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Of all places they could meet again, Harry hadn’t thought it would be Dumbledore’s office. Or, well, in front of it anyway.
The door to Dumbledore’s office was made out of old wood—the type of wood that made its natural swirls and patterns look ornate and elegant. It was also heavy, and so when Harry found himself face to face with Tom Riddle, of all people, he was so caught off-guard that he didn’t bother closing it.
He could hear Dumbledore’s heavy footsteps in the room beyond, just faintly filtering out through the gap in the door. Harry was frozen with one foot already set onto the steps beyond Dumbledore’s office, staring at Tom.
Tom had his fancy shirt on.
It was set apart from all his other shirts by the fact that it was pristine, pure white and ironed to perfection. Harry knew that while Tom knew the spell for ironing clothes and could execute it perfectly well, he liked doing the ironing by hand in times he got nervous.
And the fact that he was standing on the stairs leading up to Dumbledore’s office, well, it meant he must have been very nervous this morning. Harry knew things like that about Tom now, he hadn’t forgotten a single one of them in their time apart.
“Hi, Tom.” Harry's lips refused to let Tom’s name form smoothly, and the words came out quietly. The name tasted weird on his tongue, familiar and still strange.
“Harry.” Tom’s voice was even, of course it was, and he made Harry’s name sound like a fact rather than a greeting. But Harry saw how his hand grasped the railing tightly, knuckles turning white. “What are you doing here?”
Harry swallowed heavily. His heart felt oddly faint, like it was working twice as heavily as it should. Finally, Harry succeeded in pulling the door close, and he was vaguely aware of the fact his hands were trembling. “I’m… ah.” It didn’t feel like there was nearly enough air in his lungs, and Harry took a shuddering breath. “I’m working here now.”
He saw Tom’s perfect brows furrow. “Here?”
Harry nodded—he didn’t trust himself to have any air to spare for words.
Tom’s jaw clenched. “Congratulations. I assume you’re a teacher?”
Harry nodded again, before quietly offering, “Been here for a year.” He paused, lungs and heart yearning for a break, and Harry leaned back against the nice wood of Dumbledor’s door.
The hand at his side clenched into the heavy fabric of his jeans, and Harry grew vaguely aware of his rumpled appearance. But that was neither here nor there. Tom had once loved him despite his forgetfulness when it came to changing his clothes regularly and his forever-tangled hair he never knew how to properly take care of.
Hesitatingly, Harry spoke up again, the words falling from his lips a bit more proudly than he’d have imagined they would—maybe Tom would be proud of him too. “I teach Defense.”
There was a moment of absolute silence, before Harry heard Fawkes screech beyond the door. Then, Harry caught sight of the twitch in Tom’s eyebrow, a big glaring sign warning him that one of Tom’s anger attacks was about to follow. Tom’s voice, when he spoke, was all steel and barely contained fury. “You teach what?”
Harry gulped. He knew this was the moment where he should brush past Tom down the stairs and never look back. Because he knew Tom had heard him. He knew. But alas, Harry had always been one to ignore the danger signs. He squared his shoulders, and repeated, “I teach Defense.”
“Ah.” Tom’s knuckles were white as a sheet around the railing now, and Harry could see him tapping his foot against the wooden stair with a quick, angry motion. “Of course you do. Always really liked Defense, haven’t you? And Dumbledore always really liked you, didn’t he?”
Harry nodded, a short and jerky motion. “Yeah.”
“Of course you teach Defense,” Tom repeated, and that was that. He turned around at once, storming down the stairs in a thunder. Tom’s favourite black shoes had always made a lot of noise, and Harry knew Tom had liked that. You’d have heard them from miles away in the castle, especially on the narrow hallways with its smooth stone floors.
In a rush, Harry pushed himself away from the nice wooden door of Dumbledore’s office and went after Tom. Old instincts honed by the risky Quidditch moves that Tom had always appreciated allowed him to jump multiple stairs at once, and he found himself catching the tip of Tom’s sleeve just beside the gargoyle.
