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batsutousaiTitle: Nose to the Wind
Series: Like a Ghost in My Town
Fandom: Harry Potter
Author: Batsutousai
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Harry Potter/Lord Voldemort, James Potter/Lily Potter
Warnings: AU, violence, universe hopping/rebirth, Dark!Harry, werewolf!Harry, underage relationship (ish)
Summary: While Harry had been content with his second chance, that didn't keep him from thinking what he could have done different, how many people could have survived if he hadn't been set on the very specific path he'd walked. Third time is the charm, though, right?
A/N: I had such a great time laughing at everyone wondering if Rita might be making some sort of trouble last chapter. Jo has us all so well trained. :')
While I was fighting with last chapter and this one, I got the urge to write a bonus scene. It's not something that will ever happen in the fic (for a multitude of reasons, the biggest being that, over the two years it took me to write this chapter, the endgame changed a lot), but it's meant more as a laugh. If you're interested in reading Lucius questioning why Voldemort would date a helpless squib, you can find it here on tumblr.
For ages at the start of this chapter, very little time has passed, so Harry remains 15. (Hermione is 16, Will is 14, and Chris is 11.)
Cross-posted to Archive of Our Own and LiveJournal.
Chapter Nineteen – Your Love Has Always Been Enough
-0-
Will did hunt him down to say goodnight, as Harry had known he would. After saying his goodbyes to both Will and Hermione – and Ginny, who'd come up with Will – Harry found an empty classroom to open a doorway in, rather than walking up to Severus' office and trying to guess the password so he could pretend to use the floo.
Death was waiting for him on the other side of the doorway, bone fingers tapping out a grim tempo against the handle of its scythe.
Harry tensed. "Who needs to die?" he asked, the words sounding more tired than anything else.
"Rita Skeeter observed part of your interaction with Tom in the gardens," Death reported.
Rita Skeeter? Harry frowned, and it took a moment for him to place why that name gave birth to a twinge of concern, because she hadn't really been a concern for him since she'd published that ridiculous book about him in his original reality. "Oh," he said once he'd remembered. "Her. Bollocks."
He rubbed tiredly at his eyes, trying to figure out what to do, because he could certainly kill her, but it was hard not to remember how useful she'd been when Hermione had blackmailed her. Having a reporter in his pocket could never be a terrible thing, especially someone people had a bad habit of believing.
He frowned and glanced up at Death. "I haven't seen her name in the Prophet."
Death inclined its hood. "She mostly writes for gossip magazines; Tom's rule is not kind to those so inclined to embellish the truth on the front page."
Harry snorted. "Look, another thing he did right," he muttered, and Death rattled a laugh. "Fine, so we just unwittingly handed her some of the juiciest gossip she's heard since...I don't know when. Brilliant."
A skeletal hand cupped Harry's cheek and he leant into the touch with a sigh. "Shall I lead you to her, Master?"
Harry nodded. "She's a beetle in this reality, too?" he asked, checking.
"She is."
"Right." Harry straightened and put on his Alpha Lord face. "Let's go disarm this disaster before it explodes in our faces."
Death obediently led him through the Realm of Death and opened a doorway for him. When Harry stepped through it, he found himself standing in a studio flat, the walls and part of the ceiling wallpapered with articles from magical magazines, The Daily Prophet, and a handful of international magical periodicals. The main room was almost completely dark, save for two candles lit on the desk on the far side of the room, which Rita was leaning over, the tail end of a long quill wagging over her shoulder.
"You know," Harry started, and Rita jumped and spun around in her chair, "I should probably be angry, but I think I'm more impressed at your guts. I mean, not many people are willing to go around telling tales about Lord Voldemort." Rita flinched at the name, as Harry had expected she would, then pointed one faintly shaking hand at him. "You're the boy. The eldest Potter boy."
Harry smiled, showing too-sharp teeth.
"You're supposed to be a squib!" Rita insisted.
"Oh, I am," Harry promised, taking a slow step forward just to watch her flinch back. "I've got a squib wand and everything to prove it." He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, amused at the way she was staring at his eyes like she expected them to set her alight, or some such. "You normal wizards and witches are so funny, assuming the magic they teach at Hogwarts and such is all that exists in the world. Which really kind of sucks for you, because it means you don't actually have any wards that can keep me out of your homes." He dropped his smile and she let out a quiet noise of surprise. "It's actually a bit like how you're always getting dirt on people because they never think to ward against animagi."
"You know–"
"That you're an unregistered beetle animagus?" Harry finished for her, and Rita looked distinctly worried. "Oh, yes. More the fool me for forgetting for a bit, but given I can't, actually, cast the necessary wards, I don't suppose it matters much."
Rita swallowed and stood up, bracing one hand against the back of her chair and straightening to her full height, which was about of a height with Harry. "And what are you intending to do with that information?" she asked, her voice admirably steady.
Harry hummed, as though considering his options, before saying, "Nothing."
Rita blinked. "Nothing," she repeated, disbelieving.
Harry nodded. "Pretty much. I mean, I could blackmail you, sure, but I don't really think that holds the same weight as pointing out that, the minute that article you're writing goes to print, Voldemort is going to kill you and everyone involved in its publication." He smiled.
Rita was partway through taking a step back before she caught herself and returned to her original position, standing tall against Harry and waving a careless hand. "He can try," she said. "But I–" And then she stopped.
