Chapter 1
There was a one eyed cat sitting on the still of Borgin and Burke's.
Said cat looked up lazily, sleepily as Tom's shadow obscured its form where it sat against the rotting black wood Burke refused to replace no matter how many times it fell apart, only to be reluctantly stitched back together with magic and intent alone.
One eye had been meticulously shut with care, the scar leaving faint grey lines against its skin. The only one eye visible was as green as an emerald and so intense Tom had the brief unwelcome thought of carving it out with a spoon to make a pendant for himself.
The black cat cast a singular penetrating gaze at him and seemed to find him lacking, as it resumed the meticulous grooming it had been adamant on doing since before Tom arrived.
Being dismissed by such a small creature felt like a personal offense somehow.
Tom readied a mild hex at his fingertips.
When the cat seemed to sense the danger, it stood on its four legs and stared at him with contempt, a hunger about its aura that made him pause.
One tail swung back and forth, agitated, before splitting down the middle into two long wispy tails made mostly of black smoke.
Well.
Tom let the spell in his hands frizzle out in the cold morning air, interest picked.
A magical cat, then. This was no ordinary kneazle or moggy picked out of the streets by a Hag.
Tom had a brief interest in magical creatures, if in passing to better his potion making skills. It also came handy when the local breeder came knocking on their shop door trying to sell out inbreed little monsters once every three months despite being refused each time.
There was an old japanese tale, he recalled, of cat spirits who possessed two tails (they also consumed human meat, and were said to be rather malicious in nature). They could also summon magic with their tails and had a particular affinity for necromancy.
Tom liked it better now that he knew it was no ordinary specimen.
The cat was not big or unkept and did not speak any language Tom could discern as the tales said they could. And once the magic at his fingertips frizzled out, the cat sat back down, head tilted up and single eye curious.
"Move then, I need to open the shop." Tom sidestepped the cat once it scooted towards one side and took out a big ring full of long skeleton keys from the pocket of his coat, knowing from experience the lock refused to settle for only one key, no matter how many times it was changed over the years. The door knew too, that making Tom try more than two keys each morning would lead to a flammable disaster.
The door opened on the first try.
Tom turned to look back at the little creature still sitting on the still.
It held no collar and no identification he could see.
"Well?" He prompted, holding the door open with his shoulder as he looked down. "Are you coming in or not?"
~
There was a new store on one of the few unnamed side Alleys that branched off of Diagon.
It sat by the end of a cobblestone street, alone. Most of the surrounding shops had closed or given away to rot or decay, the war with Grindelwald stretching far and wide and making more and more people flee in hopes of finding a home away from War.
The shop had a front entirely made of old oak wood, dark and polished as it curved over the entrance door like an archway come alive right out of a renaissance painting. Below, a dark green wooden door with four little glass windows awaited, a sign painted in delicate strokes indicated the shop was open.
The only window visible from the outside was filled to the brim with plants, from big ones to smaller ones, from cactus to succulents and all the range of interior plants in all shapes and sizes, climbing up and down the wooden frame of the window like vines. One would think, perhaps mistakenly, that it was a herbology store.
However, inside was absolutely crowded from top to bottom with an innumerable amount of... things.
It was an antique shop.
~
Abraxas had been against Tom working at Borgin & Burke's for the longest time.
As much as the shop had a frequent clientele of Dark Witches and Wizards of all origins and held the most foul and interesting objects one knew to find in a decrepit corner of Knockturn, it was also terribly unsafe.
Tom was meant for grandness. Not... whatever this was.
Abraxas had begged and pleaded and tried to reason with Tom, to drag him out of there and into his Manor countless times. He had sat and talked to Orion Black about it more times than he cared to mention, only to be turned back and again by the cold freezing silver eyes each time he brought it up.
"It's his choice." Had been Orion's only answer, the second time Abraxas had tried to reason with him.
'His choice' he'd said, but was it really?
Tom had always been a man striving for the top, he never contented himself with anything less than exceptional and he was not a man so prideful that he would not accept help from the outside.
And yet.
Yet, there he stood, behind the counter of Borgin & Burke's each morning, shadows pulling at his blue eyes and curls falling just over his nose, hair the longest Abraxas had ever seen him wear.
He was, perhaps perplexingly enough, speaking to a cat.
He looked up as Abraxas approached, blue eyes as intense as ever.
"Tom." Abraxas side eyed the black cat sitting on the counter, knowing from experience animals had a blatant dislike for him. He looked back at Tom, who wore a rather indulgent look about him so out of place in the decrepit shop that made Abraxas remember mornings spent bent over cauldron's and shared breakfasts at the Slytherin table. That look had been rather absent as of late.
