Work Text:
Amelia Brooks was an extremely ambitious witch.
A true Slytherin. Head of her house, the teachers’ favorite, the pride of her family. She had passed the competitive selection process for the position of the Minister’s secretary.
Working with Minister Riddle turned out to be a wonderful challenge. Overtime (but paid), complex tasks (but what a pleasure to tackle them), a grumpy boss (but never stingy with holiday bonuses). She felt like she was part of something greater—witnessing their magical world change for the better. Tom was a brilliant reformer and a true genius at his job.
But working with Tom Riddle when his "worst enemy" is Harry Potter is like being in the eye of a storm.
Amelia was calmly reviewing her boss’s schedule for the second half of the month when a whirlwind of red Auror robes and messy hair swept past her desk at breakneck speed. The Minister’s office door flew open with such force that the protective charms rang out in a mournful chime.
"RIDDLE! You arrogant piece of gargoyle shit!" Potter bellowed.
Amelia didn’t even look up; she just sighed.
"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she murmured, opening her favorite leather notebook—a gift from her aunt on her first day of work.
Section: "Work Statistics"
10:15 Visit from the Head of the Auror Office. Door damage—4th time this week.
Subsection: Reasons why the Minister has yet to use the Killing Curse on Mr. Potter
She added a new line.
No. 17: Mr. Potter is probably still useful in the fight against crime.
She paused, then added below it:
No. 18: The Minister apparently enjoys yelling at him.
"Potter, if you do not learn how to operate a doorknob, I shall have the entrance to your department enchanted so that you may only enter via the Floo, upside down," came the cold voice of her boss.
Amelia made another note.
10:16 —Threat of administrative hex. Progress in negotiations: minimal.
They hated each other. That was the view of absolutely everyone in Britain’s magical community.
But only Amelia (and perhaps a few unfortunate ficus trees in the office) was a witness to what actually happened with their magic. Amelia had inherited a rare gift: she could sometimes see magic itself, particularly during moments of intense emotion in powerful wizards. (To her misfortune, she had to interact with the two most powerful ones in Britain). Even now, violet flashes emanating from the Minister’s open office tinted half the reception area. This was mild; Amelia had grown accustomed to natural disasters: lightning storms, clouds with shards of icy rain, or lava flooding the floor.
The voices suddenly went quiet—the boss must have cast a privacy charm. Pity.
By habit, she cast a shield around her desk and set a timer for three minutes. Their "discussions" rarely lasted longer. Amelia had just finished preparing the papers for signing when the countdown numbers appeared in the air.
She checked the strength of her shield once more.
Three.
Two.
One.
The Head of the Auror Office stormed out of the office with furious strides. Had her heart not already been taken, she too would have sighed wistfully over this man, just like half of the single wizards and witches (the other half sighed over the Minister). Tall, broad-shouldered, and athletic, with burning green eyes and charming dimples when he smiled. A shame Amelia only saw those in magic photos; 99% of the time they crossed paths, Mr. Potter was in a rage. And that rage was directed solely at her boss. She knew that outside of his interactions with the Minister, Harry Potter was a true gentleman. Kind, caring, a rescuer of kneazles. And as for how he looked in Quidditch robes—on the rare occasions she attended matches, she’d seen how...
"I’VE SAID MY PIECE, RIDDLE! THE MATTER IS NO LONGER UP FOR DISCUSSION!" he thundered, heading for the exit. Furious whirlwinds of red magic whipped around him like a cyclone.
"Mr. Potter, please control your emotions; your face is beginning to match the color of your robes," the Minister’s velvet voice drifted from the still-open office. "And to you, I am Mr. Riddle."
"GO FUCK YOURSELF, MR. RIDDLE!"
And as he crossed the threshold, the Head of the Auror Office apparated with a sharp crack and a furious gust of wind.
Amelia sighed and dropped her shield. With a wave of her wand, she returned the fallen frames—awards, letters of thanks and moving photos—to the wall where they were displayed for visitors waiting for the Minister in the reception room to peruse.
Then, gathering a stack of parchments, she cautiously peeked into the inner sanctum.
"Mr. Riddle, while you have ten minutes before your meeting with the goblins, I must ask you to sign these documents," she ventured, surveying the wrecked office and her disheveled boss.
Tom Riddle stood by the window, his back to her. His shoulders were heaving.
"Bring them," Riddle hissed, and swept his arm sharply. A wave of frost-blue magic swept through the room. Shards of glass knitted back into a crystal goblet. Papers flew back onto the desk. The Minister’s hair settled into perfect, calculated curls.
