hagrid had led him through the busy shopping district, gathering school supplies, and gotten him first birthday present ever. And then he'd gone to Hogwarts, and even though bad things had happened to him every year, it had been his first real home.

He wishes that he'd tried harder to be placed somewhere else, somewhere that would have loved him, but at the time, he was a kid, used to not being considered a priority or worthy of anyone's affection or time; he hadn't known what to ask for, hadn't known how to fight against an authority figure or how to ask for the help he needed in a way that would convince someone he actually needed it. Now, when it's all been put behind him, and he's built the life experiences, he knows what he should have done and what he should have said.

He knows what to look out for, so if he ever sees a child that looks like what he did when he looked in the mirror, he can get them help. Never shall a child suffer, no matter their lineage, if he can make a difference.

When Tom has had his fill, he returns to Harry's side and wraps his arms around him. His lips find Harry's scar, one of many but the most prominent, and Harry sinks into his hold, eyes closed, letting the older wizard support his weight, exhausted in a way that he hasn't been in a long time.

“I think I'm ready to go home,” Harry says after some time, soaking in the comfort his soulmate offers so selflessly.

“To Grimmauld, or to home?” Tom asks.

“Grimmauld for now, but I don't want to spend too much longer here,” Harry admits. “I'm ready to go back to our life. It was nice to see everyone, but my life here ended as soon as I found you.” He tilts his head and presses a soft kiss to Tom's neck.

Tom tilts his head around and insistently draws him into a kiss on their mouths. Slow and sweet, heartfelt, warm. A kiss he could easily melt into, even here in the hellhole of his childhood. In the next instant, they've Disapparated, and Harry honestly couldn't say if it was him or Tom that initiated it. They land in Harry's room in Grimmauld, and Harry sprawls on his back on his bed, tugging Tom over him, craving his heat and his weight. It grounds him, keeps him from floating away in the void of bad memories and negative emotions that threatened to consume him anytime he's reminded of his childhood.

“I love you, my darling,” Tom whispers, arms tight, body positioned to cover every possible inch of Harry's. “I am so proud of your resilience and your strength. I will forever be grateful that you survived so that we could meet. I will do everything in my power to make sure you never have to suffer again.”

Tightness clamps up Harry's throat, rendering him speechless. He ducks his face into Tom's collarbone, hiding the tears that want to fall. His knees lift and clamp about Tom's thighs, wanting to pin him in place so he'll never leave. “I love you, too,” he whispers, raspy and overwhelmed, a flood of emotion washing over him after a few hours of not feeling anything deeper than surface-level discomfort. “So much. If I could do it all over again, as much as it hurt, if I knew you were waiting for me at the end, I wouldn't change anything. You made all my pain worthwhile.”

Tom draws him into more kisses, heartfelt and grounding and clinging. Tongues touch and dance, teeth nip and scrape. The longer it lasts, the more solid Harry feels. He won't float away, because Tom is there to anchor him. He won't disappear, because Tom is always has his eyes and hands on him to remind him of his own existence.

And it'll be stay that way for the rest of their lives. Harry is determined to be and do the same thing for Tom whenever he needs. Their lives are entwined forevermore, no matter which world they're in. Across dimensions and beyond.

Chapter 4: Epilogue

Notes:

All right, this is the end! Finally finished! Huzzah! Thank you to all of those who have stuck with me, and to those who enjoyed it enough to reread the beginning so you could enjoy these last two chapters.

Again, this one is un-betaed, but my beta reader will be getting back to me with the edits, I'm just too impatient to post to wait for them to do so. I will edit once they have responded back. If you notice anything I can fix in the meantime, let me know! I hope you enjoy the final product.

Weasley's Wards is located between two office buildings on the south end of the business district Wizarding Britain. It's small and unassuming, tucked away from the street, and Harry doubts he would have seen it if he hadn't been specifically looking for it. There are no Notice-Me-Not charms, or anything similar designed to hide it from the general public's notice—which would admittedly be bad for business anyway—so it must just be camouflaged well.