The action wrinkled the smooth, ironed fabric, and Harry watched as creases made its way all the way up Tom’s sleeve, irreversibly changing the fabric until Tom would iron it again. Harry liked that.
“Tom,” Harry called a bit belatedly and maybe a bit louder than was necessary. He felt like one of those adventurers he’d always liked to read about as a kid, the kind that stood before the trapped entrance of a treasure cave and still decided to continue on.
Then, Tom turned around, all brown, angry eyes and clenched jaw, and Harry thought that perhaps some treasures were too tempting to ignore.
“Tom,” Harry repeated again, quietly, his grip on Tom’s shirt tight. “What’s wrong?”
“What is wrong, you ask,” Tom repeated, his eyes narrowed and his voice soaked in malice. Tom gave a wide motion at the headmaster’s office behind Harry. “This absolute toad of a man invited me here to hold an interview. An interview,” Tom practically spat the words in Harry’s face, “For a position that is already taken.”
“Taken–” Harry repeated, eyes growing wide and the grip slacking. “You mean, you wanted to teach Defense… here, at Hogwarts?”
Tom nodded abrasively and pulled his shirt from Harry’s grasp, taking a few steps away. He paused there, just a moment, his bright brown eyes lingering on Harry, before he turned around without a word more.
Harry stood there, frozen, his hand slumping down to rest at his side, and watched as Tom disappeared from view.
He didn’t bother telling Dumbledore that Tom wouldn’t be coming to his interview. If Dumbledore wanted to do something as cruel as letting Tom sit for an interview for a job he wouldn’t be getting with a man he absolutely despised with his soul… Well, then Harry thought he could handle wasting a bit of his time waiting for Tom.
In fact, Harry was almost glad that they’d bumped into each other, if only so that Tom was spared that interview. Almost.
Harry swayed for a moment in the spot where Tom had just stood, before slowly stepping away from Dumbledore’s office. He’d need to get back to his classroom in a bit, but for now he still had some time.
It was odd, Harry realised as he walked. After spending so much of his free time in the castle this past year, he’d somehow found a new rapport with it. It was different, being here as a teacher than a student, and after a couple of years being away from the castle, he’d sort of, built new memories with it.
He hadn’t… forgotten the old ones, really, they had just been– pushed away.
But now, walking leisurely down the corridors, he could almost hear the noise of Hermione and Ron speaking beside him, caught up in their own little world. That corridor over there, he remembered going down there after Hermione after the Yule Ball. Memories of blue, heavy fabric hauling after her as she ran, flashes of nice hair and streams of tears.
In that alcove over there… he could remember Tom pulling him into it, crowding him close, and pressing kisses to his lips. And as Harry stood there, he thought that if he only stared at the alcove long enough, he could remember what he tasted like.
In the corner of that corridor over there, right between the floor and the wall, Harry knew there had once been a scorch mark. It had come from Harry’s own wand, brought there after their big fight. He remembered Flitwick having had some trouble cleaning it away afterwards, the spell having physically lodged itself into the surface. His magic had always been strong in emotional moments.
It was easier now, to forget about Tom Riddle, despite living on the very grounds their relationship had begun and ended. Maybe… maybe it was because of that. Harry shook his head, and tried brushing his robe into a semblance of neat. He didn’t know.
But memories like that served as a good reminder, anyway.
Hermione warned him.
Harry buries his face in his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe, if he tries really hard, he can make it… go away. It hasn’t worked before, but it may now. Completely possible—with magic, theoretically, anything should be. ’Mione’s always telling him that. She doesn’t seem to believe it herself, only when it’s convenient, but—
He’s avoiding the problem. The problem coming from a kitchen not his own, where the delicious smell of eggs and what might be… toast... ? is wafting from. Easy food for his stomach.
Harry groans, the sound muffled.
He pushes himself upright and swings his legs over the side of the bed—pauses to put a hand to his forehead as the world swims. No—no, hang on, he might be sick… His elbows hit his knees as his forehead falls into his palms.