Amelia caught the sight of violet lightning flickering briefly along the walls—where the Minister’s magic met the fading embers of Harry Potter’s red fire.
Friday arrived.
Amelia was returning from lunch when an Auror practically ran into her at the turn of a corridor.
"Oh, my apologies, Miss Brooks. I'm actually rushing to see the Minister. It's urgent," the red-haired man muttered, sounding breathless.
Amelia straightened the sleeves of her blouse and gave him a frigid look from under her lashes. Of course. Everyone needs the Minister. And it's always urgent.
"Follow me," she replied. If she was lucky, she might "accidentally" spill coffee on the brute later.
As they approached the Minister’s office, Amelia noticed something odd: inter-departmental memos were flying everywhere, colliding mid-air. That was a bad sign.
Amelia had barely stepped into the reception area when the office door swung open and her disgruntled boss stepped out.
"Miss Brooks, where have you been? I need the—"
"Mr. Riddle!" the Auror interrupted, pushing Amelia aside. "We have an emergency. An attack. Our Head has been wounded."
Silence.
"Repeat that," Riddle said quietly.
Amelia swallowed.
"An attack on an Auror raid in Knockturn Alley, sir. Mr. Potter was hit by unknown curse. He’s just been taken to St. Mungo’s. The attackers have fled."
Riddle didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring through the wall. But Amelia felt it in her skin: the temperature in the room plummeted as if a Dementor had stopped by for coffee. She walked over to the desk to pick up a quill to take notes on the next instructions, but her fingers hit ice.
The ink in her inkwell had frozen.
"Miss Brooks," Riddle called. His voice wasn't just quiet—it was hollow.
"Yes, sir?"
"Find the best potioneer in Europe."
"Understood. I’ll contact Mr. Snape—"
"No." Riddle finally looked at her. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, were burning with a primal, terrifying light. "Not Britain. Europe. Contact the Potioneers' Guild in Germany. Tell them I'll send a Ministry Portkey in five minutes."
Amelia blinked, fixing the task in her mind since her ink had failed her.
"And Miss Brooks."
"Yes, sir?"
"The best Phoenix Potion. Anything that can stop tissue decay from dark magic."
"But Minister, St. Mungo's protocol states that—"
"I. Don't. Care. Protocol. I want the best. Withdraw the Galleons from my personal vault at Gringotts. Deliver it to Potter’s ward anonymously. If I find he has lost a single extra drop of blood due to bureaucracy, I will personally turn St. Mungo’s into a graveyard."
Amelia nodded silently. She opened her notebook. The frozen ink began to thaw under her fingers.
No. 19: Perhaps... he prefers that no one but himself should kill Potter.
For the next two days, the Minister did not leave his office. He took reports, signed papers, and held meetings, but he wasn't truly "there."
When Amelia entered that evening to bring him the final hospital update, she froze in the doorway. Tom Riddle, usually impeccable, was slumped over his desk, head in his hands. The shadows under his eyes were so deep a team of Unspeakables could have been sent in to study them.
"He’s regained consciousness," Amelia said softly.
Riddle’s shoulders gave a microscopic tremor. He didn't look up, only gave a short nod.
"You may go, Miss Brooks."
The next morning, Amelia opened the Daily Prophet at breakfast and nearly choked on her tea.
"DARK WIZARD GANG ANNIHILATED. REVENGE OR JUSTICE?"
The article stated that all twelve criminals involved in the attack on the Aurors had been found dead in their hideout. No signs of a struggle. No external wounds. Just twelve bodies with expressions of frozen terror on their faces. "Magic outburst of colossal power," Ministry experts claimed.
Amelia slowly put the paper down.
If someone hurt Potter... that poor soul’s life expectancy became very short, very quickly.
Suspect: The Minister of Magic.
Two days later, the silence was officially broken.
The door flew off its hinges with the familiar bang.
"RIDDLE! YOU FILTHY MANIPULATOR! WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO PAY FOR MY TREATMENT?!"
Amelia, without so much as a blink, straightened a stack of papers on her desk.
Unfortunately, Potter survived. Life returns to normal. Door repairs: 2 Galleons.
The London winter was exceptionally harsh this year. Drafts whistled through the Ministry halls despite the hundreds of protective charms.
Amelia sat in a wool vest over her blouse, sipping her third cup of chamomile tea. Christmas was coming soon; she needed to find a gift for her lover—her soulmate was quite difficult to surprise. She needed to jot down some ideas.
But first—work. Amelia set down her favorite cup, gathered a stack of papers, and headed to her boss.