Harry's smile widened. "Quite easy to overlook a beetle, even when a point me spell leads you right to it, I know. But if he knows he's looking for a beetle..."
Rita's jaw clenched. "What do you want?" she ground out.
"From you?" Harry clarified, letting a hint of humour leak into his voice, and she gave a jerky nod. "Very obviously, I don't want you publishing that article about Voldemort and I." He let his tone fall flat as he continued, "He doesn't need the heat your embellishments will bring him, and I have no interest in dealing with his temper."
Rita failed to stifle an angry noise. "And I go hungry on your behalf?"
"Don't even try it," Harry returned drily. "We weren't the only people out in the gardens tonight; I'm sure you have some other bit of gossip to piss someone off with. Alternately – and, I know, this is a serious stretch for you – you could actually report on the ball like a normal person. So far as I'm aware, you're the only reporter who snuck past the dark lord's cordon, which means you have all the information on who the champions went with, what ridiculous fashion attempts France brought up with them, and, oh, right, Headmaster Snape let a squib attend. Shocking."
The noise Rita made could have been a laugh, if she wasn't clearly trying to hold on to her anger in lieu of looking as terrified as she smelt. "You want me to write drivel."
"I want you to not incite a civil war while two international schools are bunking at Hogwarts," Harry replied coldly, and she flinched. "Stop fishing for sympathy, it just makes me want to kill you to put you out of your misery."
Rita's scent changed, less fear, more true anger, and Harry didn't need Death warning, "Master," to realise that he'd pushed too hard.
"Let him kill me, then," Rita breathed, pointing a shaking finger at Harry. "I'm going to let our whole world know how that monster is corrupting–"
It was only because she would be far more use to Harry alive that he didn't kill her. Instead, he opened a doorway to the Realm of Death in his palm and cast a far more abhorrent version of the imperius curse, one that couldn't be fought off, and wouldn't deteriorate over time. Rita's mouth snapped shut, her expression changing to something more placid, but far from the blank slate that heralded the mortal curse. Harry took a long moment to rearrange her priorities and beliefs, then let the doorway close.
"You know," Harry said quietly, "if you hadn't fought me, I wouldn't have resorted to that. I have this strange respect for letting people make their own bad choices, even when they piss me off, but I'm not going to risk Tom and the world he's built." He stepped easily forward, pasting on a smile, which Rita returned. "Let's try this again, shall we?" he said as he reached her and held out his hand. "Harry Potter."
"Rita Skeeter," she replied, and they shook hands. "Was that really the dark lord I saw you with in the garden during the ball?"
"Mm. Could you destroy that article you were working on?" Harry requested.
"Of course," Rita agreed and turned to pick up the parchment and hold it over the flame of one of the candles. "I suppose he already gets far too much bad press."
"I wouldn't go that far," Harry admitted, because most people were too terrified to even say his name, never mind say something bad about him in a public forum. "But he doesn't need this information to get around. Not yet. You understand."
"I do," Rita agreed as the parchment burnt far enough that none of her scrawl had survived. She vanished what was left and turned to smile at him. "There you go."
"Thank you. Now, why don't you write something up about how unnecessarily revealing Jeanne André's robes were."
"She pulled it off," Rita insisted.
Harry snorted, because the Beauxbâtons champion had, indeed, worn the unusual robes well, and had clearly known she was drawing eyes from everyone; it was nearly as bad as Fleur and her veela ancestry. "Still, it was a bit much for a school event, if you know what I mean."
Rita smiled, her eyes sparkling with something mean. "Oh, do I ever."
"Excellent. Carry on." Then he left her for bed.
The next morning, Rita's article was front page in the Prophet, taking the star position in spite of her embellishments and mean-spirited asides simply because she was the only reporter who had anything. She had, indeed, ripped apart André for her unconventional robes, and had gone a step further in deriding the French by detailing how unflattering Madame Maxime's robes had been on her over-large frame.
Rita had also covered who had come as the champions' dates – with plenty of commentary about each match – and made mention of the fact that Severus had bowed to, in her own words, 'the pressure of his childhood rival's demands to allow his squib son to attend', meaning Harry, though she never actually said his name. (Harry sent up a silent prayer that Will and Chris knew enough to stay out of Severus' way for a couple days, in case he ended up on a warpath.)
Other than allusions to Harry's attendance, and a passing reference to Voldemort spending the ball up at the head table, they went unmentioned, which was exactly what Harry had wanted, and he couldn't dredge up even an ounce of regret for screwing with Rita's soul to ensure that outcome.
"Mum?" Harry called Thursday morning, after James had run through the floo, shouting about being late for a morning meeting.
Lily looked up from where she was packing up the last couple of projects she'd finished for work. "What is it, sweetheart?"
Harry cleared his throat and put on his best pathetic expression. "Voldemort asked if I could stay overnight for his birthday. Sleepover, like, not–"
Lily's lips twitched and she looked back down at her bag. "You want me to talk your father into letting you spend the night," she guessed, laughter in her voice.
"Erm, yes. Please?" Because using his mother was the best option Harry had come up with to be allowed to stay over.
"I'll see what I can do," Lily promised before she closed her bag and picked it up. "Be prepared to promise your right arm in exchange anyway."
Harry made a face. "And you complain about my morality. Go to work."
Lily laughed as she stepped around the table to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Don't get any blood on the carpet," she warned, like she'd started doing every morning of the holiday when she left for work, for some reason that Harry wasn't interested in asking about.
