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Harry is adopted on a cold foggy morning. From his perch on the roof, Tom watches him follow a well-dressed woman to the gates, turning every few steps in search of a best friend who doesn’t want to be found.
“I won’t leave you behind,” Harry promised the night before, clinging to an unresponsive Tom as they lay in bed together. “We’ll be together again soon, you’ll see.”
Tom didn’t believe him. Once upon a time, they shared dreams of a future together. They would travel the world, grow old together, and never, ever let each other go. A week ago, however, a woman appeared, claiming to be Harry’s great-aunt Dorea, who lost track of him due to Grindelwald’s war. And so everything changed.
Once Harry had fallen asleep, he disentangled himself and snuck out. He didn’t want to say goodbye.
The wind picks up and a drizzle begins. Tom sits on the wet concrete and presses his face into his knees. When he musters the courage to look again, there’s nothing to be seen but a gray curtain of rain.
Harry is gone and Tom is alone.
In the beginning, Harry writes every week. He writes of his new life on a farm in southern France, where he has his own room, and of his new family, who treat him well and share stories about his late parents.
Most often, Harry writes of how much he misses Tom and how sorry he is.
Even though I like my new room, I miss our room. I miss sharing secrets under the covers. I miss you.
I’m sorry I left you behind. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Great-aunt said that you can visit me once Great-uncle’s health improves.
Please write back. Tell me something, anything. You can tell me you hate me, but please let me know that you’re okay.
Please forgive me.
Please Tom.
Tom keeps the letters in a rusty sweets box in the bottom of his wardrobe. He never writes back, no matter how much Harry pleads.
(Once, he almost breaks his resolve, but he catches himself in time.)
Eventually, Harry stops writing.
It takes much longer before Tom stops expecting his letters.
Tom has been counting down the days to September 1st, ever since Professor Dumbledore visited with his Hogwarts letter.
“Yes,” he said, to Tom’s first question. “There will be a Harry Potter in your year.”
Now, seated by the window, Tom watches Harry hug Dorea Potter goodbye. Then he buries himself behind a large textbook, deflecting any and all attempts to befriend him.
He manages to avoid Harry until the first-years are waiting outside the Great Hall in advance of their Sorting.
“Tom. Hi.” Harry appears at his side, taller and healthier. “Do you remember me?”
What a ridiculous question. Of course he does. How can he forget the boy who was once his entire world, and who heartlessly betrayed him?
He smiles pleasantly, aware of curious glances from onlookers. “Oh hello, Harry. I didn’t notice you.”
“I’m so excited we’ll be in the same year.” Harry reaches out to grab his hand, but Tom snatches it away and stuffs it into his pocket. Harry’s bottom lip trembles but he continues, “Maybe we’ll even be in the same house?”
Tom shrugs and continues smiling. “Maybe.”
They aren’t. Harry is Sorted into Gryffindor and Tom is Sorted into Slytherin. Throughout the start-of-term feast, Harry keeps glancing over but Tom refuses to look back. He has a new life to cultivate, a new life that excludes old disappointments.
School starts. He continues ignoring Harry — avoiding eye contact, sidestepping in corridors, selecting far away seats in shared classes — until the end of their first week, when Harry finally manages to corner him.
“Can we talk?”
Tom tries to skirt around him. “I need to go to the library.”
“Tom. Please?”
Harry’s eyes are a shimmering green. They were once Tom’s beacon of light in the gloom orphanage, the sight to which he fell asleep and woke up. The no remains lodged in his throat. He’s powerless before that hopeful expression; always has been, always will be.
They go into the nearest empty classroom. Tom crosses his arms and leans against a desk, wondering what apologies Harry will attempt to make, what acerbic insults he can fling in response.
He’s not prepared when Harry throws himself forward and buries his face in Tom’s chest. Even as his brain screams in revolt, his arms encircle Harry’s shoulders, the movement as natural as breathing. He closes his eyes and inhales Harry’s sweet scent, calling forth memories of snuggling together on winter nights.
His chest constricts upon realizing that the front of his shirt is wet.