Tom Riddle was an incredibly stubborn man. He refused to admit he was ill. He grew pale, drank Pepperup Potion by the liter, and—worst of all—had a hacking, dry cough.
"Mr. Riddle, I could call a Healer," Amelia suggested for the tenth time.
"Miss Brooks, if you utter that word one more time, I'll send you to the archives to transcribe 12th-century tax records," Tom replied without looking up.
The secretary sighed, shook her head, and returned to her desk. The Deputy Minister of Finance was due soon to discuss budget amendments.
In her mind, she was still scolding her boss. Like talking to a brick wall. Such a stubborn man.
Amelia conjured a small mirror to make sure her nose hadn't turned too red from the hot tea.
At that moment, the door opened. Smoothly. Theodore Nott walked in. He looked like he’d stepped off a Witch Weekly cover: impeccable robes, unbearable aristocratic grace, sharp cheekbones, and a lazy smirk.
"Miss Brooks," he nodded politely.
"Lord Nott."
"Mr. Riddle is expecting me." He placed a box of her favorite pastries on her desk, winked, and entered the Minister’s office.
14:45 Deputy Minister of Finance arrives. Brought a ridiculous bribe.
For about an hour, all was quiet and peaceful. Amelia managed to incinerate a pile of love letters from Tom Riddle’s admirers and was finishing her planning for next week. A turquoise spark appeared over her desk—the signal to serve coffee. She quickly prepared two cups: a double espresso for the Minister (with a drop of cough potion) and a soy milk cappuccino with one sugar for the "briber" from Finance Department.
Amelia opened the door and levitated the tray to a side table. The men were leaning over the desk, discussing budget edits; Lord Nott was whispering something, pointing at figures.
And then...
CRASH. The door nearly jumped its hinges.
Harry Potter flew into the office, stripping off snow-covered gloves as he moved.
"RIDDLE! Why the hell does my department have a smaller budget for brooms than—" He stopped dead.
Potter froze. His gaze fell on Nott. Auror’s magic changed instantly. The air became heavy and hot. Red sparks licked the edge of the Minister's desk.
"Oh," Potter bit out. His eyes narrowed dangerously behind his glasses. "Nott. I didn't realize the Minister was having a... meeting."
"Mr. Potter," Lord Nott nodded with that lazy smile that always made Potter grit his teeth. "Mr. Riddle and I were just discussing the rationality of purchasing Quidditch equipment for the Auror Office at the taxpayers' expense." He placed a friendly hand on the Minister’s shoulder. Tom merely arched an eyebrow.
Harry stepped closer.
"If you don't take your hand off my—off the Minister, Nott, I’ll rip it off."
15:52 —The Head of the Auror Office wishes to dismember an aristocrat.
Tom Riddle slowly looked up. He was clearly enjoying the situation. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips.
"Mr. Potter," he said in his softest voice. Amelia noticed how the cold, blue tendrils of Tom’s magic reached out toward Potter’s fire like a magnet. The whole desk began to glow purple. "Theodore is simply helping me. Unlike some, he knows how to conduct himself calmly."
"Helping?" Potter snorted, stepping right up to the desk. "Since when does this genius need the Minister’s help to figure out his own fucking... hieroglyphs?!"
Tom was about to reply, but his face suddenly contorted, and he was seized by a heavy, dry cough.
Harry’s expression changed instantly. He froze, looking at Tom with a strange mixture of anger and pain.
"You're sick," Potter stated, his voice becoming uncharacteristically low.
"I’m fine," Tom rasped, catching his breath.
"You look like a herd of centaurs trampled you, Riddle. Go home."
"I'll decide for myself when to go home, Head Auror Potter. Go catch your criminals."
Harry Potter stared him for another minute, then spun around and stormed out of the office without another word. The door didn't slam.
An hour later, after Lord Nott had left and the Minister had locked himself in to finish his work, the walking disaster reappeared in the reception area. But this time, Mr. Potter was... skulking?
He approached Amelia’s desk and, glancing around like a thief, set a soft parcel down.
"Brooks," he whispered.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?" Amelia raised an eyebrow.
"The idiot is coughing. Loudly. It’s stopping me working, even from the other end of the building. It’s driving me mad."
Amelia looked at the parcel. "And?"
"It’s..." Harry hesitated, his ears turning red. "Whatever. I bought it... by accident. It’s been lying around for ages. Give it to him."
"Why not give it to him yourself?" Amelia asked innocently.
Potter looked at her as if she’d suggested he kiss a troll's arse. "So he can mock my... manners again?"
"Possibly."