Tom hummed in greeting, long fingered hand petting the black cat from head to tail.
The cat had only one green eye, looking down at Abraxas like he was a particularly nasty bug and was weighing the pro's and con's of eating him whole.
An impossible notion, surely.
A shudder went through him. Perhaps best not to test it.
"We have been invited to the Samhain gathering." Abraxas took a step down the counter, trying to get away from the cat as he took an envelope out from the depths of his robes. The hellish creature followed him with its unnerving eye, pupil slimming down to a thin long line in the center.
"Who is hosting this year?" Tom waved a hand and the envelope floated up and away from Abraxas, seal breaking and opening before him.
"House Lestrange." He answered back. Tom pulled a face, before closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. Abraxas felt much the same about the whole situation, already dreading the long hours of having to deal with the new Head of the Family without the possibility for an escape.
Sadly, as much as the invitation was that, an invitation to attend, they could not be absent.
"Orion?" Tom asked, letting the envelope fall and taking a step back and away from the polished wooden counter, arms crossed over his chest.
The cat turned towards him, forgetting Abraxas entirely as it stretched towards Tom with languid movements. Tom indulged it a bit, one hand reaching out to rub against its cheek and up an ear. The cat leaned into the touch, purring loudly, the sound not dissimilar to the Draught of Living Death boiling on a cauldron top.
Abraxas watched the exchange with wide eyes, before remembering himself.
"Attending. Lord Black has been more and more insistent he start to take more responsibilities as the Heir." He could remember both Lucretia and Orion standing side by side as they walked behind their father on their way to a Wizengamot meeting. Orion was burning two silver holes on his Lord's back, while Lucretia walked a half step behind him, an old anger pulling at her features like a vulture.
Lord Black had picked Orion over his twin sister for the Heirship, and neither sibling seemed to be particularly happy about it.
Since then, Orion had more or less disappeared from their lives entirely.
"It'll be a while before he retires." Tom stated, eyes looking to a point far away, considering.
And it certainly would. They both knew Lord Black would not cede control of the Black Estate to anyone if he was not on his deathbed. Far too many hands were reaching out and hoping to take the Lordship, but Arcturus was nothing if not tenacious and particularly immune to poison.
If it were anyone but Arcturus Black sitting at the Head, Abraxas was sure the House of Black would have fallen in the same fate House Lestrange currently faced.
Tom sighed. His hand fell away from the cat, leaning one arm on the counter to gaze down at the offending letter.
"Let's meet at Black Manor." He said, his tone clear that Abraxas would be the one to inform the Blacks. "Salazar knows I can't stand Callum Lestrange speaking anything more than a greeting."
"Hopefully his wine will be poisoned." And hopefully both Abraxas and Tom would be far enough away from the power vacuum when it happened.
A slow smirk made way on the other boy's face. The cat let out a discontent sound, clearly put off by the lack of attention.
"Oh, Abraxas. It'll certainly be a show worth watching."
~
Unbeknownst to most of the residents of Diagon, the antique shop had been one of the first buildings to appear in the Alley. Of course, it had been a different time, and the streets were not shaped quite the same.
As time went past, new shops had grown from the ground up like tenacious weeds around the shop, warping and changing the map as they pleased.
The antique shop, of course, had not always been an antique shop. It had started out of all things, as a library.
A public library for all witches and wizards who desired knowledge and craved stories from somewhere deep in their hearts. Only those curious enough would find themselves obscuring its doorstep.
The library had been home to countless books and grimoires, plants that crawled between shelves and faires that made houses out of sticks and notes left forgotten on tables. Despite its deceptively small exterior, inside it was a whole world on its own.
Floor upon floors of knowledge harvested through the years by peers from all over stood on shelves, or stacked on top of one another on tables or on the wooden floor, and even hanging from the ceiling.
The little haven was open at all hours, if not always manned by someone up front. The lights were scattered throughout, coming from oil lamps and candles and small magical fires, all perfectly safe to be within a library, as was standard after the burning of Alexandria.
Some people only found the library once in a lifetime.
Others would come across it quite often.
Some others, the ones who did remember a time where they had entered such a place, vowed to stay between its books the next time they encountered it. As such, it was not strange to find people making a home for themselves between the shelves, transfiguring armchairs and tables into beds and tents to sleep in.
