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“It somehow feels creepier than the Forbidden Forest,” Ginny lightly comments, before catching herself. “I don’t mean that to be a bad thing, I just mean, it’s so secluded and quiet here, it feels… ominous somehow.”
Harry chuckles, holding her gloved hand to show he understood what she meant. It’s almost spring, but the night is still chilly. “There was nothing wrong with the Forbidden Forest, Gin. I thought you knew Dumbledore only named it that way to stop students from entering.”
“Well, it failed,” Ron says, helping Hermione into her boots. “Didn’t we march into the forest when we were twelve? Bloody idiots we were.”
Hermione huffs when Ron taps her other foot, but she reluctantly holds her foot up for Ron to tie the boot. “Well, if you had read the clue I found you wouldn't have to—”
“For the last time, woman, we weren’t caring about what you were reading. A little preoccupied with you stuck as a stone.”
“And besides,” Draco says, popping beside Ginny. “Didn’t a teacher lead us into the so called forbidden forest? When we were eleven??”
“Oh yeah, I missed that,” Ron says, standing up and fussing over Hermione’s coat. He could’ve done it with a spell, but Ron prefers to do things by hand. Hermione frowns at the attention, but she has one hand over her very pregnant belly and the other on her hip, barely holding back a wince. Ron puts a woollen hat over Hermione’s head. “Nice and warm?”
“I feel like a stuffed roast,” she grumbles, but her face softens as soon as Ron kisses her cheek.
“A cute one at that.” Draco looks away, and with great discipline, Harry is sure, keeps his mouth shut.
Ginny rolls her eyes, not hiding what she feels about the public display of affection. Harry still carries the warmth and bubble from the party and pulls Hermione in for a goodbye hug.
They’ve nagged him for weeks to come visit before the baby was due. Hermione has done nothing but worry about Harry for the past ten years. The war was over and they were all fine. Now she had to worry about herself.
He reminds her of this, but in true Hermione fashion, she can’t help herself.
“Oh, I wish we didn’t have to leave you alone.”
“I’m not alone,” Harry says, exasperated. “There’s literally a whole forest to keep me company.” He’s actually trekked the whole area; he knows what magical creatures are in the forest.
“Mate,” Ron warns, but Hermione already beats him to it, slapping Harry’s arm.
“I’m joking, I’m joking!” Harry says. “I’m fine, honest, just focus on the baby, please.”
“Don’t worry, Hermione, Harry’s too polite to say it, but he’s living his best life as a bachelor in his prime,” Ginny says, swaying on her feet with Draco holding her elbows to steady her. “Look at the place and all the rooms! I bet we aren’t going to be the only guests he has over.” She gives an exaggerated wink, which makes Harry burst out laughing.
He embraces Ginny as well. “Drink lots of water, and let Draco fuss over you.”
“Oh-ho, look who’s the mother hen now,” she says with a drunken lisp, but a flushed smile that Harry is happy to see.
The first year after the war had been harsh on their crumbling and fading relationship, but he’s glad they’ve reconciled as friends—because of their joint defence of Draco, of all people.
Draco’s grown on him, subdued at first. Carrying out his sentence and accepting his wealth being taken for reparations, he became a different man. But it had taken the world, and Molly especially (who begged Harry to reconsider their relationship), some convincing that he didn’t have any ill intention towards Ginny.
Draco’s been less obtuse thanks to Harry sticking up for their relationship. The lone Slytherin holds his hand out to shake Harry’s. “We’ll be going then.”
“Stay safe.”
Harry waits for a moment and watches until they walk to the main gate and are able to Apparate safely, or in Ron and Hermione’s case, ride a flying car he modified.
When the door closes behind them, the house exhales.
Harry seals the wards with a flick of his wand, hums under his breath, and waves his wand. The spread in the dining room quickly lifts and rearranges itself; the dishes lift themselves, scrape clean, rinse, and stack.
He would usually love to do it by hand, but he’s impatient tonight. He plates a portion of leftovers, takes another plate for dessert and a tray of tea, and still humming a tune, with the candles extinguishing one by one, Harry walks towards the door that leads him to the basement.
When he built Spiracle Mansion, it was with one specific purpose.