"Look, just don't tell him it's from me. Say... I don't know, say it's standard humanitarian aid for infirm staff."
And he retreated from the room as quickly and quietly as a ninja.
Amelia unwrapped the parcel. It was a scarf. Clearly expensive. Exquisitely crafted, a deep emerald colour. It radiated such powerful yet gentle warmth that the frost on the reception room windows melted instantly. A maximum-level Warming Spell and protective charms against the cold?
Amelia held an invitation from Russia in her hands. The parchment was so thick it felt as though it could deflect hexes. It smelled of frost, pine needles, and ancient magic.
Princess Anastasia Volkova had invited the Minister for Magic for negotiations. As Amelia well knew, they had been trying to secure an alliance with magical Russia for a long time. Unfortunately, following the events of the early 20th century in the Muggle world, the wizards of that country had closed themselves off from any interaction with the rest of the magical world for half a century. It was vital to resume cooperation and trade.
It was nerve-wracking. She lingered at the threshold of the office, wondering how her boss would react to the terms of the invitation.
"Miss Brooks, what is the matter?" Riddle asked, looking up at her, tearing his gaze away from the documents he was reviewing.
"The Russian magical government is inviting you for cooperation talks."
"Yes, we were expecting a reply from them. Why do you look so surprised?"
"The invitation is personal. And there is a condition."
Riddle leaned back in his chair.
She handed him the letter and decided to share a brief summary of what she knew about the Russian aristocracy while the Minister read.
"The Princess is of the old guard. She believes that a politician incapable of building a stable family cannot hold a country together; and a person capable of loving and maintaining a bond is also capable of making long-term political treaties. Therefore, she only receives official delegations headed by officials who have a family or a magically bonded partner. Or, as they say, 'those whose soul has found its home.'"
Tom finished reading the letter and went still. His eyes flashed ominously.
"Fascinating logic. But I am single."
"Yes, sir. You see, she wants to see that you're a well-balanced person. That you have a partner who counterweights your... er..." Amelia gave a delicate cough. "Your monumental personality. She does not negotiate with single officials."
Tom snorted. "Then negotiations are impossible."
"But sir... We must secure this alliance before the Magical Committee of China beats us to it. You know that if they sign an economic contract, we lose the chance to enter the Eurasian magical market, which means—"
"I am perfectly aware of the significance of this alliance, Miss Brooks," the Minister interrupted. "Fine. Hire an actress."
"It won't work. Princess is a powerful Legilimens, and her grandfather was one of the first researchers of magical soul-bonds when the phenomenon first appeared. She will see the falsehood from a mile away. We need... something else."
Tom Riddle fell into thought. He rose from his chair and walked to the window.
"Reply to them."
"Yes, sir."
"Write that I accept the invitation."
"Yes, sir."
"And that my... partner is, unfortunately, ill and will be unable to attend."
"I will prepare the letter. We'll simply write that your partner is coming, but in reality, they will 'suddenly fall ill' upon arrival."
"Risky. But I need that contract. Go ahead, Miss Brooks."
"Why me?"
"It's so cold there!"
"Riddle, put a hat on, you look like a pale toad"
"Riddle, I am officially declaring: I hate snow, I hate the cold, and I hate you."
Unfortunately, trips like this required security. And only the Head of the Auror Office was suitable for protecting the Minister.
"Mr. Potter, your whining is tedious," Tom replied, adjusting his favorite warm emerald scarf. "You are here for my safety. Stand there and be quiet."
International Portkey travel was always unpleasant, but landing in St. Petersburg was even worse. The cold hit their faces like a Flippendo.
They were met by the entire staff of the Volkova household and... the Princess herself. A majestic woman in a sable coat, whose magic felt like a century-old layer of ice.
"Welcome," she boomed in flawless English. She approached Tom, nodded, and then turned her gaze to Harry.
Her face suddenly softened, and a flash of approval lit her eyes.
"Ah, Lord Potter-Riddle. I assume you are the heart of this union. I can see your bond. It... rages like a blizzard. Very powerful. It is so touching—spouses in service to the state."
Potter choked. Riddle froze like a marble statue.
"I’m sorry, Lord... who?" Harry glanced at Tom. The Minister’s eye had begun to twitch rhythmically.
Mistake in the reply?
"Oh," Amelia stepped forward, trying to clarify. "It seems there was a mistake with the titles in my letter!"
Tom Riddle slowly turned his head toward his secretary. The sheer lethality of his gaze would have made Avada Kedavra look like a mild tickling charm. But in Princess presence, he couldn't cause a scene—that would mean the mission's failure.