“I’m so sorry, Tom,” Harry says, sniffling. “I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye but I couldn’t find you, and then Great-aunt Dorea said we couldn’t wait any longer. And I kept thinking about you and writing to you but you never wrote back and I didn’t know if that meant you were adopted too or my letters were annoying you.”
Tom remains quiet, not trusting himself to speak. Harry squeezes him more tightly.
“I wanted Great-aunt Dorea to adopt you too, but then Great-uncle Charlus got sick.” He looks up. “And I kept waiting for Hogwarts because I knew I’d see you and I can make everything up to you. Now we’re here together and I’ll never leave you behind again. Please believe me. Please forgive me. I want to be best friends again.”
Tom stares into Harry’s earnest face. Forgive and forget, Mrs. Cole has always preached. Live a life of understanding and kindness.
Then he remembers staring at Harry’s empty bed in the loneliness of Room 27. He remembers the taunts from the other orphans who were gleeful he’d lost his only friend, the nights that seemed endless because he hurt so much.
He can’t forgive and forget...but he can pretend.
Tom gently runs a thumb across Harry’s wet cheek. His smile is tender.
“I forgive you.”
There are two types of orphans.
Some orphans react to the cold, unforgiving world by forging their own hearts out of stone to never be hurt, never be disappointed. Tom has seen the transformation happen to others: Billy Stubbs’s animal cruelty after the murder of his own rabbit, Amy Benson’s tongue sharpening with every failed adoption.
He’s no exception. Friendship is useless in a world that bows to power. Instead, he will have followers, servants. The pure-bloods who are foolish to scorn him now will one day grovel at his feet, volunteering their blood and gold to construct his kingdom.
Some orphans, however, open their hearts, sustaining themselves by snatching and magnifying every little act of kindness. They try to give as much as they can without expecting anything in return.
Harry has always been like this. At Wool’s, he remained kind to the orphans who teased and bullied him, defending them when Tom sought revenge. At Hogwarts, he easily makes friends in all houses. Even some of the Slytherins like him, despite lingering bad blood between the Potters and their families.
Tom hates it. He’s always hated seeing Harry bestow attention upon others, and his possessiveness has only grown with their years apart. He wants to growl every time Ignatius Prewett throws an arm around Harry, or every time Algernon Longbottom makes him laugh. He wants to snatch Harry from his circle of Gryffindor friends and announce to the Great Hall, “He is mine.”
Nevertheless, he contents himself with the fact that he’s Harry’s best friend. He’s the person Harry seeks out first in a crowd, the person Harry will choose over everyone else.
Nothing and no one can change that.
He will not be abandoned again.
Harry invites him to spend the Christmas holidays with his family, but Tom refuses, and to his satisfaction, Harry opts to stay at Hogwarts with him. Because there are no classes and almost everyone else has gone home, they spend almost all of their time together. Harry even sneaks Tom into the Gryffindor Tower so they can snuggle under the covers and fall asleep together, reliving old times.
Tom wakes up on his birthday to an empty bed. Before he can panic or rage, Harry returns, holding a covered dish.
“I have a surprise for you,” he announces.
Tom’s heart thumps. Harry is always looking for opportunities to make him smile. At Wool’s, he used to trade his meager possessions for coins, so he could buy Tom’s favorite chocolate from the nearest corner shop every New Year’s Eve.
The dish holds a scoop of chocolate ice cream. Tom takes a small bite and shivers as the flavor floods his mouth. Rich, bitter, and decadent dark chocolate, without any trace of milk or sugar, just the way he likes it.
Just like the chocolates Harry used to buy him.
“Do you like it?” Harry clasps his hands. “Great-aunt Dorea and I worked together to get the flavor exactly right.”
In that instant, Tom almost forgives him. Instead, he smiles.
“It’s perfect, thank you.”
He finishes the rest of the ice cream with Harry curled up on his lap. It’s the best birthday he’s ever had, but he doesn’t tell Harry.
Homemade chocolate ice cream will remain the only dessert Tom eats.
In their second year, Harry joins the Gryffindor Quidditch team as the Seeker.
Tom sometimes attends the practices. He watches and catalogues Harry’s interactions with the other members of the team. Most of the players are of no concern; Harry is friendly with them, but sees them only as acquaintances.