After the dizziness passes, he chances a glance through his fingers and spots his glasses on the nightstand, along with a hangover potion. Lips pursed, Harry ignores the latter and slips his glasses onto his face. He gets unsteadily to his feet to survey his surroundings. He hasn’t seen Tom’s new place yet. And, honestly, he never intended to. It seems the firewhisky he partook in last night had other plans for him.
Head ready to split in half, Harry pads across the bedroom, collecting his dress robes from where Tom’s left them for him. Technically, they’re cleaned and folded, and there are day robes out—Tom’s day robes—for Harry to wear, but Harry doesn’t touch these, either. He stares at them and tells himself it’s a polite, thoughtful gesture, nothing more.
Yet once he’s dressed and has made his way to the kitchen to see the breakfast spread, he considers leaving then and there.
“Good, you’re awake,” the other, taller man says without turning around.
Harry could Stupefy himself.
“Oh, ah—you made… breakfast,” Harry replies.
He tugs at the collar of his dress robes, where pearls are sewn into the fabric. He’s no idea where his masquerade mask is, or what the point of even wearing one was, really. His hair and eyes are a dead giveaway, and he didn’t have a costume, necessarily, only the mask. But Hermione can talk him into nearly anything.
“Of course, I did,” Tom murmurs, and he turns at last to offer Harry a smile that lights up the smoky quartz brown of his eyes and stabs straight into Harry’s heart, robs the air from his lungs. It reminds him of lazy mornings in bed, of breakfasts with Tom reading the Prophet and Harry pausing to press a kiss to his temple before he steals food off his plate, and—and Tom would reach for him in revenge, and—
Horrible idea, last night!
“Tom,” Harry says, not moving from the threshold of the kitchen. “I’ve, er… I’m going to be late, and—I need to make sure they’ve got—they got my bid, and—”
“I’ve looked into the matter for you,” Tom dismisses, waving his wand, and a plate with Harry’s hangover food carries itself to a handsomely set table. Tom’s usual standard fare for breakfast awaits, along with a pitcher of juice and empty glasses. Tom’s copy of that morning’s paper is folded. “It’s taken care of. You should hear from them by this afternoon, however, if you’re truly concerned.”
Oh.
All right.
How does one error in judgement, one single relapse—?
Thoughtful, Harry reminds himself. Tom is merely being thoughtful.
“Well.” Harry clears his throat. He tries on a smile. It absolutely does not feel as awkward as he does, nor does it match the swarm of butterflies in his belly that have taken up residence since he first opened his eyes and caught Tom’s scent on his pillow. His ridiculously posh, perfect… “Thank you very much, Tom, but I’m still going to be late, so… I’ll…” Harry bites his lip before he can say, I’ll see you.
He doesn’t want to see Tom again. They can’t even shag without it reverting right back to where it was.
“Harry.” Tom gestures to the spread on the table, his voice soft. “Eat. It’s harmless.”
Harry’s head throbs. He wishes he took the hangover potion, but he doesn’t want anything from Tom. Beautiful Tom. It’s been long enough that when he saw Tom last night, it was easy to forget all the bad things, especially when he had the firewhisky in his system. But he—it’s too much.
Hermione told Harry it would be. She grabbed onto his arm before he left with Tom, whispered fiercely into his ear, No, Harry, wait—remember—it seems like a good idea now, but—!
“Thanks, Tom.” Unsure what he’s thanking him for, Harry turns and heads for the door.
He’s nearly free—he has his shoes on!—when Tom presses Harry into the door, and the world spins, and, no, no, he’s going to be ill—
Tom keeps one arm above Harry’s head, his other hand splayed beside his waist.
“Harry,” he says again. “Don’t pretend it didn’t mean anything.”
Harry doesn’t trust himself to say anything, so he doesn’t.
The other man narrows his eyes. They stare at one another, Harry’s heart climbing up into his throat, pounding so hard, he thinks he’ll choke on it. Tom seems like he’s a second away from grabbing Harry and bodily dragging him back into his home. Harry nearly wants him to. But he reminds himself of everything that broke them in the first place, and—
He can’t breathe.
