let the world come at you love

A soft voice filtered through the trees, singing a lullaby somewhere deep in the forest. There was a gentle breeze running through the trees, making the leaves sway gently from side to side, as if dancing to the tune of the song.

A man swayed, dancing through a small opening in the forest where the trees grew further and further apart and let the sun shine through. "O let the world come at you, love," he sang, bending forward a bit to rest his forehead on the bundle in his arms, he hummed, "like distant toms a-drumming."

The forest around the pair seemed to lie in wait for the lullaby to end, creatures jumping from the branches above their heads and listening in to their little shared moment.

"Though some would harm you, none - not one - no, none," the man whispered into the baby's skin, a promise and a vow woven together into a song, "would raise to you a hand nor thumb, not while by you I stand and hum." He twirled as he went, gently rocking from one step to the next. "Run to show that love’s worth running to," the man sighed in content, hands gentle and eyes full of love as he looked down at the precious cargo in his arms. "All that matters is that you're here."

~

There was a child running through the store.

Actually, there was a toddler running through the herbology store in their pink onesie, touching huge green leaves and big petals of all the possible colors of the rainbow with the care and gentleness people in the double (and triple!) digits could not even begin to fathom. The sound of little socked feet hitting the wood and the shake of the plants around the child was stark in contrast to the normally busting store, usually filled with people talking over one another, cutting fresh ingredients or slamming objects against tables, now abnormally quiet.

Perhaps the word ‘running’ was not the one Tom was looking for. It would be better described as purposeful stumbling in a crooked direction, leaning into everything moderately vertical as the toddler zigzagged through.

Most peculiar of all, their hair was mostly green, matching perfectly with some of the plants they so softly touched with a chubby hand - except for two strands that stood jet black against their honey colored skin.

The child ran from one side of the store to the other, across the polished wooden floor, in between shelves and beneath exhibition tables like it was one big playground made just for them. Plants left and right bent down low to their level to be pet at their leisure, leaves shaking in content as the child went past.

Finally, the child seemed to run out of fuel as it bumped into Tom.

Two big green eyes looked up at him with slow blinks, mouth opening and closing like they were about to speak, little eyebrows furrowed. Then the toddler smiled and two chubby arms reached up towards Tom, hands opening and closing in a universal sign of ‘pick me up!’. The child had no teeth to speak of, Tom noted distantly, as if he were underwater and not, in fact, standing stock still in the middle of a herbology store looking down at a child.

Tom stared incredulously at the small child. Where were their parents? Why was this child roaming freely through a store full of plants that held the potential to be harmful? And why in the world did it have green hair of all things?

Said kid patted his legs where it could reach, before extending its arms once again.

Tom looked one way, then the other, hoping a parent would appear out of the woods, but of course he had no such luck.

Finally, he reached down to take the toddler into his arms with practised hands. All those years in the orphanage finally accounted for something useful.

Two big green eyes stared at him intently now that they were face to face. A small button nose stood between two soft full cheeks, small lips pursed as they scrutinized Tom with intent.

Then the improbable happened.

Magic rippled across the toddler's skin like waves on a lake. It left Tom's arms feeling electrified in its wake.

The child’s eyes changed, from deep forest green to dark, dark ocean blue, an exact match to his. Its skin paled several shades, and the hair grew a tiny bit longer and turned to a dark chocolate color, full of tightly bound curls. The button nose stayed, as did the small round face and the chubby cheeks.

A metamorphmagus.

A baby metamorphmagus.

The baby seemed satisfied with the turn of events and proceeded to lay its head on Tom’s shoulder with a content sigh, small thumb in its mouth.

Tom stood deadly still, fearing any wrong move would startle the child.

The baby sighed again and nuzzled its face into his chest and promptly seemed to fall asleep. It was a warm little furnace, all in a neatly wrapped pink onesie on his arms.

Tom blinked. What the hell.

Then, from the far corner of the store a harried looking man with the biggest, most familiar green eyes appeared. He was searching the room, low to the floor like he expected his baby to run in between the legs of the exhibition tables like a headless chicken. It wouldn't be too far from the truth.

