It started when he found the diary, Harry thinks, when he picked it up, sodding wet in the girls’ bathroom. When he started isolating himself from his friends. When he picked up a pen and wrote his name inside the lonely pages.
That was a few months ago. Now, Harry sits in his bed, clutching the diary and staring at the blank parchment like it’s something he can’t afford to lose.
He’s charmed his bed to keep the curtains shut and permanently silence the space inside, hiding from the rest of the world, with the help of Tom. It’s only them now.
He’s started to become dependent on the diary and the one who lives inside it.
He needs Tom.
‘Are you there?’ he writes.
‘Yes, Harry,’ the diary, Tom, responds almost instantly.
‘Will I ever be able to see you?’
There’s a beat before Tom answers. Unusual, Harry notes.
‘Yes. Maybe.’
Not good enough.
‘I need to see you, Tom. The diary isn’t enough.’ Harry scribbles desperately, the tip of his quill denting the page.
‘Harry, do you know what you’re asking, my dear?’
No. He doesn’t. But he doesn’t care. He will do anything. He has been wanting this for months, to see Tom, to talk to him, to hear his voice, to touch him, and not just——
‘Tom, I don’t care. Please.’ His hand shakes as he writes, tears threatening to spill.
The diary hums faintly, warmth seeping into Harry’s hands.
‘Okay, Harry. I’ll tell you what to do.’
And so, Tom writes a short list of instructions.
______________________________________________
Three Months Later
Harry has everything he needs now. He’s so close to seeing Tom, to bringing him out of the diary. It’s all he thinks about these days.
He and Tom have planned what they’ll do once Tom has his body again. They’re going to run away together.
Harry cares less and less about what the world expects of him, to defeat Voldemort, to be the hero. He only cares about Tom now. (That’s ironic, Harry.)
And Tom feels the same.
You are the center of my world, Harry, Tom has told him. If anything ever happened to you… hell would reign.
Harry doesn’t mind. It makes him feel cared for.
He lines up the necessary items on the chamber floor, sets them aside, then picks up the diary and writes:
‘Tom, I have the sacrifice. Tell me what to do.’
______________________________________________
The ritual ends. Nothing happens.
Harry waits. And waits. And waits.
Ten minutes pass. No response from the diary. No shift in the air. No sign that anything worked.
He breaks down. He failed.
Harry curls up on the floor, his sobs echoing through the chamber walls. He failed. He…
A shimmer.
Harry looks up, breath catching.
Ink spills from the diary’s pages, swirling together, taking form, an arm, then another, fingers grasping the edges of the leather cover, pulling itself out.
Tom.
Relief crashes over Harry, overwhelming, dizzying. He did it. He didn’t fail.
He stumbles to his feet, rushing forward, still crying—but these tears are born of something else entirely.
“Tom, oh, Tom,” he gasps.
Tom glances at him, then pulls him into his arms.
“Shhh, sweetheart,” Tom murmurs, holding him close. “It’s all right now. I’m here. And I’m not leaving you. Ever.”
Harry likes that idea. He closes his eyes and imagines their future together.