"Ha-ha," Harry returned, rolling his eyes.
Once she'd left, Harry sighed and got up to get changed and debate how best to spend his day; one of the biggest drawbacks of most of the people who usually distracted him during the holidays staying over at Hogwarts, was that his days became markedly boring.
"Well," he said to himself, "there's always the British Library."
Harry had to swear he wasn't going to do anything sexual with Voldemort about a half-dozen times, but James did finally agree to let him spend the night over with the dark lord.
"But I expect you back in time for counting over to midnight," he added during dinner Saturday night, "or I will send Uncle Sirius after you."
"Spare me," Harry complained, because Sirius had been quite obnoxious about how much he hated that he couldn't celebrate shouting in the new year with the whole family; if Harry tried skipping out, he'd never hear the end of it, as much as he wished he could avoid being the sole recipient of one of Sirius' sloppy kisses on the cheek. (Even Will whined about them, they were that bad.) "I'll be back by dinner, at the latest."
"Good," James decided and, thankfully, the subject was dropped.
Harry stayed with his parents until eleven, then said his goodbyes, changed into something he could sleep in, collected the dark lord's present, and stepped into the Realm of Death to head for Voldemort's rooms. He stopped briefly to exchange greetings with Merope, then poked his head through a doorway. "Voldemort?"
"Come in, Scythe," the dark lord called back, and when Harry stepped though, he found the man sitting at his desk with that fond smile that was becoming disturbingly familiar.
"Hi," Harry offered, hugging the box he was carrying close to his chest. "So, I got permission to stay until dinner tomorrow."
Tom let out an amused snort. "I'm impressed."
Harry snorted himself and stepped up to the desk. "Don't be; I cheated and got Mum to ask for me."
Tom chuckled at that and reached up towards Harry. He leant over for a brief kiss, then glanced at the paperwork spread out across the man's desk, recognising the distracted edge to the kiss.
"I'll let you finish your paperwork," Harry promised, stepping away.
Tom's smile turned wry. "I'd intended to have everything finished before you showed up, but things came up."
Harry frowned as he took his usual seat near the desk. "Anything you need my help with?" he offered.
Tom shook his head. "It's handled."
Harry shrugged and didn't bother pressing; if it was important, he'd hear about it in The Daily Prophet or from Death.
The dark lord finished about an hour later, spelling everything to vanish off to wherever it needed to go. He stood and held a hand out to Harry, who held out the present he'd brought. Tom's mouth quirked and he took the box, set it on his desk, then caught Harry's hand before he could retract it and used it to pull him to his feet. "I'm sure that's something ridiculously rare, but it can wait until morning," he said as he pulled Harry close and wrapped his arms around him.
"Are you trying to romance me?" Harry asked, amused, as he caught his own arms behind Tom's neck, staring up that short distance between them.
"Have I need to?" Tom asked, his eyes glinting with humour.
"Not particularly," Harry admitted, and got a kiss for his answer.
When Tom pulled back from the kiss, he had a vaguely uncertain air to him. "Sleep with me?" he asked, and Harry couldn't stop one eyebrow from raising. "Not–!"
"I know," Harry interrupted, somehow managing not to laugh, though he couldn't help the wide smile that was making his cheeks ache. "I'd be happy to sleep with you." He couldn't resist adding, "Innocently or otherwise."
Tom closed his eyes. "Scythe," he complained.
"Teenaged body, can't help it," Harry said by way of apology.
Tom huffed and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth before letting go of Harry. "I need to change."
"Yeah, okay." Harry watched after the dark lord for a moment as he went over to the wardrobe for clothing, then shook himself and climbed into the bed. He already knew which side Tom preferred, having snuck in while the man was sleeping enough times, so he settled in on the other side. His wand and the auror-issue holster James had given him went on the short table covered in books next to that side of the bed.
Tom climbed into the other side shortly after, an air of awkwardness surrounding him, though he had his game face on. His eyes slid past Harry, landing on the holster, as he slid under the covers, and his mouth quirked. "I expected that, somehow."
"Yeah, sorry. Danger of having a father who's an auror and not particularly good at following regulations," Harry replied, amused, because he knew James wasn't supposed to take those things home for his sons as 'you've got a wand, now!' gifts. Which, well, Sirius would have done so if James hadn't, and Harry and Ron, in his original reality, had had the bad habit of filching holsters for their family and friends, much to Kingsley's amusement, so he really couldn't talk.
Tom snorted and waved a careless hand. "They're simple enough to charm, you can always brush it off as one of your mother's creations."
"Are you complimenting my mum?"
Tom motioned wandlessly and the magical lights in the room flickered off. "No," he said, his tone unimpressed. "I said it was simple, didn't I?"
Harry laughed, because the auror-issue holsters most certainly were not 'simple' charm work, though he was fairly certain they were within his mother's skills.
Harry waited until Tom had settled under the covers, then slid close enough to touch, but but didn’t actually do so. Tom stiffened, and Harry rolled his eyes and idly warned, "If you curse me in your sleep, I'll retaliate."
Tom snorted and one of his arms snaked out and caught Harry around the waist, drawing him against the dark lord's side. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied, tone dry.
Harry rested his head on Tom's chest, listening to his heart's rapid thudding. After a moment, Tom finally started to relax and his heart slowed down to a more normal rhythm. Harry smiled to himself and closed his eyes to sleep.