Harry taps his index finger to the shaft of his wand, pressed to the underside of his forearm, and it hums with awareness. Feeding him details of everything around him that he barely acknowledges anymore. He takes a fortifying breath and steps up to the door, pushing through into the lobby.

A bell chimes above his head merrily and rings through the store. Harry looks around, and he has a feeling of unease settle in his stomach. It's so quiet, bland. No bursts of color, no happy noises, no laughter. It's almost desolate, and Harry wonders if the Fred here is at all like the Fred of his world.

Gred and Forge don't belong in such a boring little office, devoid of vibrancy and sparks of life.

“Welcome,” greets a very subdued, professional version of Fred Weasley as he enters from the back of the building. His robes speak the part of a business man that deals in serious topics, not at all the business of a trickster. “I'm Ward Master Fred Weasley. How can I be of assistance?”

Harry offers a muted smile. It tugs at his heartstrings, seeing the difference in this Fred and his Fred. He looks mostly the same as his Fred had, except for the missing left ear—opposite of the ear his George lost in the war—and burn scars. The scars from the burns are light, barely there, like ghosts of what they once were, forging a trail from his temple down the side of his face, across his neck, and, the Wand tells him, disappearing beneath his collarbone to end, hidden beneath his clothes, at the bottom rib—all on his left side.

There's a dullness in his eyes that speaks of grief, bone-deep sadness and bleak hopelessness, that matches Harry's own. That matches George's.

“Hello, my name is Harry Po—I mean Harry Gaunt.” He chuckles a little over his slip-up and runs his hand through his hair. “Sorry, I've only been bonded for a couple months. I haven't gotten completely used to introducing myself by my new name.”

Fred grins back, the humor there but quiet, reserved. “I hear it takes some time. Still sign your name wrong too?”

“I kept my name on my legal documents for my shop and such,” Harry replies with a shrug. “Gringotts authenticated it, so it's less of a hassle.”

“You got a business, eh? Need fire warding then?”

“Yeah, I'm a wandmaker. Set up shop in Hogsmeade a bit after New Years. And while fire prevention warding is a good idea, it's not the true reason why I've come to see you today.”

“Oh?” Wariness flashes through blue eyes, quickly hidden away. “I'm afraid I don't have much else to offer, Mr. Gaunt.”

“Harry, please,” Harry insists, even though he gets a private little thrill from hearing his husband's name when addressed towards him.

Fred tilts his head a bit, seeming not to know what to make of him. Harry can relate. Sometimes he doesn't even know what to make of himself. With a mere thought, Harry conjures up a chair to sit in. Fred's eyebrow raises, impressed with the show of wandless, wordless magic; there hadn't even been a gesture, and really, with the Elder-Holly wand, Harry doesn't need it. His thoughts, his desires, are usually enough now.

“I'd like for you to keep an open mind, Mr. Weasley,” Harry says. His tongue stings, curling oddly over the name. He doesn't even call Arthur Mr. Weasley anymore, hasn't done for years. It's so weird, unnatural, to do so with Fred, but it wouldn't do to insult Fred or be overly familiar at this stage of the game.

“We are Wix, aren't we?” Fred retorts, leaning back against the reception desk. Regardless, his arms cross, an unconscious defensive gesture. “I will admit that I'm at the very least intrigued, if for no other reason than you're damned interesting. Your magic feels different, for sure, and how it feels gives away nothing of your true strength, if your wandless magic is anything to go by.”

Harry smiles and considers what to say, but he's not a Gryffindor for nothing. He takes the plunge.

“What do you know about interdimensional travel?”