Derbyshire was perfect, far enough from London, and he prefers nature than people anyway. The house took years for him to build, he had a vision and studied Magical Architecture with his friends support. Every stone in this mansion was laid out by his hand, his magic all coated with his signature. He was never fond of Grimmauld Place and sold it as soon as he could. He had no attachment to Potter Manor, revealed to him as soon as he was twenty-one.
Ginny was partially right, there were dangerous creatures, a monster in the forest.
But who could stop him?
There's a part of him that wonders what his friends would think about this part of him. A small part that is only revealed in corners of a bathroom mirror, one would have to wipe through the steam to see the hand-grenade shape of his heart. For years, it was packed tight with anger and fear, and he tried, he tried to tell them this was who he was.
But they needed a hero, they wanted the war to be over. They wanted their own versions of happy endings.
Not even the birds outside Harry's bedroom window can know, the world needed 'normal'. So Harry carefully took it all, this darkness his harboured, dug a hole in the ground, deep, with his hands and magic. Keep it all a buried secret, the world can never understand, so they can never know.
Harry recalls how, as a child he would hide his lost tooth in a box and keep it under a pillow so Dudley wouldn't steal it. No tooth fairy came and gave him a dollar, but the tooth vanished without a trace. From a young age, he was just good at that, at keeping secrets.
His most prized secret is behind this door. It opens only to him. Just standing before the door makes his body reacts, he doesn't care whether it be quiet or screaming or thrashing- he would take them all. His own magic surges from his spine and blooms warmth in belly. Years of patience and finally he tastes salt from those lips, is able to teach those hands to soften and he'll never tire of it.
Harry changes the weight of his legs, his pants tighten, his heart quickens, the tune he plays on his lips never falters as he unlocked the door, and enters.
When one thinks of an underground home, they imagine it dark and dirty. Harry made sure it was anything but, installing expansive marble flooring, ensuring high ceilings, and installing the same windows the Ministry of Magic used, which could showcase any scenery one wished. Right now, they show the moon outside.
There’s an everlasting sun that hangs in one small corner of the room. It helps encourage the garden to grow. He calls it his indoor meadow, filled to the brim with colourful flowers, facing every direction. A pocket of spring right here in his home.
Books line the walls. It was easy to get the special tomes. Everyone wanted to gift him something after the war, and since books were his favourite, Harry made sure to get every copy he’d ever wanted.
“You think this will make me submit to you?!"
In those early days, he was so volatile, had too much pride. Not realising the gift Harry had given him, them.
Harry smiles, things were different now. He accepts the fact that Harry wants him- his violence, his silent sedation, his moon eyes when he mourns or his telescope morbid fascination with magic and ambition- Harry will take all of it without judgement or reprimand and treasure it for eternity.
Harry had eternity.
Placing the food on the dining table for two. It’s past midnight, but Harry knows he’s not asleep. It’s been a decade; he pretends to hate it all he wants, but wherever he is, Voldemort… Tom, will wait.
Harry reaches his study, hiding slightly behind the pillar. None of the rooms here have doors, because doors mean no access. And Harry has all the access.
He could walk up to Tom right now and disturb his lovely writing session. But he chooses not to and stands in the shadows, leaning by the pillar and watch. Harry admires the brown curls fall over Tom's forehead, pale skin that glows under the candlelight, wearing a pink night robe- it was a joke at first, but it's Tom's favourite nightwear. Imagine, this was once the Dark Lord.
And he's all mine.
Tom is focused on his task, the scratch of parchment reminds Harry of Hogwarts. It's a sound that soothes him.
No one understands how fascinating Tom is. This person who can extrapolate and understand the complex pyro magic in a way no one else can.
After Harry saved him from Kingsley, he kept him in Grimmauld’s cellar, unsure what to do at first. All he knew was that Voldemort could not waste away under their gross hands. The fates have decided it would be him and Tom, who was Harry to avoid it? Tom tried to manipulate Harry, tried to use him to reclaim his lost ambition. But Harry had learned his lesson.
Tom could not decide these things. He needs Harry to keep him sane.
Tom’s gaze finally lifts, and as if withholding impatience he drawls. “Don’t wait for me to invite you. I have seventy more pages to finish.”
Harry crosses the room with a wild smile on his face. Every part of him vibrates as he closes the distance between them. "Hello my beloved."