Harry woke feeling pleasantly warm, one of Tom's arms wrapped tight around him, as though determined to keep him close. They'd both shifted some overnight, but they'd stayed close, and Harry didn't fight a sleepy smile, because he knew that had been completely Tom's fault; if Tom didn't cling to him, Harry always ended up on the far side of the bed, away from the heat-soak that was his lo–
It hit Harry like a brick wall to the face, then, that this wasn't that Tom. This Tom was alive and had his own warmth, didn't need to steal all of Harry's in the night. It wasn't that Tom, but it was still his Tom, holding tight to Harry all night, wanting him close.
Harry pressed his eyes closed and took a deep breath that shuddered through him, filling him with the scent of Tom, of life. And, dear Merlin, this was everything he'd lost once, everything he'd given up because he hadn't been able– He'd–
"Scythe?" Tom murmured, voice thick with sleep.
And he really needed to get a hold of himself; the last thing either of them needed was for Harry to fall apart because of old memories. "Sorry," he got out, his voice admirably steady. "Need the loo."
"Right," Tom said, sounding more awake, and he quickly let go of Harry.
Harry ran for the bathroom, keeping his face averted so Tom wouldn't realise something was actually wrong. Once he had the bathroom door shut behind him, he leant back against it and closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down because, dear Merlin, he was not a bloody emotional schoolgirl who broke out in tears every time they remembered their last relationship!
Harry reached up to touch his cheeks and, yeah, okay, so he was an emotional schoolgirl. Boy, whatever. Sue him.
"Scythe?" Tom called while Harry used his sleeve to wipe off his cheeks. "What's wrong?"
Harry blinked, momentarily thrown, because how the hell had Tom realised that he was freaking out? He'd been sure the loo ploy would–
Harry looked at the toilet and sighed. Right, the bathroom had excellent acoustics, and while Harry could keep his emotional roller coaster silent, he couldn't do that and relieve his bladder. Lack of sound meant he'd retreated for a reason other than that, and this Tom cared enough about their relationship that, knowing him, he'd devoured a couple psychology books so he wasn't caught completely flat-footed when Harry didn't hide the fact that he had emotions.
A hand landed lightly on the other side of the bathroom door. "Scythe," Tom repeated.
Harry sighed again and tried to figure out the best way to explain himself without going off-script in terms of what he'd told Tom about his last life, because he suspected he wouldn't be able to just brush this off, not if Tom was pushing this much. "I–" His voice cracked and he winced and cleared his throat. "The last time I shared a bed with someone who wasn't my brothers, was my lover. Before. And he...died, in the morning." A little backwards, because Harry had been the one to actually die, but it would suffice.
Tom was very noticeably silent, and Harry guessed he wasn't sure how to respond to that.
He took a deep breath and pushed off from the door. "It was a long time ago," he offered, going for careless and only sort of managing. "Forget about it." And then he set about doing what he'd implied he'd got up for in the first place.
When he stepped out of the bathroom, Tom was standing against the wall next to the door. He gave Harry one glance-over with sharp eyes, then grunted and stepped into the bathroom once Harry was out of the way.
Harry just sort of shook his head at the man, in turns amused and bemused by the differences between the Tom of his last reality and this one.
Tom exited the bathroom at about the same time as a house-elf appeared with a tray of food. "Good morning, Masters," she offered as she set the tray on a clear patch on Tom's desk, and Harry blinked at being included in the honorific.
"Bangles," Tom replied evenly, and she vanished.
The tray had enough food for both of them, and Harry pulled over his usual chair.
"I don't suppose," Tom said absently as he focussed on spreading jam on a slice of toast, "that you brought anything to change into."
Harry glanced down at the trousers and shirt he'd slept in. "No," he admitted, "but it's a short walk back home, if I need to grab something."
Tom's expression twisted oddly and he glanced up at Harry. "A 'short walk'," he repeated, disbelievingly.
Harry covered a grin and nodded.
"Scythe, the manor is nearly three hundred miles from your home."
Harry coughed to hide a laugh and nodded. "I know. But the Realm of Death doesn't have the same dimensions as the mortal realm." He snorted. "It's probably about the same distance from here to my house, as it is from here to the middle of Russia."
Tom's eyes crossed. "What? How is that even remotely–?"
"Oh," Harry added, not bothering to hide his amusement any more, "and those four days I spent in the Realm of Death? It actually only felt like a day. Maybe."
Tom blinked, shook his head, then turned too-sharp eyes on Harry. "It was only a day, for you," he clarified, tone suspicious.
Harry blinked, trying to figure out what had caught the dark lord's attention. "Yes? I mean, I slept a bit, so it might have been closer to two days, I don't know."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "Explain why you looked like you'd been in there for a week."
Ah. "Because it's the Realm of Death and things die really quickly in there?" Harry suggested.
"You said you can protect against that," Tom reminded him.
Harry stared at the dark lord for a long moment, caught, then sighed and leant back in his chair. "It was Death's idea," he admitted. "I come out looking like crap, it garners sympathy, which means I don't get jumped first thing." He shrugged under Tom's unimpressed stare. "That said, it wasn't just for show, there were physical symptoms, and I hadn't eaten in at least twenty-four hours, so thank you for the soup."
Tom shook his head, his mouth twisted down with a scowl. "So, a day in the Realm of Death, approximately, is equal to about four days in this realm?"