 

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 

Harry stumbles into Gaunt Manor tiredly, more emotionally drained than anything. It had taken him nearly four hours explaining to Fred what the hell he was on about, and then convincing him he wasn't a mad man spewing conspiracy theories. He'd had to call four house elves in, and then he even dragged the man to Gringotts. If he'd known that all he needed to do was take him to Gringotts to have the goblins confirm that one, there are other dimensions accessible through the right kind and leve of power, and two, that Harry indeed came from a different world outside of theirs, he would have done it in the first place!

To be fair, it makes sense that he'd trust the goblins with the truth over a stranger, but it's the fact he'd wasted so much time and effort when he could have just done it this way!

He greets Nagini as he toes off his boots—expensive dragonhide Tom had insisted on buying him for his birthday, they are easily his favorite footwear due to how comfortable they are, no matter how long he's on his feet. She coils herself up his body and drapes around his torso and shoulders, complaining about the lack of rodents in the house since she'd eradicated them all. He promises to allow her to come to his shop to do some hunting. He doesn't have an infestation, yet, but the businesses next door have not been doing their due diligence in keeping up with the health codes the last few months.

Siccing Nagini on the pests would have the double benefit of ridding the rats from the area and scaring the soul out of his negligent neighbors.

Harry finds Tom reading next to the fireplace in the room he'd fallen through those many months ago. It's a bit nostalgic to think about now despite how awful it had been at the time. The flames burn for light alone, and aesthetics, so they flicker heatlessly. They are in late summer, before the school term is set to start, so there is no need for the warmth of a fire to fill out.

The younger wizard drapes himself over the back of the armchair, standing on his tiptoes to lean over it and kiss the top of Tom's head. Tom hums and tilts his head in acknowledgment of Harry's presence. Harry waits for him to be finished reading the page he's on, indicated by how he marks the book with a finger, closing it around the digit and holding it off to the side of his thigh.

“If you ever decide to tell someone that there are other dimensions,” Harry begins, as Tom turns to make eye contact with him over the back of the chair, “save yourself the trouble of explaining and providing proof of it. Just take them to Gringotts and have the goblins do the work.”

“It went that well, darling?” Amusement and mischief sparkles in those gorgeous gray eyes.

“I spent three hours just trying to convince him, even with the house elves popping in to corroborate. Eventually I dragged him into Gringotts. It too them less than fifteen minutes to convince him I”m not barmy off my rocker or lying. We live in a society based around magic, Tom! You would think Wixen of all ages and genders would be more open-minded to concepts of the impossible.”

“My own, not everyone can be as bright and optimistic as you, nor as intelligent,” Tom replies in a low, smooth voice. He reaches up to caress Harry's face with his fingertips, and Harry turns his head to kiss his palm. “Give us a cuddle, love.”

That's a request he will never refuse. Harry comes around the chair and clambers into Tom's lap, fitting into the cradle of his body. Tom's body is curved perfectly to accommodate him, and they fit together like puzzle pieces. Nagini shifts herself so she isn't squished, the end of her tail wrapping loosely over her owner's wrist.

“Were you ultimately successful?” Tom asks, fingers under Harry's shirt delicately tracing over his flesh, caressing with a lazy sense of propriety. He's not aiming for anything sexual, not for now, but he still likes to stake his claim even in private with gentle, possessive touches.

Harry likes it that way.

He likes feeling owned and desired, and the novelty of the matter hasn't worn off, even after so many months of experiencing the practice.

“Eventually. I asked if he wanted to see George. See if he fits into the Weasley family from my home. I told him about everything that happened with our Fred. I showed him the research that all but proves that twins share a connection that isn't necessarily limited to specific worlds, especially identical twins. If one twin loses their mirror, they have the potential to sync up to another pairless mirror from a different universe. There's a lot of research about inter- and cross-dimensional studies and relations if you know what to look for. It's just more hush-hush so the idiots of the world don't injure or kill themselves and others by trying to initiate dimensional travel without the proper precautions.”

“So should I prepare for a visit to Grimmauld?” Tom inquires, casual as you please.