Finally, and without Tom needing to put in any work whatsoever, the man locked eyes with him.

He startled half a step, eyes horrified and cautious all in one. His posture changed from concerned parent - with shoulders slumped down and body tilted towards the floor looking for his child - to an aggressive stance. Defensive almost, with his spine as straight as an arrow and head tilted up, defiant.

His wand didn't appear in his hand, but Tom suspected he wouldn't need it. He could almost taste the way the magic coiled around the man's body in the back of his throat, like a dish served better cold but no less spicy and all the more full of life because of it.

He looked half a step away from punching Tom in the face. The only thing stopping him was the baby asleep in Tom’s arms.

"Give me my baby back," the man said, voice strangled somewhere between anger and concern. "Please," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Tom didn't have any reason to hold on to the child.

And yet.

The man before Tom was beautiful. Tan skin scattered with freckles and moles like galaxies. His hair was long, pulled away from his face in a bun held together with a long piece of wood — a wand, more than likely. His eyes were two green emeralds burning coldly as they stared at him.

He also had the biggest eye bags Tom had ever seen in his life. Deep, purple and dark like a bruise, pulling down at the skin around his eyes like living weights, sucking his deep green eyes into a vortex of purple and grey and blue. Despite the tan of his skin there was a green parlor to it that spoke of sickness.

His stance remained guarded, but his shoulders were too tense, like they couldn't hold the weight of his body properly.

"My baby," he repeated and his voice trembled tiredly, yet it was laced with undeniable anger.

Tom rolled his shoulders back and straightened his spine. He took a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a moment.

He exhaled.

To business, then.

"Why did you let your child run around the store?” He glared at the man, and he had the pleasure of watching him shift from foot to foot with clear discomfort, as Tom bore the blunt of his curling magic down on him. “Are you aware of how many dangerous plants are within reach of their small hands?" Tom accused.

The man bristled at the jab, even as his bottom lip trembled. He shifted once more, clearly restless.

"I didn't—" he sputtered, "I set him down for one second to pay and—it's none of your business!" He approached them cautiously and reached his hands out to take the child. Tom turned, contrite.

"And how do I know this child is even yours to begin with?" Tom asked the very sensible question, only to have the strangers retort back, "Why do you care? Give him back!" The man reached out with his hands again, this time slapping away one of Tom's own hands with his.

The moment their skin touched a tingle went down Tom’s back like lightning, powerful and warm. The world came into focus for a single second, colors brightening in a way they hadn't since he—.

The child was out of his arms before he could regain his wits.

"Teddy, you shouldn't go running around like this. What if a bad man grabbed you, huh, bug? Where would we be then?" He glared at Tom from above the child's head, green eyes narrowed. Teddy sighed deeply as he snuggled into the man's coat like a cat seeking the sun. And, almost like the child could sense his parent near, the hair on his head changed from the chocolate curls, back to green and then settled down on black strands so messy they stuck out in all possible directions, and they perfectly matched that of the man holding him.

The man turned away and left, leaving Tom standing alone in the middle of the herbology store in between plants that watched on like gossiping ladies amongst themselves, a scandalous shake to their leaves that said they were deeply entertained.

~

Working at Borgin and Burke's was both a blessing and a curse.

The owners left Tom well alone at the store, a fact for which he was grateful, as he could stand neither man for longer than a single passing glance. As such, Tom had full range to do as he pleased with each new object or book he came into contact with.

The heavy feeling of the dark artifacts nestled into every nook and cranny of the store soothed something in him like a balm, something that had broken off and become jaded when he tore his soul open.

He arrived early and went home late, looking to hold onto the heavy darkness of the magic settling in the store like a shroud for as long as he possibly could. It was the only comfort he had been able to find as of late, it made his breathing a little less labored and his muscles a little less tense. It made the ever present headache - one that had settled somewhere behind his eyes a little over two years ago and refused to leave ever since - a little less sharp, more bearable.

Despite doing all he could to avoid it, he felt like he was living on borrowed time. Just surviving.

Living a half life.

~

The man and his little child walked in one random Friday, two weeks after Tom had first encountered them at the herbology store.