"No. You're thinking about this too linearly which, really, I get, but you need to stop. Because Death doesn't care about time or distance, those are mortal concepts, so the Realm of Death doesn't hold to the physics that you expect in this realm. It takes five minutes to get from London to the middle of nowhere in Alaska, but almost twenty minutes to go from London to Oxford. And ten minutes in the Realm of Death could be ten minutes in the mortal realm, or it could be two minutes, or it could be a whole hour. It doesn't make sense."
And then he looked up at the dark lord and started laughing, because he looked like he wasn't sure if he wanted to stab something or cry. "Tell me about it," he offered once he'd caught his breath.
Tom covered his eyes with one hand. "So," he said, his tone suggesting he was changing the subject, "you didn't bring clothing, but it won't take you long to get some. I'll accept that."
Harry snorted and ducked his head when the dark lord opened his eyes, expression flat. "Did you have something particular in mind? Most of my clothing is muggle, given I spend most of my time around them."
"Muggle is perfect," Tom announced.
Harry glanced up at him, raising one eyebrow. "Oh? Are we celebrating your birthday with a killing spree?"
"Tempting," Tom admitted, and they shared a smile, Harry's a little more toothy than the dark lord's. "But, no. Lunch."
Harry blinked. "Lunch in the muggle world?" he guessed.
Tom narrowed his eyes. "Problem?"
Harry shook his head. "Nope. Just...not what I'd have expected."
The dark lord took a moment to consider that, then let out a snort. "Good to know it's possible to surprise you."
"You do realise I'm not actually omniscient, right?"
"Obviously."
"Just checking."
A comfortable silence fell between them, both focussing on their breakfasts.
When the dark lord was done eating and Harry was nursing his tea, he leant forward and caught the box he'd brought before holding it out to Tom. "Go on."
"How rare is this one, then?" Tom wondered as he carefully opened the box.
"One of a kind," Harry admitted as the collections of paper grouped together by a rough, string-based binding were revealed.
Tom shot him a quick appreciative glance as he picked up the top collection and carefully flipped through the pages, which Harry'd had to magically repair, with some half-hearted assistance from the one who'd created them. "Ernest Hemingway?" he murmured when he reached the author's signature, and quickly glanced over the first page again. "I don't recognise this," he realised, looking back at Harry.
Harry nodded, finally setting aside his empty cup. "He lost a number of short stories and the start of a novel during his travels at one point. I managed to track them down." He smiled as the dark lord looked back down at the collection of writings with the expression that said he'd found a real treasure. "The novel is only so-so, I think, but there are some gems in the short stories."
Tom huffed and eyed him with amusement. "Sampling, were we?"
Harry shrugged. "They didn't survive in one piece," he admitted. "I had to have Hemingway fill in the missing bits, and I read them in the process, yeah."
Tom carefully set the short story he was holding back in the box and set it on his desk, then he caught Harry's hand and used it to draw him out of his chair and – unexpectedly – into the dark lord's lap.
"Really?" Harry complained, trying not to show that he was embarrassed.
Tom cupped his cheek with one hand, the other serving as a steadying touch against Harry's hip. "Thank you," he murmured and leant in for a kiss.
Harry gave in and let himself melt against the dark lord, because he was so ridiculously weak when it came to Tom's gratitude and shows of affection. (Damn the man, anyway.)
When the kiss ended and Tom didn't immediately let him go, Harry rested his head on the man's shoulder and closed his eyes, perfectly content to cuddle. (And he was trying not to be too shocked at the idea of Tom being willing to cuddle. Harry was long resigned to being the more tactile one, as getting the Tom of his last reality to take part in any physical contact that didn't directly result in sex had been akin to pulling teeth the muggle way.)
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, Tom asked, "Did you attend Hogwarts?"
Harry blinked, momentarily thrown, before he pulled back to give the dark lord an unimpressed stare.
Tom just raised an eyebrow at him.
Harry huffed and shook his head a bit disbelievingly, even though he really should have expected Tom would eventually use his birthday as leverage to get some of his past out of him. "You get three answers, and I reserve the right to refuse to answer a question," he decided, and Tom's mouth curled into a smirk, victory gleaming in red eyes. "Yes, I attended Hogwarts."
Tom watched him for a moment, and Harry couldn't quite figure out if he was waiting to see if Harry would give him more – he had no intention in giving freebies – or trying to decide what to ask next. Eventually, though, his expression darkened a little and he said, "You said your lycanthropy is from your former life."
Harry nodded. "Yes."
Tom looked a little...uncertain how to continue, like maybe he wasn't quite certain how to word his question or, maybe, he wasn't certain if he even wanted to ask it.
Honestly, Harry was a little surprised that no one had ever asked how he'd been cursed – at least, no one in this reality; it had come up a couple of times during his last reality – and it was long enough ago that he didn't feel the same need to shy away from that story as he had the last time a Tom had asked him, so he explained, "I killed off a werewolf pack to protect someone and, as revenge, a couple of werewolves drew me out with the help of a wendigo." He paused for a moment to see if Tom knew what that was, but he didn't react to the word. "Wendigos are former humans possessed by a malevolent spirit after consuming human flesh."
Tom grimaced. "Lovely."
Harry snorted. "Quite." He shook his head, refocussing his thoughts on that terrible night. "It wasn't quite the moon, so while the werewolves wanted to turn me as recompense..." He shrugged, smiling a bit at the angry hiss Tom let out and the way his arms tightened around Harry's waist. "The wendigo's solution was to kill one of them and make me eat her."