The Princess laughed.
"No need to be shy, Minister! We respect the bonds of souls; it is no matter if your husband chose to keep his own surname. Come into the house."
She turned and headed toward the manor.
Harry grabbed Tom by the elbow.
"Riddle," he hissed, "what the hell is going on here? Why did she call me your husband?"
Tom, whose jaw was clenched tight enough to crush diamonds, squeezed out: "Potter, if you open your mouth and ruin this, I will feed you to the bears. We will... play along."
"Play along?!"
"Brooks!" Tom turned to Amelia, who was already briskly walking behind the Princess. "Your Christmas bonus is revoked!"
"As you wish, sir," she replied sadly, without looking back. "Apparently, something happened to the translation charms when I was writing the reply... And don't forget to take your husband's hand; Volkova is watching."
Harry and Tom looked at their hands simultaneously, then at each other. With expressions of profound suffering, they linked their fingers. The magic at the point of contact immediately produced a cascade of violet sparks.
"Your hands are cold," Harry grumbled, squeezing Tom’s palm tighter to warm it.
"Yours are too hot," Riddle replied.
I'll have to add a new section to the notebook, Amelia thought.
Reasons why the Minister hasn't killed his secretary yet.
The manor was the embodiment of harsh imperial luxury: high ceilings, crown molding depicting battles with griffins, and magical fireplaces where flames roared. But even those flames couldn't dispel the chill that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Princess pointed to massive double oak doors. "Gentlemen, your room. Dinner is in an hour in the Green Hall to the left of the stairs. My home is your home. And do not hesitate to show your feelings; I believe that to hide love is to insult magic." She turned to leave, then stopped abruptly. "Ah, yes, I almost forgot. Miss Brooks, your quarters are opposite."
Well, yeah. Who cared about the secretary?
The Princess departed, leaving the three of them alone.
Tom slowly turned to Amelia. His wand slid into his hand.
"Brooks," he whispered. "Which spell do you prefer for eternal silence? I can be merciful and give you a choice."
"Sir," Amelia remained perfectly calm. "Killing me now is a bad strategy. Besides, look at Mr. Potter. He seems to like the decor."
Harry was standing in the middle of the room, mouth agape. It was the size of half the entire Auror Office. In the center stood a bed under a heavy canopy.
"Riddle," Harry turned around, his face flushed. "There’s one bed. ONE. And it has silk sheets..."
The Auror began waving his wand frantically, fiercely whispering charms.
Nothing happened.
"DAMN IT! Why can’t I transfigure another bed?!"
"I expect... it’s better not to ask the Princess about that," Amelia said, thoughtfully scratching her cheek. "Anyway. If you need... any help... I mean... with maintaining the legend, just call."
She quickly vanished behind her own door before the Minister remembered he was a master of wandless magic.
In the Green Hall, they were met by Prince Volkov—the husband of the formal head of magical Russia—a sturdy man with wheat-colored hair and a well-groomed beard. The advisors from their magical government were only due to arrive in the morning to start the negotiations. After introductions and polite conversation about the weather and the polar bear population, they began dinner. Anastasia watched them closely, sipping a potent blackcurrant liqueur.
"Tell me," she began, "how did the Head of the Auror Office and the Minister for Magic find their way to each other?"
Tom froze with his fork in mid-air. His mind, usually a perfectly functioning machine, stalled for a second. But Harry, to Amelia’s surprise, reacted first.
"He annoyed me," Potter blurted out, helping himself to another piece of pie. "Insufferably annoyed me. Swanning about... acting all important, thinking he was smarter than everyone else."
"And what changed?" Volkova purred, narrowing her eyes.
Harry hesitated, his gaze accidentally falling on Tom. In the dim light of the hall, illuminated only by candles, Riddle looked less like a formidable Minister and more like a man who was very tired of responsibility.
"I realized he was just a lonely idiot who didn't know how to ask for help," Harry said quietly. "I had to take it upon myself."
Tom slowly turned his head toward Harry. The usual coldness was absent from his eyes. Instead, there was bewilderment mixed with something else. He placed his palm over Potter’s hand on the table.
"Harry is too modest," Tom said, and his voice sounded suspiciously sincere. "In truth, he is the only one who dared to enter my office without an invitation and stay there when I told him to get out. His manners leave much to be desired, but I have grown accustomed to them."
Amelia, sitting at the edge of the table, nearly choked on her soup.
Acting skill level: terrifyingly high.