The child was strapped to the man's chest with a long navy cloth embroidered with small silver stars. The kid was wearing a green onesie this time.

Tom watched the man walk between the shelves in the section where they kept most of their books, a slender hand running across the spines of several of them seemingly without the fear of a curse sticking to his skin. Most of his regular customers knew better than to touch.

The child's big green eyes were fixated on Tom, a curious look about him.

Tom smiled a bit and let the magic around his own eyes fall like a veil, dark blue eyes turning a burgundy red, deep like wine.

The child squeaked in delight, arms and legs moving up and down excitedly. His own eyes switched from green to red in a single blink, small mouth stretching into a toothless smile.

The man glanced down at his child with a frown and he found two red eyes gazing up at him. His mouth opened in surprise, before accusing eyes rose to throw daggers in Tom's direction.

"Don't encourage him!” the man exclaimed, “do you know how hard it is to keep them one singular color?"

"And why, pray tell, would you force him to stay a certain way?" Tom raised an eyebrow at him, leaning forward to rest an elbow on the counter before him.

A tense silence followed his question, with the man placing a protective hand on the child's back.

He was far too skinny to be carrying a child, Tom observed. A charm or two to keep the child from being too heavy and stuck inside the navy cloth wrapped around the man must be at play.

Finally, he answered, mouth pulling down at the corners like the words had a weight to them he couldn't carry, "People ask questions."

‘Oh?’ Tom drummed long fingers against the oak counter. ‘Interesting’, he couldn't help but think. A slow smirk made way on his face as he walked around the counter, hands sliding over the old wood. His steps were slow and measured, careful to not frighten the deer stuck before him. The man's shoulders slouched, arms tightening around the baby. Tom took in the sight of them together, huddled in his store.

The man looked as tired as he had the last time they had crossed paths. How he was even awake enough - going off of the deep shadows beneath his eyes - to stand straight and with a child strapped to his chest no less, was a mystery to Tom.

Surely a baby metamorphmagus would not be a cause for concern from the general public. And yet...

Tom searched through his memories, trying to connect the dots. A baby metamorphmagus, young, perhaps not even a year old as of yet and a single parent, who looked over his shoulder like he was being chased by hell hounds.

Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say he was being chased by crows.

Black crows, to be exact.

There was only one family - and its branches, both in England and in France - to be associated with this type of magic. They were said to produce the most mages who could change appearances at will in all of Western Europe combined, each new generation having at least one metamorphmagus in their midst.

The House of Black.

If the man was trying to keep his child away from them it meant he had possibly already piqued their interest.

To say Tom abhorred the House of Black would be an understatement. He had been classmates with both Orion and Lucretia Black for seven years, had been sorted into the same House, frequented the same circles. And yet.

Yet.

After they graduated they had left him behind in the dust that settled after the war was over, in the ruins of what could have been his life scattered around him like rubble.

They strode around Knockturn Alley sometimes, looking down on Tom from above their upturned noses like he owed them something.

And this man had seemingly and unwillingly attracted their attention.

‘I can work around this,’ Tom thought, ‘if only to get close enough to the man to feel alive again’. The child would be an added bonus, he supposed. He had never interacted with the type of magic a metamorphmagus had access to, and he was curious as to what the limits to their magic was, how it was possible for them to change shape and form and colors from such a young age - if only having witnessed this particular child that now gazed at him with wide eyes - when most magical children developed at a much slower rate.

"You shouldn't have to hide beneath a smokescreen to feel safe," Tom said then, smile gentle and eyes concerned.

The man narrowed his eyes at him, in response. Suspicious. ‘What good instincts,’ Tom thought, to not be deceived by a kind face in the darkness, rather looking at him like he was a snake that had been provoked and was ready to strike.

Tom was actually willing to lend a hand, however. As honestly as he could.

"What are you looking for? Maybe I can be of assistance," Tom offered, striding even closer to them. The magic surrounding the man was as cold as the chilliest of winters.

He hesitated, looking down at his child for a long moment. He pulled at his bottom lip, before sighing.

"A book on baby werewolves," he muttered, arms protectively around his child and looking everywhere in Tom’s face but his eyes. Bracing himself. Like he waited for a storm to knock him off his feet.