Tom flinched, his expression twisting with horror and rage.
Harry leant forward and pressed their foreheads together. "They're all very, very dead," he promised.
"Of course they are," Tom hissed, voice dripping with venom.
Harry had a feeling Tom was assuming he had killed them, and since explaining Death's intervention would have stepped a little too close to defining the truth of his and his eternal servant's relationship, he didn't bother correcting him. Instead, he lightly scratched his fingers through the shorter hairs at the back of Tom's head, waiting quietly for the man to calm down.
"You have one more question," he offered once he figured Tom was calm enough to not bite his head off for speaking.
There was still anger in the lines of his face, but the glint in his eyes, when he caught Harry's gaze, was more speculative. "Did we know each other?"
Harry couldn't quite help the way his breath caught – leave it to his way too clever partner to ask such a complicated question – and it was an honest struggle to keep his voice level as he said, "I'm not answering that." Which, really, his reaction was probably answer enough.
Damn Tom, anyway.
Tom's mouth curled with a smirk, even as hints of anger remained in the lines at the corners of his eyes. "Ah, no, you gave that one away a long time ago, Scythe."
Harry scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, trying to imagine when that would have been. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Tom let out a low, warm chuckle, the sound settling comfortably around Harry, despite his rather uncertain irritation at the man. "Of course not," he agreed, and Harry couldn't quite bite back an irritated huff, which just made Tom's eyes brighten. "Perhaps it's time for you to escape to change?" he suggested, very clearly amused.
Harry took a moment to seriously consider opening a doorway in Tom's lap, but decided he wasn't quite that irritated. "Perhaps," he muttered, and slid out of Tom's lap before motioning a doorway open. "Ten minutes," he promised, then stepped through into the Realm of Death.
Merope was standing a couple of steps away, amusement lighting her whole face, and Harry felt his irritation drain away at the sight of her.
"Your son," he complained, mostly because it was expected.
Merope laughed and shook her head.
Harry left her to her amusement, making his way home to change. Judging by the sleepy silence of the house, his parents had decided to use the rare empty house as an excuse to sleep in, and it didn't take much effort for Harry to quietly change into daytime clothing and sneak down to grab his muggle coat and trainers.
When he returned to the access to Tom's room, Merope promised, "He's decent."
Harry eyed her a bit suspiciously for a moment, but he had warned Tom it wouldn't take long, so hopefully he'd either changed quick, or had retreated to the bathroom. He opened a doorway and poked his head through and, upon seeing Tom putting his gift away, fully dressed in his usual not-quite-modern muggle suit, he let out a breath of relief and stepped through, ignoring Merope's quiet giggle as he did.
"You know," he said as the doorway closed behind him, "you could update your fashion."
Tom raised an eyebrow at him. "You cannot possibly be imagining me in denim or those gaudy patterned shirts the muggles are so fond of."
Harry coughed because, really, he was more imagining him in short-shorts and a t-shirt, like he'd once seen the Tom in his last reality dressed, but no way he was going to be mentioning that. Ever. "Not quite that eye-catching," he insisted. "Just...something not a suit." He waved a hand at the dark lord. "And not from, what, the forties?"
And then Harry realised exactly what he'd just said and covered his face in shame, because he'd sounded so much like Tom's locket had in his last reality, when he'd made the terrible life choice of hiding it in his wardrobe and had had to suffer its critique of his choices in clothing. "Please ignore me," he managed to say without sounding too miserable. He hoped.
Hands gently removed his hand from his face and Harry peeked up at Tom, only to find him wearing something of a resigned smile. "I probably deserved that," he admitted.
Harry blinked, confused for a moment, before it occurred to him that the locket had a part of Tom's soul, which meant that Tom had probably once...
"I used to care about dressing fashionably," Tom admitted with a helpless quirk of his lips. "Wizarding, really, but I travelled in the muggle world often enough to feel the need to keep up with those fashions, too."
Harry assumed that would have been while he was employed at Borgin and Burke's, when being impeccably dressed would have almost certainly helped him charm many of his clients out of their rare magical pieces. "So, you're saying," he offered with a smile, "that I'm karma embodied?"
Tom stared at him for a moment before sighing. "You dislike portkeys, correct?"
Harry huffed and nodded. "I'm not particularly fond of national portkeys, but I can take them. International portkeys are the ones that leave me sick and woozy without a settling potion."
Tom hummed an acknowledgement. "What about side-along?"
Harry shot him a considering look, because it was sounding suspiciously like the dark lord was intending to take them outside of the Isles. "I've never side-alonged further than a couple hundred miles, but I didn't have any trouble with it."
Tom nodded and then, apparently reading Harry's curiosity, asked, "Are you familiar with the German city of Freiburg im Breisgau?"
Harry frowned and tried to remember if he'd ever visited any cities by that name. Upon coming up blank, he shook his head. "No, but I never spent much time in any German cities, other than Dresden and Stuttgart," he admitted; those were the two cities he and Sirius had set up wayhouses for werefolk in, in his last reality. Other than visiting wayhouses in larger cities, honestly, most of his time on the continent had been spent in far more rural areas, especially near dense woods or large bodies of water, where werefolk could roam freely and those non-humans who couldn't pass for human lived.
"Ah. Freiburg is south-west of Stuttgart, on the other side of the Black Forest."
