The office of Gideon P. Wycliffe, Esq.—Attorney at Law & Magical Creature Specialist was a dignified affair. Dark oak bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes that radiated an air of authority. A grand mahogany desk sat at the center, behind which the lawyer in question—a graying warlock with small, circular spectacles—calmly regarded his latest headache.
Across from him, two of the most powerful supernatural beings in London were engaged in a very heated dispute.
“I refuse to be enslaved to him,” Harry Potter, fae and general menace, declared, arms crossed as his glamour shimmered with barely restrained irritation. His wings—usually invisible—flickered into sight before he forced them away again. “I don’t care if he bit me, he drank my blood first!”
Tom Riddle, vampire, former Dark Lord, and now deeply inconvenienced, sat beside him looking both affronted and smug. “As if you could enslave me, darling. I am the one who bit you. You are mine, in every sense.”
Harry made a sharp, frustrated noise. “Oh, for—! I am not yours! You are mine! That’s how fae blood works!”
They had been going in circles for nearly twenty minutes.
Gideon Wycliffe exhaled deeply, rubbing his temples before folding his hands on the desk. “Gentlemen,” he interrupted, his tone one of long-suffering patience. “You are both correct. And also, spectacularly wrong.”
Both Harry and Tom turned to glare at him.
The warlock adjusted his spectacles. “By all magical laws governing fae ensnarement and vampire bonding, your mutual acts of blood exchange have created an unbreakable, binding contract.”
Harry’s expression darkened. Tom’s eyes narrowed.
Wycliffe smiled thinly. “Which means, of course, that neither of you owns the other.”
There was a beat of silence before Harry let out a triumphant, “Ha!”
But before he could revel in his victory, Wycliffe continued smoothly, “Rather, the law views your connection as a fully binding marriage.”
The triumph vanished.
“What,” Harry said flatly.
Tom tilted his head, his eyes glittering with something far too pleased. “Oh?”
Wycliffe pulled out a long scroll, flicking it open to an obnoxiously detailed passage. “Given that fae contracts and vampire sire bonds both fall under the category of eternal magical obligations, and considering that neither of you can be enslaved while also being a master, the law defaults to the next most equivalent bond—a permanent union of equals.” He cleared his throat. “In simpler terms: congratulations on your nuptials.”
Harry, horrified, turned to Tom, whose lips curled in something that was definitely a smirk.
“Well,” Tom murmured, voice dangerously silky. “It appears we’ve skipped past courtship entirely.”
Harry let out a strangled sound.
Wycliffe, utterly unfazed, picked up his quill. “Shall I draft the proper paperwork, or would you prefer to argue for another hour?”
Harry refused to be married to Tom Riddle. Absolutely not. No way in hell.
“There has to be a loophole,” he said, flipping through the massive tome Wycliffe had left open on the desk. His hands moved frantically as he skimmed page after page. “Some kind of—of annulment clause, or a dissolution ritual, or even just a really aggressive divorce lawyer—”
“I’m afraid not,” Wycliffe said, watching him with an air of detached amusement. “Fae contracts and vampire bonds are permanent. The only way out is death.”
Harry’s grip on the book tightened. “My death or his?”
“Either.”
He shut the book with a snap. “Alright, Riddle, let’s step outside—”
Tom, who had been reclining comfortably in his chair, watching Harry’s breakdown with unveiled satisfaction, only smiled. “Oh, darling,” he purred, “we just got married, and you’re already thinking of widowhood? How ruthless.”
Harry whirled on him, wings shimmering into view again as his glamour flickered with distress. “Don’t darling me, you undead menace! This isn’t happening! I refuse! I object—” He turned sharply to Wycliffe. “I object! That’s a thing, right? An objection? You can’t just marry people without their consent!”
The lawyer adjusted his spectacles. “Actually, you both willingly engaged in the actions that resulted in this contract.”
Harry’s eye twitched. “Oh, well, excuse me for not realizing that letting a vampire drink my blood was equivalent to saying ‘I do’—”
“I do,” Tom echoed smugly.