After dinner, Amelia returned to her room, gathered her negotiation notes, and decided to drop them off with her boss. Just in case. She was well-acquainted with foreign culture and traditions and desperately wanted the talks to succeed.
As she raised her hand to knock, she immediately heard shouting from within.
"POTTER, GET YOUR FILTHY ROBES OFF MY SIDE OF THE BED!"
"YOUR SIDE? THERE IS NO 'YOUR SIDE,' RIDDLE!"
Amelia sighed heavily. Clearly, the notes could wait until morning. An hour later, as she returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea, she heard whispering behind the door again.
"Riddle, you’re taking up three-quarters of the bed."
"Potter, I am the Minister for Magic. My dignity requires space."
"Your dignity shouldn't be requiring anything right now. And you’re freezing. Do you have liquid nitrogen from the Department of Mysteries in your veins instead of blood?"
There was a sound of rustling.
"Stop fidgeting, Potter."
"Couldn't you have brought warmer pajamas?"
"I am already wearing my warmest pajamas and your scarf!"
"Unbelievable. You really are helpless, Riddle."
"What are you doing?"
"Warming you up, you cold-blooded snake. Shut up and sleep. If you start coughing during the negotiations tomorrow, Volkova will think I’m not taking care of you, and the whole deal will go down the drain."
Silence followed. A minute later, Amelia heard her boss let out a deep, relaxed breath.
The magic in the room behind the door suddenly changed. It no longer crackled with fury. It became steady, thick. Content.
Amelia turned away and walked to her room.
"Reasons why the Minister has yet to use the Killing Curse on Mr. Potter"
No. 20: As it turns out, Potter is the world’s best heating pad.
The morning began suspiciously quietly.
Amelia walked down the corridor, reviewing her morning schedule: breakfast with Prince, a preliminary meeting with advisors, then a walk through the Winter Garden...
She stopped at the door and knocked. There was no answer.
Amelia cautiously pushed the door open.
She realized immediately that she had made a strategic mistake.
Harry Potter was standing before a large mirror with a look of utter misery on his face. He was violently strangling himself with a necktie.
"Potter," came a cold voice from the depths of the room. "If you die of asphyxiation right now, it could escalate into an international scandal."
Amelia stood still in the doorway. The Head of the Auror Office didn't know how to tie a tie? Unlikely.
Tom Riddle was sitting in an armchair by the fire, watching the scene with an expression of cold amusement.
"This damn knot," Harry spat.
"It’s a Windsor knot. I can’t believe you still don’t know how to tie it."
"I’m an Auror, Riddle. I know how to tie up criminals."
"How tragic that you only tie up them."
Amelia covered her mouth to keep from laughing. Harry jerked the tie so hard he nearly tore the reinforced silk.
Tom rose slowly. "Come here."
"What?"
"If you appear at breakfast looking like that, all will assume our union is on the brink of divorce. It will reflect poorly on the negotiations."
Harry grumbled something but stepped closer. Tom stood in front of him and took hold of the tie.
His movements were swift, precise, and irritatingly elegant.
Amelia noticed Mr. Potter go still. For a few seconds, they were silent. Tom tightened the knot and, with a practiced, almost intimate gesture, smoothed the collar of the Auror's shirt. His fingers lingered for a second on the warm skin of Harry’s neck.
Violet sparks flickered softly in the air.
Tom took a step back. "You look acceptable now."
Harry looked at himself in the glass. "Thanks."
Riddle let out an irritated sigh. "Do not thank me. I am saving a diplomatic mission."
Harry turned to him. "You know, Riddle..."
"What?"
"If the British public saw you tying my tie right now, half the country would think we were actually married."
Tom arched an eyebrow. "Potter."
"Yeah?"
"We are married."
Harry stared at him for several seconds.
Amelia gave a small cough from the doorway. They both turned at once.
"Miss Brooks," Tom said coldly.
"Breakfast is in ten minutes, sir," she replied innocently. "And I must say, you both look... remarkably convincing."
The farewell gala at the manor felt like a fairytale come to life: sparkling snow outside the windows, tables groaning under the weight of caviar and mead, and music that made the magic in one’s veins dance. The contract had been signed.
Amelia stood by a pillar, sipping champagne and watching her boss and Mr. Potter closely. Riddle and Potter looked impeccable: the Minister in a strict black frock coat with silver embroidery, the Head of the Auror Office in his red uniform. They stood shoulder to shoulder, appearing as a monolith of power and strength.
Princess, dressed in blue silk embroidered with pearls, approached them with a sly smile.
"In our country," she began, as the music in the hall shifted into a deep, sweeping waltz, "we have a tradition. The first dance after a union is concluded is opened by those whose hearts beat in unison. The spouses dance together."