The Black Forest, Harry was familiar with, having been required to step in between the local werelynx pride and werewolf pack, who had been in the habit of getting into a territory dispute every eight moons or so. (That was one issue he'd been quite happy to hand off to the vampire who had become the German Minister for Magic. She, unlike far too many other new leaders, had made a point of making certain her community didn't pester Harry with their disputes right from the start.)
"Well," he offered with his arm, "I'm always up for visiting new places."
Tom's smile was brief, but no less fond, and then he was taking Harry's offered arm and apparating them away.
Over lunch at a rather nice restaurant that Tom had a reservation at, the dark lord shot him a considering look and said, "You mentioned, over the summer, that you intend to look into work in the magical community."
Harry nodded and politely covered his mouth to indicate he needed to swallow his mouthful and then doing so, before agreeing, "Yeah. I'm afraid I don't have much of a head for politics, assuming I could even find a position, given what I am, so probably potions. Though, Dad keeps trying to talk me into joining his favourite quidditch team."
Tom grimaced at that, but allowed, "Quidditch is certainly within your skills, and, prejudices notwithstanding, your strength would serve you well with those bats."
Harry coughed and ducked his head to hide a grin. "Yeah. Feels a bit like cheating, though. Same with seeker, since my senses are so much better than a human's. But I could do chaser or keeper fine, I think; used to get stuck as keeper a lot, back when I wasn't talking."
Tom eyed him for a moment as he ate a mouthful. Once he'd swallowed, he said, "You sound like you're actually considering it."
Harry blinked a few times, admittedly a little surprised. Because, yeah, he'd put some thought into the possibility of joining a quidditch team and using potions as his fall-back; he knew himself well enough to know he'd get tired of just making potions or keeping a shop in the alleys, but he really didn't want to get into politics, and there weren't a lot of options for someone who was a werewolf and a squib; it was the reason most wereborns and muggle werefolk ended up living in the muggle world. James had been joking the first time he'd mentioned quidditch, but a part of Harry had latched onto it, remembering how much he'd loved the sport during his first reality, before war had put a quick end to his childhood.
He cleared his throat, aware he'd been quiet for a beat too long. "Like you said, it's something I can do, assuming I can find a team willing to accept me, and potion-making will always be there when I can't play any more. And–" he offered Tom a quick, knowing smile "–I was on my house team at Hogwarts. I miss it, a little."
The gleam of Tom's eyes said he absolutely appreciated getting yet another kernel of Harry's past – he wondered, a bit, how much longer he'd be able to hold out before he gave in and just told Tom everything – but all he said in response was, "As much as you don't want to play in politics, it may serve as your way onto a team."
Harry frowned at that. "What, by throwing around your name? I'd rather not use our relationship that way, if I can avoid it."
Tom's expression eased into something almost soft. "Given my general ambivalence towards the sport, I don't know that my name would get you much, in all honesty. No, I was thinking more making it about them hiring a squib. Given neither of your parents are werewolves, you can hide that–"
"No," Harry interrupted, shaking his head. When Tom frowned at him, he held up a finger in a request to let him explain. "I don't particularly care to hide that part of who I am, especially since the first time I lose my temper, everyone will know."
Tom grimaced. "And it's not like you can keep up a glamour to hide that," he allowed.
Well, Harry could, but he still wasn't intending to share that, so... "Exactly. It's not worth getting thrown off the team for lying. I'd rather be straight with them about being wereborn, but..." He sighed and shook his head. "You're right, I can use that if I get turned down enough times. Find the right reporter and spin them a sob story about the auror's son who's being refused a position because he's not human..." He shrugged.
Tom sneered. "Good luck finding a reporter who won't turn it into a hate piece on werewolves."
Harry shrugged. "I have blackmail on Rita Skeeter," he admitted.
Tom sort of froze for a moment, then pinned Harry with a heavy stare. "The woman who somehow got information about the Yule Ball, despite my spells to keep the press out?"
"Ah." Harry took a sip of his water, then offered, "She's an animagus?"
Tom closed his eyes and, were he anyone else or they weren't in public, Harry was fairly certain he'd have slumped. "I should have thought of that. Something flying, I expect?"
"Mmm. A beetle."
Tom's expression tightened, and Harry suspected he was trying to sort out a spell to keep insects out of the rest of the TriWizard Tournament events.
He debated for a moment, before admitting, "I may have used death magic to change her priorities around a little bit; she shouldn't be a problem in future."
Tom raised an eyebrow at him, a glimmer of what might have been respect in his eyes. "Only 'may have', Scythe?" he said drily.
Harry felt tension draining out of his shoulders and couldn't quite keep from grimacing at that. "I'm potentially too used to admitting my misdoings to people with a different moral compass than us," he explained when Tom's other eyebrow went up in a clear question.
"Ah." Tom nodded and returned his attention to his food. "Yes, moral compasses are tedious things."
Harry snorted, amused and maybe a little approving. Given, he knew his morals didn't quite line up with Tom's, but they were far closer in a lot of ways than he was to his parents. It was...freeing, in a way, and probably a part of why he loved Tom as much as he did, because he didn't have to hide with him. He could be morally corrupt and broken, and Tom wouldn't try to fix him or punish him for it.
He shook those thoughts away, turning his mind back to the previous topic. "Well, assuming I do somehow worm my way onto a team, how many people would I have to kill to get you to come to one of my games?"
Tom let out a startled laugh, his eyes bright with delight, and Harry was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who appreciated spending time with someone who had a similarly skewed moral compass. "I suppose I can survive one game without you needing to suffer being grounded again," he offered.