Harry made a sound of pure fury and seized another book, flipping through it with all the desperation of a man trying to escape a legally binding nightmare.
Tom, meanwhile, looked delighted.
“Face it, Harry,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction. “You’re mine. And I am yours. Forever.” He sighed dramatically, his crimson eyes gleaming. “How poetic.”
Harry threw the book at his head.
Tom caught it, utterly unfazed.
“There has to be a way out of this,” Harry muttered, flipping through yet another volume, faster now. “Maybe if I get a fae king to override the contract—”
“That would require them acknowledging it as valid,” Wycliffe pointed out.
“Or maybe if I bind myself to someone else—”
“Bigamy,” Wycliffe said. “Not legally recognized in supernatural law.”
Harry let out a high-pitched, almost unhinged laugh. “Okay! What about time travel? Can I just—just go back and slap the cup out of his hand before he drinks?”
Wycliffe gave him a look. “You want to risk the collapse of time itself because you refuse to be happily wed?”
“Yes!” Harry snapped. “Yes, I do!”
Tom, who had been watching all of this with far too much enjoyment, finally stood, stepping closer to Harry and leaning down just enough to murmur, “Darling, you’re adorable when you panic.”
Harry, who had been about to throw another book, froze.
Tom took advantage of his shock, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “I rather think I’ll enjoy married life,” he said, voice low and pleased. “It comes with so many… privileges.”
Harry, actually trembling with rage, shoved Tom backward with a burst of fae magic.
Tom staggered, but—because he was an obnoxious bastard—he was still grinning.
“Wycliffe,” Harry hissed. “You are fired.”
“You weren’t paying me,” the lawyer said blandly.
“Consider yourself extra fired!”
Tom chuckled. “Come now, husband, is this how you treat your beloved?”
Harry grabbed the heaviest book he could find and lunged.
Tom effortlessly sidestepped Harry’s attempted book-based assault, snatching the hefty tome from his hands before it could make impact. He examined the title—Fae Legal Loopholes & Other Dubious Escapes—and let out a deeply amused hum.
“Oh, my dear,” he murmured, flicking through the pages as Harry seethed. “You really think you can outmaneuver me with legal trickery?” His smile sharpened. “How precious.”
Harry bristled. “You leeched your way into this marriage, you manipulative corpse. Don’t act like it was a strategic victory.”
“Oh, but it was,” Tom countered smoothly, shutting the book with a snap. “A fae’s blood is a powerful thing, and you offered it to me so willingly—”
Harry let out a sound that was one part strangled fury, one part I will burn this entire building down with my rage alone. “I didn’t offer—”
Tom lifted a hand to silence him, eyes gleaming. “And then, of course, you accepted my bite. You let me claim you. You knew what that meant, didn’t you, darling?” His voice dipped lower, silkier. “Or were you just so intoxicated by my touch that you didn’t stop to think?”
Harry looked moments away from combusting.
“You—you—”
“Yes, me,” Tom said cheerfully. He stepped closer, just enough to invade Harry’s space. “And now, here we are.” His grin widened. “Married.”
Harry grabbed another book.
Wycliffe, who had seen many things in his long career, cleared his throat and decided he was not paid enough for this.
“If you gentlemen are quite finished,” he said dryly, “I will need signatures on the official documentation.” He held out a parchment that had quite literally written itself while they argued.
Harry recoiled like it was cursed. “I am not signing that.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Tom said, plucking the quill from Wycliffe’s hand. “If the contract is already binding, there’s no harm in formalizing it.” He twirled the quill between his fingers before lowering it to the parchment. With an elegant flourish, he scrawled:
Lord Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Harry felt the magic settle around him, like a second skin tightening, and he hated it.
Tom set the quill down with an air of supreme satisfaction. “Your turn, my dear husband.”
Harry stared at him. Then at the paper. Then back at him.
Then, with great force, he picked up the quill, and—without breaking eye contact—wrote:
Harry James Potter-Over-My-Dead-Body.