“Don’t follow me again,” Harry says. “I know—I know that’s why you were there, Tom.”
Tom doesn’t deny it.
Harry’s hand fumbles, his palm smacking against the door until he finds the doorknob, Tom giving him absolutely no room to breathe, and he thinks about how he might have Apparated out, but what if there’s Anti-Apparition wards, and—then he’s free, he’s free, he’s shut the door behind him, and he doesn’t care if his pace is hurried.
The second he’s safely outside of the building, and the sun is shining on his face, searing into his aching eyes, he Apparates away from the domesticity of waking up to Tom and everything it represents.
He pretends he doesn’t miss it.
Tom held his wand aloft to let the soft glow of his lumos bathe the surroundings walls. It was truly a pain that his gem supplier had very inconveniently gotten himself murdered the night before, leading Tom to seeking out supplies from other, untrustworthy sources, almost being swindled and swiftly retaliating to the offence, consequently leading the remaining distributors of cursed and malicious items to scurry like rats and hide alongside them beneath the grime coated cobblestone of Knockturn Alley hoping to wait out his fury.
Which all lead him here, in this damp and dark cave, having to collect the required stones himself before the new moon dawned the following night. It was also, to his great shame, partly his own fault he was stuck leading his way down to the potential lair of a beast with only a first year spell; being armed with the great gift of parseltongue, he’d always been able to rely upon his serpents to make up for what he lacked in night vision in the past, and had therefore never bothered to learn any such spells to rectify the situation. How foolish, he now thought. However, he would not purposely risk his darlings unless necessary, and any muggle light device would be… unreliable, at best, in such a magically saturated environment. Therefore, to his displeasure, a lumos was simply the best solution. And what a simple solution it was.
If only it did not leave him vulnerable, what with his wand hand occupied—but he was no ordinary wizard—he required neither wand nor sight to use magic and defend himself.
A distant scuffing noise made him pause. It came from further in the cave. The situation was not ideal as it seemed he would indeed encounter the Malleite Horned Bat, yet he had expected this. The beast would get out of his way, or perish.
The light coming from his wand diminished at his command, now barely illuminating a metre ahead of him. The creature was sensitive to strong light. This way, he would hopefully be able to bypass it quickly and without trouble.
Another few metres down the winding slope of the cavern and around a corner before he came across a crevice barely big enough for a human, and twisted sideways to wedge himself through. He stepped forward to head further into the dark, his wand pointed first to his right then to his left, and froze in utter shock as his light reflected off of glass.
Or, to be precise, as it reflected off of two round pieces of glass covering eyes as green as the malachite he had come seeking, eyes that belonged to his ex lover.
Eyes that widened upon seeing him, then disappeared into darkness when a hand shot up and extinguished his light.
“What are you doing?” They both demanded at the same time, low voices sounding incredibly loud in the stifling stillness broken only by the distant echoing sounds of rushing water.
Harry recovered quickly, like he always did. “Why are you using a light,” he hissed, the unspoken idiot at the end of his sentence clearly audible.
“Why Harry, perhaps because it's as dark as a lethifold in here,” his biting tone belying his pleasant words.
“As dark as your heart, you mean,” the other man snorted.
He let out a careful breath through his nose, probably only able to keep himself from rising to the taunt because he was unable to see the belligerent, too expressive, infuriating face of Harry Potter. Silence, it seemed, was the right answer.
“Sorry,” Harry whispered. “Just habit. Did you not spell yourself to see in the dark?”
Ah. How embarrassing. He would have to tell someone else about his misstep. Harry had seen worse from him, though.
“I don’t know the spell,” he admitted. A pause. “I can hear you trying not to laugh, Harry.”
“Sorry,” was whispered again, this time through tightly pinched lips. It took a moment before he was able to regain himself, then Tom felt a warm hand ghost along his jaw. “Don’t move. I’ll do it for you.” Warm fingers spread over his cheek, down to his neck and up ‘till a thumb brushed against the corner of his eye. The thumb receded, replaced by the hard surface of wood. “Sorry,” the other man mumbled nonsensically, even though the tip of his wand barely rested on his skin at all. Perhaps he was just sorry he had to touch him at all.