Harry choked on his drink. Tom turned slightly pale.
"Princess, I’m afraid my husband as an Auror prefers more... active forms of physical exertion," Riddle tried to pivot diplomatically.
"Oh, you are so young. I am certain active physical exertion still warms your family bed. But surely you won't deny me the pleasure of seeing you dance?" Volkova’s eyebrows shot up. A chill entered her voice. "Or is your love merely empty words for the protocol?"
Amelia held her breath. This was the critical moment. She caught her boss’s eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod: Dance, or we’re all doomed.
Tom Riddle, the greatest strategist of his time, slowly turned to Harry. His hand, encased in a fine leather glove, hovered in an inviting gesture.
"Potter," he hissed through his teeth, so quietly only Harry could hear. "If you step on my foot, I will make you count every Mandrake in Neville Longbottom’s greenhouses. Individually."
"I’ll bury you in those same greenhouses, Riddle," Harry snapped, but he took his hand.
They walked to the center of the hall. Hundreds of eyes turned toward them. The music swelled, and they began to move.
Amelia watched, mesmerized. Her hereditary gift surged: she saw Tom’s blue magic, cold and sharp, collide with Harry’s fierce scarlet flame.
"You stepped on my foot," Harry hissed thirty seconds in.
"It was a strategic maneuver, Potter. You move like a hippogriff with a clipped wing."
"I’m a Seeker, you git! I have perfect coordination! You’re just holding me like I’m a dangerous artifact about to explode!"
"You are a dangerous artifact," Tom said, suddenly pulling him closer, his hand tightening slightly on Harry’s waist. "Stop resisting. Just... follow me."
Harry went quiet. He looked up at Tom, and Amelia saw his anger suddenly dissolve into something else. The hot-tempered, emotional Potter suddenly went still in the cold Minister’s arms.
And the magic responded.
The blue and scarlet auras stopped fighting. They began to flow into one another, creating a soft, shimmering violet halo. The hall filled with a low hum—the very walls of the estate were resonating, welcoming a true bond.
They spun faster and faster. Riddle led with aristocratic grace, and Harry, despite his own protests, followed with surprising sensitivity. At one point, their faces were so close their noses almost touched.
"Your magic..." Harry breathed. "It smells like…first snow?"
"And yours—burnt sugar and gunpowder," Tom replied. His voice had dropped to a low, husky register. "A terrifying combination."
They didn't notice the music stop. They remained in the center of the hall, hand in hand, breathing heavily, unable to break eye contact.
Applause broke out. Harry awkwardly disentangled their hands and took a step back.
"I’m going to go find a beer," Harry muttered.
Tom merely nodded and moved toward a group of foreign officials.
The Head of the Auror Office was in a foul mood. And he hadn't found any beer.
Harry stood by the window, clutching a glass of something strong. His gaze was fixed on the Minister, who was graciously discussing the finer points of international trade with one of Volkova’s nephews.
"If the British saw him now," Harry hissed to Amelia as she approached. "He doesn't smile like that in London. He only smirks like that for Nott, who does nothing but heap compliments on him. 'Oh, our Minister has such a sharp mind!', 'Oh, Mr. Riddle does so much for the country!'. It makes me want to vomit."
"Mr. Potter, are you jealous?" Amelia asked innocently, adjusting her cuffs.
"Me?!" Harry nearly crushed his glass. "I’m just concerned for the dignity of our Minister."
At that moment, a polished aristocrat walked up and clinked glasses with him. "Mr. Potter, a stunning dance. Your husband is very handsome."
"I know."
Harry shot a venomous look at the back of the Minister’s head. As if sensing the sharp gaze, Tom turned around and, catching Harry’s eye, mockingly raised an eyebrow.
That was the final straw.
Potter marched across the hall, grabbed the Minister by the elbow, and, ignoring the surprised gasps of the guests, dragged him toward the side galleries.
"We need to talk. RIGHT NOW," he threw over his shoulder.
Oh, no. Not a scandal now. They were going to tear half the estate down.
Amelia, keeping her composure, followed at a distance, smiling at the guests as she went.
The men burst into a small, dimly lit room filled with artifacts. The door slammed with such force that the ancient crown molding above it crumbled slightly.
"Potter, what is this barbaric behavior?!" Tom exploded. His magic—sharp, blue, and icy—instantly filled the space. "You are disgracing us in front of Volkova!"