Harry made a face at him, and Tom's responding smirk was utterly gorgeous.
They spent the day touring Freiburg, and Tom did eventually let Harry talk him into getting some modern muggle clothing. Although, he did make a point to say, "You do realise that visiting your family is the only time I'll wear this."
Harry had rolled his eyes. "So I'm dressing you up to impress my parents." Tom had let out a loud snort, his eyes dancing, and Harry had flashed him a slightly toothy smile, before shaking his head and motioning at the shop around them. "Anyway, that's clearly not the only time you'd wear them."
Tom had shaken his own head, but hadn't argued any further. In return, Harry didn't try to get him into any short-shorts, though he'd been a little tempted.
Eventually, though, Harry had noticed the time and said, "It's almost the time I promised to be home."
Tom sighed and motioned for them to take the next turn, which looked to lead into a dark alley where they could safely vanish without any muggles noticing. "Should I walk you home?" he suggested, and it was only because Harry knew him as well as he did that he knew that had been meant as a joke.
He rolled his eyes. "Probably easier for me to just make my own way home. Save you from the third degree."
Tom snorted. "Save me?"
"Save myself from the fall out," Harry corrected, and Tom let out a low chuckle. He stepped forward and pivoted into Tom, grinning when the dark lord's hands curled around his arms and stopped him before they could crash. "Did you have a good birthday?"
Tom huffed, but Harry was fairly certain it was just for show. "It was acceptable," he said, and paused for a beat before leaning in for a kiss that Harry was quite happy to push up into.
"Thank you," Tom murmured after a long kiss, "for spending the day with me."
"Of course," Harry whispered, admittedly a little charmed by the dark lord actually thanking him for spending the day. He brushed another kiss against Tom's lips, then pulled away a little reluctantly. "I'll see you next weekend?" he offered.
"Of course," Tom agreed without hesitation.
Harry grinned a bit helplessly, and hurriedly opened a doorway to the Realm of Death to keep from further embarrassing himself.
The walk home was just about long enough for him to get the urge to break out into wide smiles under control, but he gave himself an extra minute to settle, since Albus wasn't there to annoy him – Harry suspected he was at Hogwarts, though he could also have been watching his brother or Grindelwald, he supposed. Then he stepped through into the entrance hall and closed his doorway behind himself before calling, "I'm home!"
"Welcome back!" replied a chorus of voices from the kitchen, and Harry raised an eyebrow at that as he kicked off his trainers and shrugged out of his coat. A quick breath told him the unexpected voices were Remus and Peter, so he wasn't surprised to find all four Marauders either helping Lily cook or setting the table.
"Wow," he couldn't resist saying, leaning against the doorway and watching the organised chaos; he was fairly certain that his mum was the only person in the whole world who could get Sirius and James to do kitchen work without breaking out into minor food fights. "So, who tried to prank you this time?" he asked Lily.
James and Sirius both snickered, while Remus sighed and Peter let out a helpless-sounding laugh. Lily, for her part, just rolled her eyes and walked over to give him a hug, which he gladly returned. "No one. Yet." She cast a hard stare over the wizards, and Harry thought it was a bit telling that none of them dared meet her eyes. Then his mum turned back to him and asked, "How was your date?"
Harry couldn't quite stop a grimace at her calling it that, but Sirius' over-the-top moan and Peter's muffled squeak made him snort in amusement. "It was fine. We had lunch and did some sightseeing in Germany."
"That makes sense, since it sounds like he's fluent in German?" Remus commented.
Harry nodded. "Yeah, and there's no chance of either of us being recognised over there."
"Just lunch and sightseeing, really?" Sirius demanded in that tone that meant he was looking for trouble. "No mass muggle slaughter? My expectations are crushed."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Please. He just knows that, if Mum finds out I took part in any muggle slaughters, I'll be grounded until summer, and then I can't sneak out to visit him."
Peter moaned while James turned and raised both eyebrows at him. "Since when have you been sneaking out?" he demanded, his eyes bright with humour.
"Since I was two," Harry deadpanned, and they all laughed.
Lily shook her head and waved her wand towards the hob, setting a spoon in one of the pots stirring. "Pay attention to the food before you burn it," she ordered, and Sirius and James both obediently returned to their duties.
"Do you need my help, or have they got it?" Harry asked his mum.
Lily shot him an amused look. "I think I can find a place for you," she decided.
Harry's groan was absolutely for show.
Stand Against the Moon Chapters:
Pro | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05
06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12
Nose to the Wind Chapters:
1 - Death Once Again || 2 - Bring Out All the Good Inside Me || 3 - Death and Living Reconciled
4 - Orphan Man || 5 - Using Gentle Words to Shelter Me || 6 - Living on Your Breath
7 - You Just Might Get it All || 8 - Never Want to Come Down || 9 - Only the Silence Remains
10 - Love is a Doing Word || 11 - Nothing Sacred || 12 - The Heart Yearns
13 - Mirrored in Your Stare || 14 - Camouflage Denial || 15 - Precious and Fragile Things
16 - Perfectly Reckless || 17 - Your Arms Feel Like Home || 18 - The Sun Will Set For You
22 - Give Yourself a Try || 23 - Done Pleading Ignorance || 24 - Your Razorblade Caress of Love
25 - Summer's Scent Still Lingers || 26 - Burn Out the Stain || 27 - Final Masquerade
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