“Noxis horoma.”
The cave’s humid walls bloomed back into existence around him and in front of him, so close he could count his eyelashes, stood Harry.
“... Why are you dressed like that?”
His clothes looked truly horrid. Worse than the oversized, almost rag-like muggle clothes he used to wear.
He rolled his eyes. “You're welcome. I’m here to observe a Malleite Horned Bat for Luna. I’m not getting my nice clothes dirty in a cave. Though, I suppose I’m not surprised you dressed up for some spelunking,” he snickered.
“All my clothes are nice,” he retorted stiffly. Then— “Thank you.” Harry blinked at him. “For the spell. It will greatly help in my quest.”
A small smile appeared on the younger man's face, and this time there was nothing but sincerity in his voice when he said, again, “It’s no problem.”
Tom felt his own lips curl up in response, without a thought.
“But it will be a problem if you get in my way,” Harry continued, tone playful but eyes serious. “I hope you’re not here to hurt that poor creature.” Always assuming the worst of him, the thought came, not bitter but amused. They knew each other too well.
“I am only here to collect the stones it grows,” he promised.
“Then I guess we'll get along after all.”
“I suppose we will,” Tom answered, feeling the irrational urge to smile at the grin sent his way.
He stared at Harry’s eyes, their distinct colour now fading into the green tint covering everything, a result of the night vision spell. He knew, when they came out of the cave, that the malachite would pale in comparison, no matter how magical the stone may be in origin.
“Isn’t it funny that we ran into each other here, of all places? Like, what are the chances?”
Tom sighed and turned to go find the very reason he had come here in the first place.
Tom weaved through the heavy crowd in the gala hall of the Ministry, scowling at the gathering of men and women who all wanted a word with him. Some wanted the word bed, money, or some other word that would cause some salacious thing that made his magic ripple around with anger. Few things could make him lose such control of himself and he did not take kindly to the thought of making a scene with all these people around him.
He sipped from a champagne glass and looked around. It was nearing time for the traditional dances and Tom was loath to allow somebody to put his hands on him in that manner. He downed the rest of the alcohol and took a deep breath. He would choose his own partner and he would just have to deal with it, whomever they were.
With that affirming thought in his mind, he stalked through the crowd, not really paying attention to the people he passed as he listened to the tempo and tune of the song. A faster, more chaotic song came on and randomly he reached out and touched the shoulder of a passing Ministry member.
Tom froze as fiery eyes looked up at him, like Greek fire encapsulated in layers of emerald – it shone through the stone and outlined every line inside of it, every battle, every scar, every experience… Every soul-captivating emotion and feeling shone through and Tom’s mouth went dry at the weight of the piercing gaze.
Magic has shown me favour and smiles upon me.
“Tom,” Harry ground out, flicking his gaze to Tom’s hand which was still on his shoulder. “What do you want?”
“A dance,” Tom blurted out, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I would be most pleased if you gave me the opportunity to dance with you.”
Harry raised a brow, looking like Tom had just gone insane. Considering Harry was dressed in form fitting black and green robes that accentuated a trim figure with built muscles, Tom would say that his brain was being appropriately short with its analysis of things.
Harry rolled his eyes and proffered his hand. Tom took the offer up immediately. “One dance, Riddle.”
Tom nodded and led Harry out to the middle of the floor, where whispers immediately rose up around them. Most of them seemed to be about their failed relationship but he ignored the busy bodies who had nothing better to do except wallow in their self-pity and low confidence. It is what made them so lowly and useless.
The dance felt like it was being stretched to the point where Tom’s control was that of fraying threads of a worn rope, having warm hands pressed against his shoulder and chest, hips swaying so tantalizingly – Tom swallowed and took hold of his fracturing control, trying to meld the cracks together so that he didn’t do anything he would come to regret.