Tom laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not a smirk. A full, delighted laugh.
“Oh, you are a treasure,” he purred, eyes alight with wicked amusement. “How lucky I am to be so well-matched.”
Harry threw the inkwell at him.
Five Murder Attempts & One Technicality
The first attempt was straightforward.
The moment they left Wycliffe’s office, Harry wheeled on Tom in the empty alley and stabbed him in the chest with an iron dagger.
Tom staggered, looking briefly startled before glancing down at the blade protruding from his ribs. He touched the hilt, hummed thoughtfully, and then—infuriatingly—smirked.
“Fae iron? How clever.” He plucked the dagger out like it was nothing, watching as the wound sizzled and slowly closed. “Unfortunately, darling, I’m a very old vampire.” His red eyes glowed. “It’ll take more than that to be rid of me.”
Harry’s eye twitched. “Fine,” he said. “Good talk.” Then he threw a handful of iron dust directly into Tom’s face and ran.
—
The second attempt involved holy water.
Tom never went to church (obviously), but Harry had connections. He tracked down a priest who owed him a favor and got his hands on the strongest, most sanctified vial of water known to the supernatural world.
Then, the next evening, when Tom appeared at his door looking far too pleased about their situation, Harry greeted him with a charming smile, said, “Welcome home, darling,” and flung the entire vial at him.
Tom hissed, his skin smoking where the water touched. He staggered back—momentarily actually wounded—and Harry grinned, triumphant—
Until Tom, still smoldering, licked his fingers where the water had splashed.
“Oh, that stings,” he said, eyes gleaming. “How delightfully vicious of you.”
Harry’s grin vanished.
Tom tilted his head. “Trying to widow yourself so soon?”
“I prefer the term unwed myself through homicide,” Harry muttered.
Tom laughed.
—
The third attempt was definitely illegal.
Harry hired an exorcist.
The old woman took one look at Tom, muttered, “Oh, hell no,” and promptly upped her rate. Harry paid her in fairy gold and let her work.
She burned sigils into the floor, chanted ancient words, and hit Tom with something that made the air crackle—
And Tom, standing calmly in the center of the spellwork, simply sighed.
“Darling,” he said, brushing ash off his sleeve. “I’m undead, not possessed.”
The exorcist swore in three different languages, pocketed her gold, and left.
Harry threw a chair.
—
The fourth attempt was sabotage.
If he couldn’t kill Tom, maybe he could trick him into breaking the contract.
So he found an actual fae contract lawyer (who charged an absurd amount) and had him draft up a challenge:
“If either party can find a way to trick the other into willingly relinquishing the bond, the contract will be nullified.”
The moment Tom read it, he grinned.
“Oh, Harry,” he purred. “Are we playing a game?”
Harry did not like the way he said that.
—
The fifth attempt almost worked.
Harry, having spent centuries tricking mortals out of their names, set up a flawless scheme. A layered fae illusion, a deceptive bargain, and the perfect wording designed to make Tom say, I forfeit the bond.
It should have worked.
Except Tom, that smug, immortal bastard, saw right through it and said, “You nearly had me, my love.”
Harry screamed.
—
Eventually, after weeks of murder attempts, trickery, and an increasingly smug Tom, Harry slumped into a chair, exhausted and defeated.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. I accept that I can’t kill you.”
Tom, lounging nearby, smiled. “How gracious of you.”
Harry scowled. “But—” He pointed at him. “I refuse to be married to you.”
Tom leaned forward. “You are married to me.”
Harry ignored him. “Technically,” he said, “we never had a wedding.”
Tom frowned slightly.
Harry grinned. “And technically, does it really count as a marriage if only one of the participants agree.”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
Harry crossed his arms. “So, unless you can get me to willingly agree to this whole ‘husband’ thing…” He smirked. “Then, legally, we’re not married.”
There was a pause.
Then, slowly, Tom’s smirk returned.
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, standing. His voice was a promise, dangerous and far too pleased. “If it’s willing agreement you require…” His red eyes gleamed.