Donna Wright is different. She’s a fellow second-year and a very good Chaser. Tom starts spotting her and Harry poring over Quidditch magazines together. He starts noticing her cheeks dimpling whenever she looks at Harry. After the first Gryffindor-Slytherin match, which ends in a Gryffindor victory, Wright hugs Harry on the Quidditch pitch and kisses him on the cheek in front of their cheering teammates.
Sitting in the stands, Tom’s hand clenches. He will not allow Donna Wright to supplant his rightful place in Harry’s life.
So he plots. There are many possible methods of destruction, but not many that are untraceable and within the competency of a second-year student.
He settles for sabotaging Wright’s broom. It isn’t the most reliable method, but it’s more or less untraceable, given the fact that Wright flies an older-model Cleansweep known to be temperamental.
Nothing happens until the final Quidditch match of the year. The Gryffindors are playing the Ravenclaws for the Quidditch Cup. Wright is in control of the Quaffle, flying towards the goal hoop, when a Bludger hurtles towards her. As she tries to change direction, the Cleansweep starts bucking, at first gently, and then violently as she ascends in desperation.
Everyone hears the nasty crack as the Bludger connects with her shoulder, sending her into a freefall from sixty feet above.
Wright survives the fall, thanks to Dumbledore slowing her descent in time. However, despite the hospital matron’s best efforts, her shoulder will never be the same again. She will never play Quidditch again.
Blame falls on Archibald Selwyn, the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team who’s been vocal in the past about wanting to sabotage Gryffindor players. Furthermore, he was seen sneaking into the broomshed the night before the macabre match, though Tom knows that he only went to rendezvous with his girlfriend.
He keeps that to himself and blackmails Druella Rosier so she can’t speak up in Selwyn’s defense.
“Terrible business, truly terrible,” Slughorn laments to Tom. “I’m afraid Selwyn will be heavily disciplined, if not expelled.”
Dumbledore regards him with suspicion. Tom stares back levelly.
It was worth it.
A month after Wright’s accident, Tom finds Harry crying by the lake. When Harry tries to hide it, Tom grabs his chin so he can’t turn away.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“I’m not hurt, Donna is, and I don’t know how to help her.” Harry gives a tearful hiccup. “She’s talking about transferring to a different school so she doesn’t have to be reminded of the accident. I don’t want to lose her.”
Tom wishes that Wright would leave Hogwarts. He wishes that she hadn’t survived the fall. But he says none of that.
Instead, pulling Harry closer, he says, “You’ll always have me.”
“I know.”
“I’ll take care of you.”
Harry grips his arms and looks at him as if Tom’s his savior, as if Tom’s the sun.
And I am your sun, Tom thinks. I’m the center of your universe. Nothing else can shine while I’m here.
He leans in and kisses Harry.
Tom knows that a kiss is a promise, a promise for something he can’t give to anyone, not even Harry.
But he kisses Harry, because he doesn’t want anyone else to.
He kisses Harry, because he wants to be the first and only person to do so.
Harry stiffens and his breath hitches, but he kisses back. The kiss isn’t pleasant. They are both fumbling and inexperienced. Harry’s face is full of tears so his lips are too salty and wet. Nevertheless, Tom pulls Harry closer to deepen the kiss.
Mine. Forever.
As the Muggle war intensifies, Tom starts spending summers at the Potters’ instead of returning to the orphanage. Harry’s home is a small farmhouse in Toulouse, an entirely different environment from east London.
Harry does everything he can to make Tom feel welcome. He helps Dorea prepare Tom’s favorite dishes, he gives his own bedroom to Tom so he can have a more comfortable bed, and he digs out Charlus’s old Runes textbooks for Tom’s studying.
Dorea doesn’t trust nor like him, Tom can tell, but she can’t fight Harry’s attachment to his long-time best friend. Furthermore, with Charlus’s recent passing, she’s responsible for running the family potions business, which means Tom has Harry all to himself most of the time.
He enjoys that. Their days are split between studying and exploring the nearby countryside. Harry likes showing Tom his favorite hiking trails and introducing him to local Muggle farmers he befriended.