It was a futile thing though, because there were defined muscles flexing underneath his fingers and Tom had the thirsting thought that Harry had more curves than most women. He banished the thought quickly lest he act upon it, and focused on Harry’s voice the moment his lips opened.
“Why are you dancing with me?”
Tom nearly stumbled over his feet at the unexpected question and quickly regained control of himself as he worked through every implication that question could hold. The time limit was severely restricted as Harry gave him an irritated glance and Tom cleared his throat.
“I chose you at random.” Truth was always the best option when it came to Harry. “I hadn’t meant for it to be you but neither will I say that I regret that it was you.”
“Hm, that’s nice,” Harry said blandly, twisting his lips to the side.
Tom racked his brain for another conversation starter, something that had always been unrealistically impossible when it came to Harry but it happened all the same. “I heard you got a job at the Auror’s office. I would say that it’s better than your job as the Creature Professor at Hogwarts.”
Harry narrowed his eyes and his lips pursed. “Yes, I suppose it could be.” Tom felt very small underneath the weight of the gaze.
“Well… this job doesn’t have any monsters so that’s good?” Harry laughed, though it was a bit humorless so it grated on Tom.
The only laughter that should leave Harry is bright and loud. “No, it’s worse. There’s politics.”
“Politics are not that bad – you just need to know how to navigate it.”
“Seeing as I do not find pleasure in pandering to old sods and stuck-up prats, I’d say that I am not very good at navigating it. I’d take far too much pleasure in insulting them and their stick-stuffed arses. So I’ll leave that to you… you always did like kissing arse.”
Tom coughed, startled, and he didn’t deign a response to that.
The moment the song ended, Harry stepped away and Tom mourned the warmth that had left his touch.
“Thanks for the dance, Tom,” Harry forced out, averting his eyes quickly and clearing his throat.
Tom gave a strained smile and kept his eyes level with the bridge of Harry’s glasses. Not at the sharp curve of his cheek bone or the defined edge of his jaw or his red, bitten lips- Nope, not doing this right now, Tom screamed at himself, quickly banishing all unneeded thoughts from his mind. We are not doing this right now, not when I have a reputation to maintain-
“Thank you for allowing me the opportunity, Harry.” Tom did not mean to purr the name as he did, but it rolled off his tongue in a way that made his heart throb with need, and he eyed the delicious flush that spread over Harry’s face.
Harry swallowed and cleared his throat. “Of course, I need to go now, Riddle, so bye.” He darted off, leaving Tom a very nice view of the result of Harry’s exercises.
The rest of the night Tom danced with others, pleased with who he had given his first dance to, and paid no mind to all the people who hung off his arms. It was mostly women that he danced with, though he did encounter a few younger men who didn’t mind dancing with him, especially seeing as they were only a few years younger than he was.
Despite all the aesthetically pleasing people, none could quite match up to a flaming temper that matched deadly eyes – nobody ever could and despite how much of a problem it could become, Tom found himself falling back for the one that left him a shattered hollow mess… even if it had been him to cause the problems.
Well then, Tom thought as he apparated from the Ministry, tired from all the dancing and simpering fools who thought they could match up to the exquisite beauty of his past lover, I’ll just have to show him I that will not misuse his trust and love again… because I am unworthy, but I will slay all others who dare to touch such a divine vision.
He could kill me and my blood would turn to rubies at his touch and I would be his all over again-
Tom laid on his bed, still clothed in his formal robes, and when he slipped into the dream realm, all he could think of was Fiendfyre devouring his soul while his blood changed to rubies and Harry watched with burning emeralds and a crown of onyx.
Because Harry owned him, everything of him, no matter what Tom had once said in as a drunken fool who had indulged in one too many cups.
They would meet again, and perhaps Tom would get the chance to rectify his mistake, to show just how much Harry truly meant to him.
Harry adjusted his white tie. No, that wasn’t straight. Perhaps to the left? No, that was wrong as well. He growled and just left it as it was. He needed to look perfect tonight. He needed to show Tom that he was just as gorgeous as he was. That he could look better than the slobbish appearance that he normally wore.