“…Then I accept your challenge.”
Courtship (or, The Most Infuriating Pursuit of Harry’s Life)
The moment Harry declared that their “marriage” was technically invalid unless he willingly agreed to it, Tom got a look in his eyes that made Harry deeply, profoundly regret speaking.
Because Tom Riddle, immortal menace, took it as a challenge.
And worse—worse—he took it seriously.
Harry woke up the next evening (he was still adjusting to his new vampire sleep schedule, thanks a lot, Riddle), stumbled out of bed, and nearly tripped over a ridiculous bouquet of deep red roses sitting outside his bedroom door.
The note attached simply read:
To my dearest almost-husband,
Consider this the first of many proofs of my devotion.
Yours, Tom
Harry stared at it. Then at the roses.
Then he kicked them across the hall.
—
The next day, Tom upped his game.
He sent a string quartet to Harry’s favorite coffee shop. They played an obnoxiously romantic tune while a messenger delivered another note, this one written in elegant cursive:
You cannot run from love, darling.
But I do so enjoy the chase.
Harry left a storm of iron dust in Tom’s study that night.
—
The third attempt was the worst.
Tom showed up at his door, impeccably dressed, holding a single black rose.
“Harry,” he purred. “Would you care to join me for dinner?”
Harry eyed him. “Is the ‘dinner’ me?”
Tom chuckled. “No. Not tonight.”
Harry stared. “I hate you.”
“And yet,” Tom said smoothly, offering his arm, “you haven’t said no.”
Harry considered saying no.
But, unfortunately, he was hungry. And he did like fancy meals. And if he happened to get free food out of this before finding a new way to escape, well… that was his business.
So he begrudgingly took Tom’s arm and muttered, “One meal. One.”
Tom smiled.
—
That was his first mistake.
Because once Tom got a single foot in the door, he did not stop.
Suddenly, Harry was being courted. Properly. The way old vampires courted, which meant extravagant gifts, dramatic proclamations, and an utterly insufferable level of devotion.
Harry would wake up to find rare enchanted jewelry on his nightstand. (“Tom, what the hell is this?” “An amulet of protection, my love. To keep you safe.” “I don’t need you to keep me safe—” “Ah, but you do need me.” “I am throwing this into the Thames.”)
He’d go to the market only to have vendors mysteriously refuse his money. (“Sir, your fiancé already paid for that.” “He is not my fiancé.”)
And, worst of all, Tom developed a terrible habit of calling him pet names.
“Good evening, darling.”
“How radiant you look tonight, my love.”
“You seem tense, sweetheart. Shall I take care of that for you?”
Harry nearly died of secondhand embarrassment multiple times.
—
But the worst part?
Somehow—somehow—Tom actually started winning him over.
It wasn’t just the gifts or the grand gestures. It was the way Tom knew him. The way he anticipated Harry’s moods, the way he listened when Harry talked. The way he always knew exactly how to press his buttons, but never actually crossed the lines Harry set.
It was the way Tom was genuinely enjoying himself, like the act of courting was as much a game as it was a true pursuit.
And Harry, despite everything, found himself getting drawn in.
—
So when, months later, Tom took him to a candlelit rooftop and, with a smug yet oddly sincere expression, got down on one knee and said,
“Harry, darling, light of my unlife, bane of my existence—will you finally agree to be my husband?”
Harry almost said no.
He wanted to say no.
But the bastard had worn him down.
So Harry, scowling, flustered, and furious at himself, crossed his arms and muttered,
“…Fine.”
Tom beamed.
Harry groaned. “If you smirk at me one more time—”
But then Tom was kissing him, and—
Well.
Maybe being willingly married wasn’t entirely the worst thing.
Wedding Planning (or, How to Survive Reluctant In-Laws and Violent Objections)
Harry thought that saying yes would be the hard part.
He was wrong.
The moment word got out that Harry Potter, fae menace extraordinaire, was engaged to Tom Riddle, vampire overlord and general nuisance, everyone lost their minds.