Their activities become less innocent as they grow older. Instead of exploring the outdoors, they spend their time indoors exploring each other. Tom rejoices in every gasp and moan he elicits from Harry, knowing that he’s the only one who knows and will ever know Harry so intimately.
He’s Harry’s first friend, first kiss, first time. He’s Harry’s first everything.
It’s not enough.
Moonlight filters through the window. Tom strokes a hand down Harry’s face, so peaceful and innocent in sleep.
You may have taught me to love, he thinks, but you can never teach me to share.
In his fifth year, Tom unlocks the Chamber of Secrets and tames the basilisk.
He means to target Algie Longbottom and Ignatius Prewett, Harry’s closest Gryffindor friends, but Myrtle Warren is in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’s not sorry about her death — she’s after all just a Mudblood — but he’s annoyed that security ramps up at Hogwarts in the aftermath. As a result, it’s much more difficult to find the opportune time to strike.
After spending a few weeks studying class schedules and mapping out the pipes, Tom decides to go after Prewett first. As a fellow prefect, his schedule is more predictable.
On Monday evening, a girls’ toilet on the fifth floor floods during Prewett’s patrol. The next morning, his body is found just before classes. He has been dead for at least 8 hours.
Harry is extremely distraught. Tom finds him curled up on the Astronomy Tower, shaking with grief. He looks up when Tom approaches, his eyes tearless.
“Why must they die?” he whispers. “Myrtle and Ignatius never hurt anyone.”
Tom reaches out to stroke his hair, ignoring Harry’s initial flinch. “You will be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“The school will catch whoever is doing this,” Harry says. “I will catch whoever is doing this.”
Tom hums and murmurs soothing, meaningless words, until eventually, Harry falls asleep against him. Still stroking his hair, Tom stares into the wall.
One more to go.
Tom underestimates Longbottom’s resourcefulness, who has somehow figured out or suspected that the culprit is a basilisk, so he has taken to carrying a mirror with him. As a result, he’s only Petrified, resulting in Tom losing Harry to evenings at his bedside in the hospital wing.
After Longbottom’s attack, officials from the Board of Governors visit, and Tom hears rumors of the school closing. He cannot allow this to happen. He needs to finish his education.
Tom frames Rubeus Hagrid, who has been raising an acromantula right inside the castle. He’s expelled immediately, no questions asked. Nobody will stand up for a half-giant without a family to protect him.
In turn, Tom receives an award for service to the school and eliminates yet another rival for Harry’s attention. He seals the Chamber of Secrets and commits a memory to his first Horcrux.
In the summer after his fifth year, Tom returns to Wool’s for the last time. In addition to retrieving the last of his belongings, he finds his adoption papers in a locked drawer in Mrs. Cole’s office.
He studies the name of his father and smiles; he’s always meant to pay his birth family a visit.
The visit to Little Hangleton goes well, even better than he expects. He reclaims the Gaunt ring from his uncle, takes care of the Riddles with three successive Killing Curses, and creates his second Horcrux.
His father stares up at him from the floor of his grand drawing room, face frozen in terror. Tom nudges the body with his foot. After dreaming of meeting him for so long, the actual encounter is anticlimactic.
“This is justice for leaving me behind,” he says.
He returns to Toulouse to have dinner with Dorea and Harry, arriving just in time for dessert.
In their seventh year, Harry is officially named heir to Charlus and Dorea Potter. When Dorea passes, he will inherit the house in Toulouse, the Gringotts vaults, and the family potions business.
Harry shares the details over a private dinner in the Hogwarts kitchen.
“I’m not sure my Potions skills will be good enough to do the potioneering,” he says, “but Algie might be interested in being my business partner.”
Tom only grunts and stabs at his shepherd’s pie. He’s been sullen ever since Harry receives the news.
Harry notices and reaches over to thread their fingers together. “What’s wrong?”
Tom’s response is full of venom, “You’ll leave me.”
“Why would you think that? This doesn’t change anything between us.”
“You’ve done this before.”
Tom tries to snatch his hand away, but Harry holds on tightly.
“I told you, I won’t leave you ever again. I’ve been thinking about us…” He hesitates, then pulls out a velvet box from his bag. When he speaks again, he’s blushing. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you but I was hoping for a better presentation...”