“C’mon, you've got this!” Harry exclaimed into the mirror.
His mind said otherwise. It said that it would spell disaster. That Tom might not even show up. That it was all just a ploy to get back at him for some perceived slight or to just embarrass him.
He shook his head. No, Tom was going to show up, and the date would be splendid. They would have this date, then another, then another. Just like they used to do. Harry breathed out, his hands clenching into his black slacks. He placed his crystal cufflinks on his maroon jacket and flattened out his brown vest and white button-up. Everything would go well, Harry reminded himself.
His hands grasped his gift. Flowers were normal to give on dates. Tom deserved good flowers. He had them specially ordered—black roses with rubies in the middle. Black wasn’t a good colour for a date, but it might be for Tom. This wasn’t a normal date; it was a date with Tom.
Harry’s brain was about to burst.
Mouth cotton-dry, he sprayed a hint of vanilla-scented cologne onto him. He hoped it wasn’t too much. Tom had complained about others having too strong a scent. Harry stopped his thoughts. He was worrying too much about this date. With his Gryffindor confidence, he should ace this date.
His thoughts were racing as he approached his floo. He threw the powder into the fireplace and muttered the floo-stop. Hopefully, the restaurant was just as nice as the pictures and reviews said it was.
Harry waited outside the restaurant. It was gothic in nature and almost looked like a church if it weren’t for the abundance of runes engraved on the sides of the building. Harry sighed. He really, really needed to keep his nerves in check now. Otherwise, he would spew his guts all over Tom, and Harry would hide away, never to see the light of day again.
“Harry,” Tom’s voice called out.
Dear Merlin!
Tom was in black, his robe billowing behind him in the gentle wind. His vest was a dark gray, and his shirt was a forest green with small snakes slithering around the fabric. It hugged his body in all the right ways. Harry remembered his body well, and he had filled out in just the perfect way in their time apart. In his hands, he held white roses. They looked at each other with a tinge of pink on their cheeks.
Harry laughed nervously. “It looks like we both had the same idea.”
“We did.”
Tom held out his roses. Harry exchanged them for his own and gasped as he saw them. The insides of the roses were made of emeralds, glittering in the sunlight. Harry inhaled deeply.
“They match your eyes.” Tom explained, sniffing his roses.
“And they match yours.”
They stood there in a moment of silence. Both of them entered the restaurant, smelling the sweet aroma of food that made Harry’s stomach grumble. Embarrassed, he bit his lip.
“Reservation for Tom Riddle and Harry Potter.” Tom spoke clearly to the hostess.
She flipped a few pages on her stand. “Your table is ready. Follow me, please.”
Harry and Tom followed her through the maze of halls. He was sure he would get lost in there and have no way to escape. They were finally left at a door with crystals embedded into the exterior.
Inside was nothing short of brilliance. There were small columns supporting the arched ceiling, which had a painting of lovebirds on it. The sides of the walls were graced with Greek statues of semi-nude, beautiful men. A small waterfall cascaded down the back wall, filling the room with its flowing noise.
In the middle was a simple table, round with a white sheet over it, and two golden chairs across from each other. A long white candle burned as well.
“Your menus are on the table; your waitress will be here shortly.” The hostess dismissed herself and left Harry and Tom alone.
Tom, begging a gentleman, pulled out Harry’s chair for him. Harry sat down, still trying to swallow his nerves. He looked down at the menu to try to calm himself, but that only made his whirling mind hurt worse.
There was nothing on the menu that he recognised. All of it was just fancy food, showing pictures of little portions with greenery as decorations. Harry swallowed hard. He didn’t want to order expensive food and then end up hating it!
“I think you would like this.” Tom commented, pointing at the menu item.
Harry hoped his distress wasn’t too noticeable. “Oh? I guess I’ll have that, then.”
Tom knew his old tastes, and his tastes hadn’t changed much over the years. Hopefully, Harry liked it. If not, he would be able to force it down his throat. Tom raised an eyebrow at him.