Ah.

Tom's eyes widened the tiniest fractions, surprised enough to let his mask of indifference fall a little flat. He looked down at the toddler with new eyes. There was nothing about him that would attract attention, other than the obvious magic that settled on his skin like a well worn coat.

A baby werewolf. A baby werewolf and a metamorphmagus. Tom was beginning to understand the eye bags beneath the man's lovely green eyes.

"You won't find any here," he said regretfully. The man's eyes snapped up to him, face pinched. "Britain is notorious for their dislike of dark creatures and the Ministry has been on a warpath to burn any and all books they can get their hands on since Grindelwald fell,” he explained. Tom watched as despair settled around the man, mouth pulling down and eyes closing in resignation.

Then he looked down at their clothes, pristine and well pressed, of a good quality even if they were ill fitting and hanging off his starved frame. The man was clearly well-off, if alone, going by the tiredness around his whole being.

A plan began to form in the forefront of his mind, like spiderwebs coming together on a single point of focus and pulling all the information he had at hand on a single, crazy idea. "There are countries," he started, tentatively, carefully, "that don't hold the same prejudices. Romania. Bulgaria. Or Hungary, to name a few."

The man swayed from foot to foot, making Teddy dance along with him in a soothing manner. A frustrated huff left his lips.

"I don't even—how do you even go about—and I only speak English—" the man stammered, thoughts apparently going a mile a minute.

Tom watched the thought sink in.

Going to a new country where he wouldn't be questioned about his child. The possibility of finding a community of dark creatures where he could blend in and help his kid.

Anonymity. Security. Community.

"I can be of help," Tom insisted. The man's head snapped up to him again, suspicion settled into every fine line of his skin. "I speak several languages. It wouldn't be a problem."

"Of course you do," the man muttered beneath his breath. Tom couldn't help but smile, amused.

He took a deep breath and let it go, eyes drawn once more to his child, where it snuggled into his chest with a stubborn hand in its mouth. The good seemed to outweigh the bad, though, and the suspicion on his shoulders gave way to hope. Finally, green eyes settled on red. "And what do you get out of it?" ‘Good man,’ Tom thought, wanting to smirk but suppressing the urge.

"I get out of here."

The man's mouth opened in surprise, eyes disbelieving. Then his expression gentled somewhat, an understanding embedding deep within his bones.

Like calls to like, after all.

"Okay," he replied slowly, but with finality, perhaps trying to convince himself he would not regret it.

"I'm Tom. Tom Riddle." There was something knowing in the other's expression, something that said he knew more than he let on.

"Harry," the man introduced himself. And left it at that.

~

There was a tiredness to Harry that spoke of something greater than a simple case of lack of sleep.

His eyes turned vacant sometimes, far away and lifeless as he stared into a void somewhere off to the side. The green tint to his skin didn't leave and the hollowness to his face stayed, no matter how much food Tom tried to pile onto his plate.

Harry’s appetite was little and scattered, eating food only in small bits and often taking it from Teddy's plate when Teddy couldn't seem to stomach any more solids, preferring a bottle of sweet milk instead.

Harry looked like he’d seen the worst the world had to offer and still stood on his own two feet, if only for Teddy’s sake and not his own.

And time went by.

Little by little, as days turned into weeks of filing papers and paying people to forge documents, Harry seemed more and more willing to leave Teddy in Tom’s vicinity.

Teddy, in turn, was fascinated with Tom. (Perhaps, almost as much as Tom himself was fascinated by Teddy).

What had started as a simple plan to get away from England and its constricting life and stand close enough to Harry to feel alive again, turned into long hours of sitting on a carpeted floor in one of Madam Liu’s finest rooms, a tea house with rooms for rent in a side alley not far from the main road in Diagon, playing with both Teddy's hands and magic alike.

Tom had never really frequented this side of the Alley before, preferring to stick to the cold, damp feel of Knockturn, much more interesting to travel through if one was careful enough of the creatures that lurked in the shadows. The shops deep in the side alley were mostly set up by immigrant families, who had settled in England. Generations upon generations of magical cultures crashing together into a mixing pot full of life and spices in a single alley that refused to give way to British traditions. Each little shop was a world on its own, full of colours and tapestries brought from their homeland and displayed proudly in each corner.