“You don't have to if you don't want to go,” Harry offers, finding a fading hickey on Tom's neck and starting to worry over it. Teeth and tongue lave and scrape, determined to darken it up again, and Tom makes a soft noise that's not quire a groan, tilting his head to give him better access.

“I like to spend time with your family, and I would rather go with you anywhere you go than sit home and wait for you to come back. I want to experience anything and everything I can with you, including your adventures, and your most mundane tasks.” Tom squeezes the meat of Harry's thigh just below his bum, his thumb sliding around to press into his inseam where his inner thigh is most sensitive. Tingles spread up through his nerves, warming his blood with the beginnings of arousal.

“Both of us thought it would be best to wait for the weekend,” Harry tells him, a little breathless, and he shifts around so that he's straddling Tom now, butt balanced on Tom's sturdy thighs, arms around the man's broad shoulders. Nagini hisses at the movement, her weight adjusting around Harry. Her head bumps against his, then slides around the back of it. “It's only Tuesday now, it wouldn't be very logical to drop everything the middle of a work week. Fred's going to make sure there aren't any appointments for next week in case he decides to spend more than just the weekend there.”

“That is more convenient, yes.” It's whispered against his lips, and then they're kissing firmly once more. Tom's hands trace his sides, down his slim waist to his hips. He grips, squeezes, and drops to cup and mold the plump flesh of Harry's arse.

Nagini hisses and grumbles in irritation, complaining about two-leggers' mating habits, and they break their kiss, both laughing as she drops from where she'd been clinging around Harry's torso. She slithers away, effectively done with their shit. Harry leans his head against Tom's, their blood-hot cheeks pressed together.

“So weekend getaway to see the family and introduce a lost piece to the puzzle,” Tom murmurs, getting them back on track as he grips Harry's thighs to get him to scoot closer, sit heavier on his lap. “Have you told the Weasleys?”

“No. I wanted to surprise them. And I'm only taking him to George first. If George can't handle his twin from a different world, if their body doesn't snap into place like I think it will and the research all but confirms it, I don't want to get the whole family's hopes up only for it to be crushed. It'll mitigate any potential pain.” And lessen the likelihood of angry people out for his blood. He'd rather have only one or two people angry at him rather than the whole Weasley clan, and more specifically Molly, whose anger and grief are terrifying, especially when combined.

“Understandable and probably for the best. I'm not sure that a surprise is the way to go. At least I know I wouldn't necessarily like something like this sprung on me without forewarning,” Tom muses, one hand starting to run through Harry's curls and scratch at his scalp in just that way that could get Harry purring like a cat in very little time.

“I know the Weasleys pretty well,” Harry says. “And I know if I mentioned it before just bringing Fred there, all it would be is anxiety-fueled chaos. Molly would get so worked up that she'd terrorize the rest of the family and insist that everything be perfect, and her disappointment and grief isn't something I want to witness or be the cause of if Fred doesn't work out with them.

“So we start small. George is the more approachable of them all anyway. Ron will always be my first friend, and one of my best, but after Hogwarts and the war, we sort of fell out of it for a while. Not terribly. But George and I became closer while Ron was off doing his own thing.” He tilts his head to lean into Tom's touch, eyelids fluttering closed.

“As long as you are sure.”

“I am. At least in this. I can only hope this works out the way I want it to.”

 

~*~~*~*~*~~*~

 

George clings to Fred wordlessly as soon as they make eye contact, tears silent and devastating. Fred cries, babbling about how he'd always wondered what George would look like if he'd had the chance to grow up. Harry and Tom hover in the corner of George's living room, watching carefully without being intrusive to the reunion, but it looks like their collective worries are foundless. The crying is healing, and the twins cling to each other like waking up from nightmares rather than having gone years without each other.