Tom opens the box to uncover a small silver ring, emblazoned with a stylized P . He picks it up and turns it over in his hand, watching the band catch and reflect the candlelight. His heart pounds loudly as he glances back at Harry; he knows what this ring entails, but he needs to hear the words out loud.
“The ring has been in the family for generations. We give it to our intended as a promise and protection.” Harry fiddles with his glasses. “I was thinking that once we leave Hogwarts and get our feet under us, we could formally become betrothed. Well, only if you want to.”
The ring fits Tom’s finger perfectly and strikes a nice contrast with the Gaunt ring. Now the world will recognize Harry as his.
He pulls Harry onto his lap and kisses him so lingeringly that Harry is left gasping for breath. Their eyes meet and Tom cups Harry’s cheek tenderly.
“Of course I do.”
After Hogwarts, Tom takes a position with Borgin & Burke, to Harry’s consternation and Slughorn’s disappointment.
“You have so many other great offers,” Harry laments. “Didn’t you want to go into politics?”
“I want to broaden my magical horizons first,” Tom says, kissing him on the head. “The Ministry positions can always wait.”
In reality, Borgin & Burke is the perfect cover for his new role as the leader of the Knights of Walpurgis. During the day, he can further his knowledge of dark artifacts and build connections with pure-blood dark families. In the evenings, under the excuse of late hours, he can hold meetings and raids with the Knights.
While Tom’s careful to make sure that the attacks cannot be traced, he follows media coverage with morbid satisfaction. The attacks start small — a stray Muggle who lives on the street, a young Muggle couple staying past curfew in a deserted carpark — and the Muggle papers are baffled.
As the attacks grow bolder, the wizarding world begins hearing murmurs of a terrorist group. Harry, who’s in his first year of Auror training, starts reading the Daily Prophet religiously.
“Please tell me you had nothing to do with it,” he says one day at the breakfast table, his green eyes distressed. The headline blares from the front page: Terrorist attack in small Cornish Muggle village, traces of Unforgivables detected, the Ministry of Magic is actively investigating.
“Of course I didn’t.” Tom frowns. “Why would you accuse me?”
“You were home late last night, so I thought…”
Tom pulls Harry closer. He doesn’t resist, which is a good sign. “I had a difficult customer.”
Harry leans his head against Tom’s shoulder and allows Tom to stroke his hair. Then he looks up, resolve hardening on his face.
“I’m going to do better in my training so I can save them in the future,” he says. “I won’t let this keep happening.”
Tom kisses the top of his head. His sweet, innocent Harry. He can try as hard as he can, but he cannot stop Tom.
Dorea is next.
Killing Dorea Potter is easy. She is an old woman, and bravery is no protection against five well-trained Knights.
Tom makes sure that she sees him casting the Killing Curse. It’s poetic justice, after all. He’s always hated her, and now the final obstacle standing between him and Harry’s full devotion is gone.
He leaves her lying in the middle of her destroyed potions shop, eyes still wide open in hatred.
As planned, Harry inherits the Potter fortune, yet victory isn’t as sweet as Tom expected.
Their formal betrothal is set aside as paperwork keeps Harry busy for weeks. When he isn’t handling the Gringotts vaults or the ownership transfer of the potions business, he’s finalizing the details of Dorea’s funeral.
Even when he is around, he’s distant and rarely smiles. Every once in a while, Tom would catch Harry giving him searching looks.
Does he suspect? But Harry still loves him. He wouldn’t stay with him if he believes he killed his great-aunt...would he? Even if he does, he won’t find any evidence. Tom even has an alibi for the time of murder.
Dorea’s funeral is an intimate affair. Many speeches are made in honor of her life, the most moving one made by Harry, who speaks of Dorea changing his life for the better. (Tom clenches his hands as he listens with a smile.) Afterwards, Harry asks for some time alone in the graveyard, and Tom complies.
He comes home late, and he is cold and stiff when Tom pulls him into his arms.
“Is everything all right?” Tom asks.
“I’m going to move back to Toulouse for a while,” Harry says, eyes averted. “I have some family affairs to settle.”