From italian pizzerias bursting with people speaking in loud voices to one another from one corner to the next, to shops selling traditional indian clothes in full vibrant colours that ranged from the deepest reds to the softest blues, with small beads of gold sewn into the fabric and made from the finest of silks, to a single store on the corner of two streets where rugs spilled from the inside of the shop out onto the street, wool dyed with the darkest colours available, each single knot stitched with utmost care to craft intricate designs.

On a different corner of the Alley could be found what seemed to be an entire family stitched together with care from different corners of the world. In the center was a black woman, who was of Colombian descent, with a scarf tightly wrapped around her hair, ordering around a small army of people to move left and right with a wooden spoon in her hand. Her purple eyes followed their movements and her words were kind but firm as people came and went from her little stand of traditional Colombian food. A man with platinum blond, almost white hair and blue eyes stood by her side, a severe look about him that warned unwanted trouble to stay well away. A child, who could be no older than ten stood by their side, building a tower with little colourful blocks on a corner of the table that had been clearly cleaned for this exact purpose only.

People greeted one another around the Alley like they'd known each other for the longest stretches of time. Perhaps they did. Perhaps they didn't.

There was a homey feel to this corner of the Alley that was not felt in Diagon proper.

Some witches (quite a lot, actually) greeted Teddy by name, hands reaching to tug on his curls or taking the time and care to pull stray bits of cloth from their pockets and transfigure them into small plush toys, or little sweets from their own stands held out with smiles and cooing noises that delighted in Teddy's contagious baby laugh.

The whiplash of so many different magical signatures crammed into a single street had given Tom headaches for days, much worse than the ones he was used to. It was so very different from Diagon Alley, or Hogsmeade, or even Hogwarts and anything he knew before meeting Harry and Teddy, so much so that he struggled to settle into a routine, blindly following behind Harry like a lost duckling.

But now. Now, Tom had Teddy all to himself. Harry had stepped out to help a grandmother who had fallen down the stairs three streets over from the tea house they now sat in. It shouldn't have really surprised Tom that Harry seemed to be equipped for just about any incident, any mishaps, as he was carrying the equivalent of a whole potions store in his little mokeskin pouch. Madam Liu seemed to know this all too well, as did the people on the street, as they had come looking for Harry specifically by name no less than ten minutes after they had sat down on the floor. Harry had hesitated for half a second, eyes settling on Teddy's attempts to crawl on the carpet, not yet successful and often falling tummy down on the soft rug. Then his eyes met Tom's and he was out the door without the need to exchange any words at all.

After ten minutes Teddy had finally given up, hair turning a neon pink and babbling at Tom to help him turn into a more comfortable position. Tom had sat down by the child, legs on each side of Teddy’s small body, arms leaning on his own knees.

Then, Tom settled down to play Teddy's favorite game: he turned his eyes from blue to red and watched in fascination as Teddy followed suit without any prompting needed. Tom waved magic at his fingertips and transfigured his own hair with a wave of his hand, from short to long to straight and back to curls, from black to white to blue. Teddy followed with baby laughs and feet dancing in the air as magic lingered between them gently, warmly.

Tom smiled down at the child despite himself. It had been a long while since he stretched his magic for no other reason than it being magic. Teddy, as small as he was, was the most interesting piece of magic and wonder the universe had delighted to create, right down from stardust to deliver an angelic baby into his arms. Changing colours and lengths was little trouble for Teddy, and the tingling of his own magic against his skin must feel pleasant and ticklish as he laughed each time he did it. He was too little to change the shape of his nose, his mouth or the length of his chin, but anything colour related was fair game. Tom had read a little on metamorphmagus babies, and according to the little research there was on the subject, all papers seemed to arrive at the same conclusion: their morphic magic would evolve with their magical core as they grew and new abilities would be unlocked through practice and experience.