The twin bond activating—or re-activating depending on how it is looked at—and snapping in place had been similar to what Harry sees with soulmates' first contact. It was a blue light, and it looked a little like arcs of electricity, as if jumping from frayed ends of a wire to another. Idly, in the back of his head, Harry thinks he'll have to make contact with one or more of those experts whom he'd relied on for the research on twins and other dimensions, to give them his accounting of what he'd seen. Maybe get testimony from the twins to further his findings. It soothes him to know that he's helped facilitate the completion of bonds that had been damaged and unraveled after the traumatic losses of their original mirrors.

Tom lifts Harry's hand to his mouth, ghosts kisses over the knuckles. “You did well, my own,” he says in a low tone, gray eyes watching Fred and George part only slightly in order to examine each other, never fully losing contact, only changing up which body parts are touching at any given point.

“I'm just glad my theories worked,” Harry replies, relieved beyond comprehension. “And that they can start healing each other with each other. Even if they have to bounce back and forth between worlds. The Weasley family just hadn't been complete without Fred, and he may not be the original, but I do'nt think that's going to matter here. And he's finally got a family now.”

The next thing he knows, George is practically strangling him in a hug, cursing him and thanking him all in the same breath. Tom stands outside of it, holding his hand and endlessly amused, but then he has to let go anyway when Fred joins them, nearly squeezing what life he has left out of Harry, lest he be caught up in the long-limbed tangle of redhead assailants. The Elder-Holly wand buzzes warningly along his forearm, and he quells it with a though, assuring it that he isn't in any real immediate danger.

Later, Harry teases Tom for leaving him to die, and Tom replies that sometimes it's every wizard for himself and that he would have made sure that Harry had a nice funeral. The widow's benefits and life insurance would be a nice pittance saved away for Teddy.

He can't be angry about that. At least his death would benefit someone.

The Elder-Holly wand stings him sharply, reminding him he's the Master of Death with an omnipotent wand at his side. Death is not in the cards for him.

That was mild, however, compared to what happens with the rest of the family. There is no Andromeda and Teddy to keep Harry safe, this time, and he honestly doesn't know how he survives the mob of redheads that falls upon him after they've finished with Fred, who cries just as hard to see the faces of the family he'd gone without for two decades; he weeps especially hard at meeting Ron and Ginny—she'd only been a year old at the time of the fire that wiped his family out, and Ron had only recently started to say full sentences, a bright little boy that wanted to run after the twins to do everything they did. He'd never gotten to even imagine what they would grow up to become or look like, had lost the ability to see them in his mind's eye without even pictures to remind him.

Molly's wails are loud and joyous, and even Arthur cries, so grateful to see his lost child. Ginny is beside herself, clinging to her soulmate and touching where she can of Fred while the rest all scrabble to do the same.

Harry takes refuge on the couch with baby Rose, shamelessly using her as a shield. She'd been fussing during the whole get-together, Hermione struggling to keep her calm while she underwent her own rush of emotions outside the Weasley mob, so when he was able to extricate himself from the mass of bodies doing their damnedest to suffocate him, he'd dived for her. He lays back on the couch, sprawled with her on his chest, and she sucked on her pacifier almost negligently, dozing peacefully.

Keeping quiet so as not to wake the baby helps to calm everyone down, and Fred comes over, George glued to his hip, to gaze in amazement at the little infant, his first niece, a miracle and dream he never would have had if Harry hadn't been yeeted across the many dimensions to land in his and Tom's world, and then became so curious as to discover all he could about dimensions, travel, and repairing families across multiple worlds.

“Baby Whisperer strikes again,” Ron jokes, voice a little thick and wet from the tears he's shed but incredibly fond all the same. “I swear you're her favorite person in the world. Mum can't even get her to calm down as well as you can, and she's like the Wizarding World's Super Mum.”

“Harry just as a very soothing presence,” Hermione pipes up as she leans over the back of the couch, her hand draping down to lightly brush her baby's chubby, pink cheek. “Now that he's not running for his life or waiting for the next catastrophe to hit at every turn, being around him can just put you at ease. Babies and children pick up on it and gravitate towards it.”