—
Challenge One: The “Concerned” Friends
“You what?” Hermione demanded, staring at him in abject horror.
Harry sighed, rubbing his temples. “I said, I’m getting married.”
“To him?”
“Unfortunately.”
Across the table, Ron—who had been silent for the past minute—just downed his entire pint in one go and muttered, “Right. So. When’s the intervention?”
“There is no intervention,” Harry snapped.
“There should be,” Hermione hissed. “Harry, do you know who he is?”
“Yes, Hermione, I know who my own fiancé is.”
“Fiancé—” Hermione actually shuddered. “Harry, this is a terrible idea.”
“Oh, believe me, I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because legal magic is stupid, okay?!” Harry threw up his hands. “We got magically married by accident and the only way out was me willingly accepting it—and then Tom decided to court me into submission, and it worked, and now here we are.”
Ron let out a slow breath. “Mate. I say this with love. But you need better life choices.”
Harry groaned. “You think I like this? The only thing worse than being forced into this marriage is the fact that I actually agreed to it. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to like him?”
Hermione buried her face in her hands.
Ron poured himself another drink.
—
Challenge Two: The Family Objections
Harry knew the fae court would be an issue.
He just didn’t expect them to literally try to abduct him the moment they found out.
“I cannot believe you,” Queen Mab seethed, pacing in front of him while two fae guards physically restrained him from storming out. “A vampire, Harry? A Riddle?!”
“Oh, get over it,” Harry snapped, yanking his arms free. “It’s not that serious.”
Mab turned on him, golden eyes glowing. “Not that—Harry, you are fae royalty.” She threw up a hand. “You have centuries of suitors to choose from, and you pick a blood-drinking parasite?”
Harry crossed his arms. “That blood-drinking parasite is my fiancé.”
Mab made a noise of disgust. “You shame us.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. You people marry demons, sirens, and whatever else you find pretty. But I’m the scandal?”
Mab scowled. “A vampire is not an acceptable match—”
“I literally don’t care,” Harry cut in. “We’re already married. The wedding is just a formality at this point.”
Mab narrowed her eyes. “And what if we refuse to acknowledge it?”
Harry grinned, sharp and fae-like. “Then I guess you’ll have no choice but to acknowledge it when Tom and I have a very dramatic wedding right in the middle of your court.”
Mab’s expression twisted. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I absolutely would.”
—
Challenge Three: The Assassination Attempts
Tom, predictably, was having his own set of problems.
Mainly, that several vampire factions had decided that murder was a better alternative to letting him marry a fae.
“You know,” Tom said conversationally, dodging a dagger aimed for his throat, “if you all really disapprove of my engagement, you could have just sent a letter.”
His attacker, a particularly furious noble from an old bloodline, snarled. “You taint our kind with this—this mockery of a union—”
Tom grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a wall.
“Oh?” he murmured, crimson eyes glowing. “I taint us, do I?” He leaned in, voice low. “Tell me, darling, do you know what happens when someone tries to take what’s mine?”
The noble shuddered, trembling under Tom’s grip.
Tom smiled.
“Nothing pleasant.”
—
Challenge Four: The Wedding Venue
“So we can’t have it in the fae court,” Harry muttered, marking it off on the planning parchment.
Tom hummed. “And the vampire elders would probably set the entire event on fire if we held it in the Midnight Manor.”
Harry sighed. “And a normal venue is out, because we’d need too many security measures to keep everyone from murdering each other.”
They both stared at the parchment in silence.
Then Harry, voice flat, said, “What if we just… ran away and got married in secret?”
Tom smirked. “Oh, darling, where’s the fun in that?”
Harry groaned.
—
Challenge Five: Actually Surviving the Wedding
In the end, they settled on a neutral location: a forgotten, ancient castle between the fae and vampire territories, protected by old magic that forcibly prevented any outright attacks.
(“If anyone tries to stab anyone else,” Tom had murmured delightedly, “the castle itself will electrocute them.” “That,” Harry said, “is the most romantic thing you’ve said all week.”)