“Let me come with you, then.” Tom detests Toulouse, but he detests the distance between them even more.
“No. I need to do this myself.”
Harry’s tone brooks no argument. They retire to bed in silence. In the morning, he leaves, brushing Tom’s lips briefly in farewell. The flat reverberates with his absence.
Tom does not move from the fireplace for hours.
Books on dark magic pass through Borgin & Burke on a regular basis. Tom peruses them in his free time, under the guise of mending manuscripts. Initially, he’s doing research on immortality. While he’s already created Horcruxes, they still leave him vulnerable at the hands of seasoned magic practitioners, hardly foolproof for someone who craves eternal life.
By chance, he comes across a few volumes on rituals that will preserve and animate the body after death. There are crude methods, such as creating Inferi. There are more elegant methods, such as embalming the body as a Horcrux host.
Gradually, the idea plants its seeds and takes root. Killing Harry, that is.
In August, Harry completes his Auror training and celebrates at the Hog’s Head with schoolmates. From a distance, Tom watches everyone who dares to come up to Harry with desire on their faces. They can never have him, they should know that by now, and yet they will keep on trying.
He wishes he can dig out their eyes, carve up their bodies, and feed the remains to his snakes.
It's then that he comes to the conclusion that he needs to kill Harry. It’s the only way to ensure that Harry — his strong-willed, stubborn Harry — will never leave him. It’s the only way to ensure that he’ll never need to share Harry with imbeciles.
Tom plans their final dinner together carefully. In particular, he selects the dessert wine carefully: the best wine made with freshly pressed Italian grapes, imported from a goblin-owned winery in Tuscany. It will, after all, be the last thing Harry will ever taste. He selects the poison with equal care, a gentle poison that leads to a painless death.
To his surprise, Harry arrives home early so they can cook together, something they haven’t done since Dorea’s death. He looks so beautiful in his new Auror robes that Tom’s breath catches.
He grabs Harry and clutches him so tightly that Harry squirms.
“Are we never going to eat?” Harry teases, and Tom lets go reluctantly. He tries not to think about the fact that this may be the last time he’ll hold a living and breathing Harry.
The poison is slow-acting, he tells himself. Perhaps Harry will have enough time left for one last session in the bedroom. A death in the throes of passion will certainly be memorable.
They sit down and begin their meal. Polished cutleries sparkle under the candlelight; Tom has made sure to use Dorea’s fancy dinnerware.
“This is so lovely, thank you, Tom,” Harry says, smiling.
Tom smiles back, lips stiff.
“I have a surprise for you too. I finalized the sale of the Toulouse house. Once that’s done, I’ll move back for good. That is, if you’ll have me?”
Tom’s heart leaps. “Of course. Our flat hasn’t been the same without you.”
Harry’s face softens further. “I’m sorry I’ve neglected you. I’ve been trying to juggle too much, so I’ve asked for three months off before starting officially as an Auror.”
“You have?”
“Yes, I want to spend three months with you, just the two of us. Maybe we could travel, or we could live abroad for a few months, just like we used to talk about. What do you think?”
Time rewinds, and Tom sees two orphans looking out of their grimy windows on a foggy moonless night.
“What would you want to do, when we leave?” a young Harry asked, leaning his head on Tom’s shoulder while Tom sketched dreams of living in a grand palace, far away from everyone else, and of traveling to uncover the secrets of the world.
Just the two of us.
“I would like that,” Tom says, the tender filet mignon becoming tasteless rubber in his mouth.
Harry beams. “That’s great!” He reaches for his goblet of wine, which has been sitting untouched. “Let’s toast —”
“Don’t drink the wine just yet.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a dessert wine, so we should finish dinner first. Otherwise it will interfere with the...flavors.”
A crease appears between Harry’s eyebrows, but he sets down the goblet.
Dinner conversation is pleasant. They reminisce about their shared childhoods, then move on to planning their three-month trip. Tom wants to visit Albania and Egypt, while Harry is curious about southeast Asia and Australia. They both agree that they want to spend their last month in a Welsh village, the more remote the better.