“Like an emotional support animal,” Ginny's soulmate, a Muggleborn, offers with a grin. “Although what kind of animal he would be is up for debate.”

“Golden retrievers are one of the most common support animals,” Hermione remarks, “but I don't think they match the personality Harry has.”

“I expect Rosie-baby to exact revenge in my name once I leave you traitorous cretins,” Harry grumbles lightheartedly, pressing a soft kiss to down red hair that tickles his chin. “Wreak havoc, baby girl.”

“Well that's just not fair, Harry!” Ron complains. “We barely get enough sleep as it is!”

“Should have thought about that before you opened your treasonous mouth, Ronald Bilius Weasley. Suffer my wrath.”

“So is Harry an honorary brother?” Fred inquires before Ron can retort back, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“Harry is the favorite,” Ron says, easily derailed, his own blue eyes twinkling merrily. Harry opens his mouth to deny it, but Charlie gleefully steamrolls him.

“Yeah, Ginny used to be the favorite of all of the Weasleys—”

“Because she was the only girl—”

“But as soon as Harry showed up, with his messy hair and his baggy clothes and his puppy dog eyes, he became the favorite,” Bill chimes in, finishing where Charlie had been interrupted.

“Dad's usually neutral with all that 'I love everyone equally' shite, but then Harry told him about the function of a rubber duck, and that's all she wrote!”

Arthur doesn't even protest, watching his family with more love in his eyes than should be humanly possible to fit inside one man.

“Harry could murder any of us in cold blood over a potato crisp right in front of Mum, and she'd probably be like 'fair enough, I'll help bury the body, Harry dear,'” George says with a poor imitation of Molly's voice. He laughs as he dodges the outraged swat from his mother. “You see! Such betrayal of the offspring you birthed, you mad woman! You never hit Harry!”

“Harry is considerably more well-mannered and respectful, unlike the absolute heathens I struggled and clearly have failed to raise!” Molly declares, smacking him a few times with a conjured dish towel.

“So he really is the favorite,” Fred crows, and he's not at all fast enough to dodge her swat, as out of practice as he is, though she is far gentler in smacking him than she had been with George.

“I am not the favorite!” Harry's cry falls on deaf ears as he scowls at them all.

“Harry's been the favorite since he and I became friends,” Ron denies.

“Harry's the favorite in our world, too,” Tom chimes in, bamboozling his husband. Harry stares at him in confused betrayal, even as he accepts the soft kiss Tom delivers to his forehead when he bends over the back of the sofa to reach him, smiling at his pout.

“Not you too, Tom.”

“Just face it, mate,” Ron says with not an ounce of sympathy. “You're winning hearts no matter where you go. Hopefully Rose doesn't inherit it or absorb it through osmosis or some shit, because I already dread the boys I'm going to have to beat off of her with Beater's bats.”

“And while you're distracted by the boys, the girls will swoop in to charm her,” Harry shoots back with a devilish grin, lifting a hand off Rose's back to reach up and link fingers with Tom, ignoring how awkward the position must be for his husband, or how it must look to the others in the room. “Rosie's going to break hearts, you want and see.”

“Unless she grows into Ron's stupid nose,” George comments, laughing at the outraged squawk and not even bothering to dodge his mother this time.

“Nah, she's going to be beautiful.” Harry tilts his head to gaze at the sleeping little face smooshed to his chest. “She's going to be dropdead gorgeous, and she'll break hearts and take over the world once Hermione's done with it.” It had always been a running joke that Hermione wouldn't stop until she'd achieved world domination and whipped it into shape. She always retorted that she'd be perfectly content with Wizarding Britain, thank you very much.

Harry kisses Rose's little head again, content with life. This family and the one he has at home with Tom and the Potters are the best people he could ever want. He went from being a lonely orphan who no one ever wanted to being accepted into three households before he turned 30.

Everything is working out far better than he could have ever hoped for.

He can't wait to see how it all unfolds, with Tom by his side to enjoy ever last second with him.