Tom had taken it upon himself to stretch Teddy's magic each time they played as it would help his magic settle in his skin more comfortably, more securely. Tom had read some metamorphmagi had trouble settling into heights or sizes not their own, often being clumsy and having little spatial awareness to speak of whatsoever. Tom was convinced it was due to carelessness in their use and training of their own magic, inexperience shining through in all its glory. After all, magic was rather like a muscle, sure, some people had better genetics than others and even better capabilities, but that didn't mean one didn't have to train it and stretch it if one wanted to see favorable results.

It seemed to be one of the reasons why muggleborns and halfbloods had a better grasp on their magic as they were forced to train to both control and meet the expectations of the magical world they had been trusted into, their cores being firmly cemented into their bodies, as a contrast to the pureblooded children, often spoiled rotten and lazy in their work with their magic, preferring to pursue other interests. After all, magic, to them, was something that had always been present in their lives, something constant and unshakable. It was their downfall, too, of course.

He let red bleed into his eyes, transfiguring his hair into Slytherin green.

A noise from the doorway alerted him there was company.

Harry stood by the doorframe, a flushed look to his cheeks that could be easily explained away as nothing more than the exertion from running from one place to the next. Yet, his green eyes were heavy and almost black in the shadow of his eyelashes. His mouth was open, a half smile pulling at his lips.

He laughed as he stumbled in, voice breathless, "How are you doing that?"

"Doing what?" Tom raised a brow in question, very much aware of what he was doing. Teddy’s delighted squeak as Tom’s hair turned from green to blue was very telling, after all. Tom looked back down at Teddy, where he was letting out that joyful toothless laugh of his as he grabbed his little baby feet in the air with his hands and changed his own hair from green to a mix between green and blue.

"Changing," Harry breathed out, green eyes wide and surprised, almost as delighted as baby Teddy on the floor.

Tom tilted his head, curious, "It's a simple transfiguration spell, darling. Don't tell me you've never learned to change the shade of your hair." A grimace pulled at Harry’s face, green eyes moving from man to baby and back again.

"Transfiguration was not my best subject," he admitted. Tom hummed in answer, amused. He let the magic recede from his skin, hair turning back to brown but eyes staying red.

"And yet your child is a metamorphmagus. Somewhere deep in there," he gestured at Harry's body with his hand, "there must be a drop of prodigy buried deep, deep underneath your skin." Harry didn't even twitch at the playful jab, choosing instead to sit on the carpeted floor right by them, legs stretched out and eyes impossibly curious.

"Is that common?” he asked, and at Tom’s raised brow he hurried to add, “for metamorphmagi to be good at transfiguration?"

"Of course,” Tom answered, a slow indulgent smile spreading across his face, “they know the way change comes over each molecule of their body so intrinsically and intimately that using it on an inanimate object, where atoms don't fight the magic to change shape, color and size each step of the way is comparatively easy to them. It’s child's play to Teddy,” he fell silent for a moment, considering, “even the most intricate pieces of transfiguration, such as becoming an animagus, would probably be the work of a weekend for him, if planned correctly."

Harry looked even more starry eyed now where he sat on the purple carpet with his legs outstretched and no shoes on, slender socked feet waving back and forth, seemingly unaware Teddy matched the pace at which he moved his feet from side to side with his own small legs still in the air.

"And the wolf thing?" Harry couldn’t help but ask.

Ah, yes.

"We won't know until we reach that bridge, now will we?" The smile Tom gave Harry now was a bit more strained.

Harry had not said much on the subject of Teddy's almost-but-not-quite-werewolf status. In fact, he had not said much of anything concerning his life from before meeting Tom. He mentioned people sometimes, like the boy's grandmother, who had been named after a constellation and had passed not long after the child was born, and it certainly helped to cement the fact that he was somehow connected to the House of Black in Tom's mind. Or, from time to time, Harry lamented the loss of his House Elf friend, who had helped him greatly in the past, but had left an open wound when he'd passed that made Harry still cringe back from Elves in general, something visceral and searching in his eyes like he would be able to find the creature within their midst.

There were a lot of things left unsaid. Things Tom assumed, perhaps naively enough, about Harry and Teddy, as no other information was offered up.