With every word, the trip grows more real. They would take the best trains, stay in the fanciest lodgings. They would hike through mountains, wade through deserts. They would stroll hand-in-hand by the ocean, make love under the moonlight.
They would be how they are always meant to be: together, forever.
Tom looks at the goblet of wine and his stomach twists.
Harry brings out dessert, and per tradition, it’s chocolate ice cream. Each of them has a scoop set upon elaborate dessert dishes; Tom’s features two hippogriffs in flight while Harry’s features the mythical Nemean lion.
“Let’s toast to our future.”
Before Tom could stop him, Harry picks up the goblet, clinks it lightly against Tom’s, and sips. Tom can only watch in horror as his lover savors the taste of his poison.
“It’s very good,” Harry says, setting down the wine and retrieving his fork. “A bit too dry for dessert wine though.”
Tom manages to swallow his own wine, despite the growing lump in his throat. Robotically, he spoons the ice cream into his mouth. The familiar flavor floods his taste buds, but his mind is whirring with other thoughts.
How much poison did Harry ingest?
Is there still time for an antidote?
He continues eating the ice cream.
Harry watches, expression achingly fond. “After all these years, this is still the only dessert you’d eat.”
“Of course,” Tom says, not daring to look away from Harry. “You made this for me.”
“Not just me,” Harry corrects gently. “Great-aunt Dorea spent a lot of time finding the right chocolates to replicate the taste of your favorite Muggle chocolate. The recipe was more her work than mine.”
The ice cream is more bitter and rich than he remembers.
“But I guess you won’t care,” Harry says, his voice still ever so gentle, “considering you murdered her.”
Tom’s spoon freezes in mid-air. “Murdered her?” he repeats, forcing levity. “What are you talking about?”
“You covered up your tracks well, making it look like a burglary. You fooled everyone.”
But not him. Not the only person who matters.
“Great-aunt Dorea would’ve legally adopted you after our formal engagement.” Harry’s fork clatters to the table, clinks against the dish. “You weren’t her favorite person, but she was willing to try. But you couldn’t wait, could you?”
“It wasn’t —”
Harry reaches over and grabs Tom’s hand to trace a finger over the Potter ring. “Did you know that the ring tracks as well as protects? I know you were in the potions shop when my great-aunt was murdered, just as I know you were in Cornwall when the Muggle village was raided.”
Tom tries to protest, but the words won’t come.
“But they weren’t your only victims, were they? Ignatius. Algie. You got Rubeus expelled. You were the reason Donna left Hogwarts.” Harry stares at him, hard. “Why?”
The old hurt bubbles up. “You left me.”
“And you said you forgave me. Was that a lie?”
Tom’s silence is answer enough. Harry runs a hand down his face and shudders.
“I was the one who hurt you. If you can’t forgive, hate me, punish me. Why did you have to hurt everyone else?”
Because you love them.
Because I love you.
“I loved you —”
“You love me,” Tom corrects.
“I loved you,” Harry says, voice shaking. “I suspected something was wrong after Ignatius, and I still loved you. I thought I could change you.”
Tom scoffs, but the sound is hollow. “You’ve known me long enough to know better, Harry.”
“I know.” A soft sigh. “That’s why everything ends tonight.”
Tom looks slowly down at his spoon, and then back up at Harry’s resolute face.
Oh.
He can feel the poison work its way through his system, constricting airways, slowing down heartbeats. Yet he feels rather calm. Harry drank the wine, after all. If Harry can’t belong to Tom in life, he’ll belong to Tom in death. That's what truly matters.
Harry reads his mind and picks up the goblet.
“The dinnerware has been in the family for generations,” he says, twirling it in his hand. “They are commissioned to protect all Potters by blood and marriage from malevolent substances. Quite handy, won’t you agree?”
Tom can’t speak. Blood has begun to pool in his throat, choking him.
“The same can’t be said for you,” Harry says softly. “I thought it’d be fitting that the last thing you taste is your favorite dessert.”
Even now, he’s so beautiful. Tom cannot look away as his angel of death leans forward.
Harry’s lips are cold and bitter against his own.
“Goodbye Tom.” His voice holds no mercy. “Hell should warm you up.”
The world fades
to
black.
Harry is gone and Tom is alone.