The guest list was… limited.
Mab still refused to come, but a few fae nobles attended purely to witness the disaster. The vampire court, though furious, sent representatives out of obligation. Harry’s mortal friends showed up, looking deeply concerned, and spent most of the time heavily drinking to cope.
And despite everything—despite the threats, the politics, and the multiple near-death experiences—
Harry still found himself standing at the altar, staring at Tom, who looked obnoxiously pleased with himself.
The officiant cleared his throat. “Do you, Harry, willingly accept this union?”
Harry sighed.
Then, grudgingly, he muttered, “Yeah, yeah. I do.”
Tom’s smirk was unbearable.
“And do you, Tom—”
“Oh, absolutely,” Tom cut in smoothly.
Harry rolled his eyes.
The officiant chuckled. “Then, by the laws of magic, I now pronounce you—”
A dagger immediately flew toward Tom’s head.
Harry caught it midair and threw it right back at the assassin.
There was a pause.
Then the officiant, pointedly ignoring the attempted murder, said, “—husbands.”
Tom, delighted, pulled Harry in for a kiss.
And as chaos erupted around them—fights breaking out, guests screaming, someone getting struck by magical lightning—Harry sighed into the kiss, muttering,
“I hate you.”
Tom laughed against his lips. “Oh, my darling.”
“You love me.”
Honeymoon (or, How to Escape Assassination Attempts While on Vacation)
Harry had one condition for the honeymoon:
“Absolutely no vampire politics. No fae court nonsense. No assassination attempts. No supernatural nonsense at all. Just peace.”
Tom, lounging comfortably in their bed the morning after the wedding (and far too pleased with himself), smiled lazily. “Darling, you wound me. Do you really think I’d allow our honeymoon to be interrupted?”
Harry, who had personally witnessed four separate murder attempts during their wedding vows, just stared at him.
Tom smirked. “Very well. I promise. A peaceful honeymoon. Just the two of us.”
—
Harry should have known that Tom’s definition of "peaceful" was deeply flawed.
Because the very first thing Tom did was whisk them away to a haunted castle in the middle of nowhere.
“You knew this place was haunted,” Harry accused as a ghost screamed from inside the walls.
Tom, utterly unbothered, sipped his wine. “It adds charm.”
Harry rubbed his temples. “You have a terrible sense of romance.”
Tom smiled. “And yet, you still married me.”
Harry groaned.
—
By day three, Harry had exorcised half the ghosts (just to get some damn sleep), and by day five, he had to stop Tom from intimidating the local werewolf pack into leaving them alone.
“They weren’t even bothering us!” Harry snapped.
Tom, twirling his knife, looked amused. “They were staring at you.”
Harry sighed. “Tom, we are a fae and a vampire honeymooning in a murder castle. Of course they were staring.”
Tom shrugged. “Well, they’re not staring anymore.”
Harry wanted to throw something.
—
By day seven, the assassins arrived.
“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered, dodging a silver-tipped arrow. “I specifically said no murder attempts on our honeymoon.”
Tom, slicing a would-be assassin’s throat with far too much enthusiasm, grinned. “Technically, we’re not the ones attempting murder.”
Harry stabbed a man in the leg. “You are so insufferable.”
Tom threw an attacker into a wall, then turned to Harry with a smirk. “And yet—”
“If you say I still married you, I will divorce you on the spot.”
Tom laughed.
—
By the end of week two, Harry had personally hunted down the noble family that had sent the assassins, terrorized them into submission, and returned to their murder castle victorious.
He collapsed into bed with a groan. “I hate our honeymoon.”
Tom, stretching beside him, looked far too pleased as he draped an arm over Harry’s waist. “Darling, be honest.” He pressed a kiss to Harry’s throat. “You’re having fun.”
Harry scowled. “Do not gaslight me into thinking this is fun.”
Tom’s smirk widened. “I would never.”
Harry glared at him.
Tom kissed him again.
…Harry maybe kissed him back.
Maybe.
(But only because he was too tired to fight it.)