He places his hand on Tom’s—the one holding the quill—and he sets it aside and leans forward. He’s grown a lot over the past decade, put on some muscle. No longer an Auror, he’s not made for Ministry life, but he runs a private defence academy, and has benefit greatly from a healthier lifestyle. Harry wears better shirts and trousers, with hairstyles that Ginny comments “don’t make him look like a homeless man.”
Harry knows Tom likes his looks as well. Because even though he frowns and tries to put on an air of nonchalance, his eyes flicker briefly to the open button of his chest and his cheeks blush like a born-again virgin.
It makes Harry want to do things. Things like place his fingers in warm wet insides and crawl his hands all over him.
Harry caresses Tom’s hand instead. “I wish you’d put on a sweater.” Harry raises Tom’s hand to kiss his knuckles, walks around the table to rest his hand on his shoulder, smoothing the robe before gently tracing the bare skin of Tom’s jaw and neck. “Or at least a shirt, I don’t want you to get a cold.”
Tom does not lean into it, but he also doesn’t pull away. “What does it matter if I catch a cold?” he says in a deadpan voice. “Did you not promise to treat me?”
Harry slips his hands under the robe to map his collarbone, his bare shoulders. Harry wonders how many more decades will it take until Tom drops this facade. They've sacrificed enough, whether it be Jesus, Tom's once suicide mission, when will he admit what his body and soul are already conceding. He's not waiting for any declaration on a microphone, a soft disposition would have been enough. Underneath his calm is a shark in water.
Harry can make him admit it but...
Patience.
He must trust Tom, trust their bond.
“I do promise.” Harry bends and presses his nose into Tom’s hair, he smells sweeter than a field of clementine. he guides Tom’s face up with two fingers and they share a kiss. As soon as they part, Tom’s eyes are black and empty, seemingly endless zeroes. This gaze has polluted Harry's marrow, has filtered into his dreams, a constant warm shadow. “But I don’t want any harm to come to you.”
There is a hollow void in Harry's soul, parts of him that won't heal, but he won't succumb to it and truly hurt Tom.
Tom’s mouth twitches. “Stuck here, harms me.” He grumbles with a childish pout.
Harry laughs under his breath, pushing a stray curl to the back of his ear.
He knows Tom isn’t capable of loving him the way Harry does. It’s a flaw Harry’s not trying to fix. Harry can love Tom enough for the both of them. Oh, Tom tried fighting it, denying it early on with such passion and vitriol, but he underestimated how patient Harry was, and when Harry decided he loved Tom, that was it.
He could hate Harry, act indifferent. But he can’t say no.
Not because Harry won't let him, but because if Harry craves him, Tom, needs him.
Tom’s soul is whole now, reclaimed and reattached. Not quite reincarnation, but a poorly done stitching. The Unspeakables said he was condemned to be a wraith for eternal existence. Despite his passive resistance, he holds the safe word, he could be free of Harry if he wanted to.
But he wouldn't.
Harry saved him from such punishment. He gave him a second chance. He regretted killing Kingsley to get what he wanted, but he never regretted saving Tom. Harry will absorb any sickness Tom's fostered, cure him of his past addictions. Harry is the one stalling Tom's true nightmare, because if it's not Harry, it's something worst than death that awaits him by the doorway.
Tom knows this. He knows there’s no way for him to escape Harry. No magic that would ever make him whole—his soul is Harry’s.
Spiracle Mansion was built so they could live some semblance of normalcy. Tom has work now, he's doing good.
They say saving one man is like saving humanity. How right they were. The world is a better place thanks to Tom’s academic journals, published under an anonymous pseudonym. He’s making breakthroughs in the study of magic from their very home.
Harry is proud of him, his butterfly, his spirited sailor.
He brushes his thumb along the black band around Tom’s neck, it contains his magic, binds it to Harry—his literal lifeline. He presses slightly under the band, against Tom’s pulse. The way it jumps beneath his thumb makes his own heart race.
Harry is his lover, his jailer.
Harry leans by Tom’s ear, breathless as he asks. “Would you like to eat before or after?”
There’s a pause before Tom sets his paper aside. “After.”
Harry smiles, adjusting his pants and plants a kiss on Tom’s beautiful cheek.
“Lovely.”