There was a father somewhere out there, obviously, who was a full blooded werewolf and had (possibly, probably) passed down the creature magic down to his son. So far, Teddy had not manifested anything alarming, and perhaps the most strange thing about him (other than the obvious) was his elevated body heat. Tom didn’t know any other babies to compare Teddy to, but mothers around the Alley had assured him some babies ran hotter than others, that it was a matter of metabolism and diet.

The mystery of Harry carrying a child to term while apparently running from everything and everyone he had ever known was one thing Tom hadn't quite figured out yet. Magic did impossible things by muggle standards, yes, but even that was unheard of in England. He would have to do more research on the subject.

Tom strongly suspected Harry belonged to a branch family of the House of Black, perhaps disowned for having a child with a werewolf, if the lack of surname or House was anything to go by.

Perhaps he too was named after a star, before choosing to name himself Harry.

Tom desperately wanted to know.

~

Finally, after three weeks of coexisting and almost co-parenting together, looking for all the possible ways and countries they could go and be welcomed with open arms with a (possible) werewolf baby between them, Harry fell asleep in Tom’s presence for the first time.

Usually, they spent their days pouring over letters and papers and often enough Harry was asked to step out to lend a hand or a potion to help someone or another, before coming back to the tea house, back to Teddy and Tom. They split apart at night, going to their respective rooms across from each other in a short hallway leading out from the small shared living room the Madam had provided them with, Teddy often enough asleep on one of Harry's shoulders or grumpily fighting the pull of dreams with grunts and soft grumbles, babbling into the fabric of Harry’s sweater like his parent would be able to understand all his grievances.

Not tonight though.

Now, they sat together on the same loveseat, and Teddy was content to sit by their feet on the rug covered floor, playing with an unicorn plushie Harry had unearthed from the mokeskin pouch he carried around his neck.

Tom was bent forward, reading through paper clippings and letters from people he had contacted in several countries, looking for properties away from the main cities, and where the largest communities of dark creatures lived and thrived.

Before, he'd had no motivation to leave Britain. He also had nothing to stop him from leaving either. Nothing to bring back the feeling of being alive and not regretting each step he’d taken so far, nothing to hold on to, no one dear to him to make him look at the world with anything less than contempt - grey and dark and dull.

Now, Harry sat by his side, head dropping from time to time as he fought to stay awake, sleep and exhaustion threatening to pull him under. His green eyes stared at Teddy with love pouring from every blink, every sigh and smile as he sleepily watched his son play, where he sat upright and unassisted for once.

Finally, his head landed softly on Tom's shoulder, cushioned by layers of clothing that had once long ago been gifted to him by his Knights of Walpurgis, now soft and worn with use if still in pristine condition.

Tom stayed as still as he could, flipping pages and letters and allowing the cold magic that clung to Harry seep deep into his skin.

Teddy, at some point, grew bored of playing by himself and turned to reach for Tom with chubby hands.

It was the work of a simple wave of his hand to wrap a warm spell around the toddler and bring him up into his lap, letting the little cub snuggle into his chest and fall asleep without fuss as he kept sorting through the mountains of papers. He leaned back, careful to not dislodge Harry from his shoulder and let his back rest against the cushioned loveseat, using threads of magic to float the letters up to his eye level, arms curling around the child asleep on him.

Harry woke some time later, groggy and heavy but with a quickened breath that said he had walked away from a nightmare. His eyes looked through the floor, searching for Teddy, before settling on Tom's form beside him, where his child stood snuggled into Tom’s sweater.

He let out a shaky breath, the urgency slowly vanishing from his eyes as he took in the scene. Finally, green eyes settled on red.

"Sleep some more, darling," Tom couldn't help the slip of tongue even if he tried. When Harry went to protest, he added, "Those maternity books of yours say you should sleep when your baby does."

An offended look crossed Harry's features, a pout pulling at his lips, before his eyes settled on the baby again, where he was so soundly asleep on Tom. A resigned huff left Harry’s mouth, as he brought his legs up on the loveseat and snuggled into the cushions beside Tom.

His green eyes were heavy as their eyes met, pupils blown and eyelashes long as they brushed against his tan cheeks. Finally they closed and his body relaxed.