Their waiter took their orders shortly, and Harry ordered what Tom recommended and Tom ordered something Harry couldn’t even pronounce; both opted to share a bottle of fine wine. Tom poured Harry the wine, careful not to spill a drop of it.
They swirled their drink around, taking small sips. Harry breathed in relief as he slowly relaxed. He took this time to take in Tom. His sharp jawline that could cut through diamonds was highlighted by the warm glow of the candle; his ruby-red eyes had an amused glint in them; and his curls looked like they glittered with sapphires.
He was gorgeous.
Harry was relieved when their orders came. His was a bigger portion than Tom’s, looking like some large ravioli with a small portion of sauce poured over it and a tiny red flower in the centre. Tom’s was a tiny bowl of some type of thick cream with a layer of honey on top.
The old Tom would have never ordered something that sweet.
But he was not looking at the old Tom; he was looking at a new one.
They made light chatter as they ate, talking about their lives. Harry found that Tom still retained the ability to talk for minutes on end without saying anything at all. It frustrated him, but he knew it was part of the old Tom showing through.
“You like to travel?” Harry tried to ask a direct question.
“I do.” Tom swirled his drink. “I want to travel the world.”
Harry nodded. They talked about Harry’s job and the dangers and perks of it, and Tom skillfully avoided talking about his. Harry wanted to growl. Tom wasn’t letting him in.
“Are you always this difficult? You’re saying nothing while you keep on talking.” Harry snapped. He regretted it instantly.
Tom drew back like Harry had punched him. “I am trying to be open.”
“Sorry,” Harry breathed out. “You just aren’t talking about you. The real you.”
Tom tilted his head. “I guess I have not. Let us start here. I have found great joy in exploring the different branches of magic. I have found love in dark magic in particular.”
Harry wondered if that was to provoke him or if he was trying to be honest. Harry was still hesitant around dark magic; it was his duty to be, but he couldn’t deny Tom. If Tom loved dark magic, Harry would just have to deal with it.
“That’s good that you found a branch you like. I found joy in more defensive charms.”
Tom loosened up as they talked. He spoke of his countless adventures, his dubious passions, and his great pride in his magnificent abilities. Harry exchanged parts of his heart as well, talking about his many struggles, his few hobbies, and the dozens of encounters with unsavoury figures.
“Who is paying?” The waitress asked once she came back in.
“I am,” Harry announced.
Tom looked like he was about to fight him, but he nodded. Harry threw down the galleons they owed, and then they departed from the exquisite restaurant. They walked outside to a pier that overlooked a vast ocean.
They watched from a bench as the sealife bustled under the surface: mermaids swimming, creatures diving in and out of the water, and the sway of the flora. Their hands bumped together, and Tom slipped their fingers together, gripping Harry tight.
“I enjoyed myself tonight,” Tom announced, still looking out to the ocean.
“I did as well.” Harry nodded along.
Tom bit his lip. He turned his head to Harry, confliction in his ruby eyes. Long fingers cupped Harry’s face. Harry found a rising blush growing up his face.
“I want you.” Tom cleared his throat. “I want to take you to travel the world with me. I want you by my side through everything. I sorely wish you would forgive our mistakes and move on from our past. Together, we are better than separate.”
Harry sighed, placing his hand over Tom’s. “I want to trust you.”
“You don’t,” Tom said sadly.
He reached for his bouquet that was resting on their bench and pulled out a rose. He tucked it behind Harry’s ears.
“I would be willing to learn to trust you.” Harry smiled at him. “And I want out of this life I have.”
“Come with me, Harry. I can give you everything you want and more.” Tom pleaded with him, his eyes glistening.
Harry reached up and pulled Tom closer. “I would like that.”
Their lips met. Tom’s was just as soft as Harry remembered, but there was something wanting behind his kiss. He kissed him like it would be their last, like they were lovers about to depart from each other for eternity.
But they wouldn’t dare do that. They were bound to find comfort and love in each other, and neither of them would give that up as easily as they did before.