"Disgracing?!" Harry surged forward. "Are you not disgraced when you bat your eyelashes at every wizard you meet, probably dreaming of your precious Nott? Why didn't you bring him on this trip?!"
"What does Nott have to do with this?!" Tom was nearly shouting, which for him was a total loss of self-control. "He is an ally! He is predictable, and he doesn't burst into my office screaming every five minutes!"
"Then go fuck off to him!" Harry shoved Tom against the wall, pinning him. "Go back to London and marry his 'manners'! And I’ll... I’ll..."
"And you’ll what?!" Tom caught his wrists. His breath was heavy, and their magic—blue and red—twisted into such a tight violet knot that the air began to vibrate. "You are insufferable, Potter. You are walking chaos, you ruin my doors, you make me feel things I have no business feeling..."
"Then feel it already, you idiot!" Harry gasped.
And in that moment, Tom gave in. He didn't just kiss Harry—he collided with him. It was rough, desperate, and so sincere that Amelia, watching through the crack in the door, lost her breath. The hatred accumulated over years transformed into a passion so intense that cracks began to run across the ceiling.
They eventually pulled apart, noticing the magical discharge around them. Harry, breathing heavily, pressed his forehead against Tom’s cheek. Riddle held him tightly, fingers buried in Harry's perpetually messy hair.
"I hate you," Harry whispered.
"I know," Tom replied, kissing the top of his head. "I hate you too."
Amelia quickly cast a privacy charm so her boss and his soulmate wouldn't be disturbed, then returned to the main hall to calm the accidental witnesses of the brief drama.
Harry raised his head and looked at Tom. At those two tiny moles under his left eye, at the lips that had kissed him so fiercely a moment ago, at the one curl that had escaped his perfect hairstyle—the one Harry had always wanted to tug. He felt so much he didn't know whether he wanted to bite Tom's cheek or kiss every inch of him. He settled for a peck on the nose.
Tom laughed softly. The sound resonated in the very depths of Harry’s soul. He wanted to make sure Tom laughed as often as possible (and preferably only for him).
His magical core, which until now had known only storms, rage, and an unbearable desire to possess, finally settled. It truly bloomed, sending out tendrils of magic that clung to Tom’s matching threads. They intertwined, forming a great glowing tree of light that enveloped them both.
The magic of soulmates was truly beautiful. What fools they had been.
They watched in awe as their unified magic continued to manifest. When it had finished playing and realized its masters no longer wished to be parted, it slowly subsided, and the tree scattered into a thousand tiny petals that swirled back into the cores of both wizards.
"It’s beautiful," Tom said softly.
"You’re beautiful," Harry grinned, admiring his partner. He could do this forever.
Merlin’s saggy boots—Tom was blushing! Oh, this was going to be Harry’s new favorite hobby. Filing away the memory of the blushing Minister for Magic, Harry decided to distract himself before he actually bit his snake’s neck. He wasn't sure their magic was stable enough to cast glamour charms to hide hickeys yet. They still had to say goodbye to the delegation and fix the wreckage. Harry looked around to assess the damage. Well... a few broken windows, a ceiling about to collapse, and the floorboards were warped. But the walls were standing. Fine. To hell with the delegation. Harry was going to kiss his boyfriend again. Properly.
But then, his eye caught something familiar. Harry frowned.
"Uh... Tom? Look at that."
Stretching across the entire wall was a massive tapestry—the Volkova family tree, embroidered in silver.
And there, in one of the side branches, a name glowed:
Princess Amelia Alexandra Brooks-Volkova
Heir to the House of Volkova: 3rd in line.
Returning to the hall, Amelia decided to review her checklist one last time. She opened the front cover of her notebook.
On the inside of the left cover, written in calligraphic script in perfect Russian, was a message:
To my dear niece Amelia Alexandra, on the occasion of her first day of work. May your ambitions always find their mark, and your magic find the opportunity to make the world better.
Amelia shifted her gaze to the very first page she had written:
"Reasons why the Minister has yet to use the Killing Curse on Mr. Potter"
No. 1: It appears that Minister Riddle and Mr. Potter are in love with each other... Must verify.
Next to the section header, she drew a large, bold checkmark. Done.
Now, she just had to buy something for her own dear fiancé. Lord Nott was difficult to surprise, but he had played the role of "jealousy object" so brilliantly that he deserved the best reward. She was prepared to raid her aunt’s cellars for her rarest reserves of magical spirits. She’d have to save a couple of bottles for the right occasion, though. Didn't the Minister of Korea have a passion for rare alcohol?
She needed to review the task list for her next plan.
Yes. Amelia Brooks was an extremely ambitious witch.