The air inside was cozy and warm, filled to the brim with magic and in the background there was always a lonesome tune coming from a piano abandoned somewhere on the third floor. Sometimes, if people came across it, they would sit and play to their heart's content, and the piano would play something cheery and joyful for days after, before remembering its loneliness and playing mournful tunes after. Someone at some point had thought to leave a plant to keep it company, and ever since then the music had been less melancholic and more something along the lines of classical tunes. It always depended on the mood and tilt to the leaves of the plant, that over the years had grown exponentially under the care of the piano, and reached across the floor towards a window quite easily.
However, curiosity and creativity in all its forms seemed to die a slow painful death in Britain.
From countless Wars, to witch burnings, to the Great Depression, made the library literally inaccessible to the average witch or wizard just going through the motions of life hoping for better days ahead.
After all, if one didn't seek, one wouldn't find.
The library and its occupants remained alone for a long time.
Soon enough, even those who had ventured into its depths forgot such a magical place existed.
~
Someone was trying to kill the Lestrange Head before he even made his introductions, stuttering and twitching, glassy brown eyes moving from place to place as he motioned for Lord Black and his wife around the parlor.
It was not the fact someone was so blatantly trying to kill him (as that was rather usual) it was the dark threads woven around his body like a particularly dark marionette moving him around like a fool. It was rather distasteful.
House Lestrange would be a case study for historians to come, that was for sure. After Corbin Lestrange had fallen prey to Dragon Pox a year prior, the continuity of the legacy of his House had been put to question. After all, the man had no children to call his own.
What followed had been a bloody path of betrayals, murders, back stabbings and public executions that left the House a fraction of what it once was.
Hence the fact that Callum Lestrange, a boy two years his junior and barely reaching the eighteen years of age required to take up the Lordship was being displayed like a marionette. His older brother, who had been Tom's classmate and a fellow Slytherin, had taken one look at the bloody throne and had let the Lordship pass down to his younger brother. Corvus was no fool, and yet, if his little brother fell he would be sure to follow.
Whoever was behind the fall of House Lestrange would not be content to leave anyone alive, it seemed.
The threads around the Lord —a boy really— wavered and tensed as his body was moved. Lord Black was growing increasingly irate at the whole display, and simply scoffed as Callum's bottom lip wobbled as he showed them towards the ball room with stiff and violent movements.
The ambient magic around them suddenly became oppressive, heavy and thick. Malicious and void-like. The threads tightened around the puppet's neck like a noose. A warning for others to not intervene. The boy choked and reached for his neck with desperate hands, only to be stopped by the very same threads, a whimper fell from his lips as the noose tightened and closed off his air supply.
Tom watched with dispassionate eyes as the show continued. He wondered at what point the Aurors would be called in.
Then, a single movement came from the heavy magic that had settled around them, distinctively different from the one surrounding the threads around the boy. It wavered in the air, there and gone again in an instant.
All the strings holding the boy were cut, the magic snapping back like a sling towards the caster. The boy fell with a thud, unconscious.
Somewhere deep in the ballroom, someone fell to their knees with a scream.
"How unpleasant." Lord Black murmured, eyes on the fallen boy. He walked towards the ballroom with his wife, not looking back.
Tom looked around for the one responsible, but no one was anywhere near the entrance, all the attending parties more than put off by the offending display of power.
Tom peeled away from Abraxas and Orion, who both stood gazing down at Callum, half tempted to help him.
A witch appeared from between the crowd in the ballroom pushing people out of her path, robes fluttering about as she made her way towards them with purposeful steps.
She wore a look so angry and violent Orion took one look and grabbed Abraxas to move him out of her way.
Cassiopeia Black kneeled by the unconscious body, uncaring for her pristine black robes and started casting diagnostic spells around, all the while cursing and bad mouthing people left and right.
Orion stood by his cousin's back and waved them off, knowing the whole process would take a long while.
Cassiopeia's wife walked sedately towards them, a put off look on her face that signaled she might have puked somewhere along the way.
Tom left them to it, steps taking him away from the entrance towards the main room where music was playing in the background.
He let his magic reach out, trying to find the threads of magic of the one that had so beautifully snapped the strings like they were made of paper.
He found a man –a boy really, going by the baby fat clinging stubbornly to his cheeks– stood by himself in a corner, dressed in a black robe that touched the ground each time he moved. Dark grey antlers had been stitched on his back, curving delicately up and over his shoulders like a necklace.
A glass of wine was dangling from one slack hand, gaze set somewhere far and out a window that looked to the gardens below.
He turned to Tom as he came to stand by his side. His eyes were as green as two emeralds, and a scar in the shape of lightning ran down one side of his face from temple to cheek. The hairs at his temple where the scar began, along with the eyelashes on the same side had turned white.
He was beautiful.
His magic felt more tame now, less hungry.
"You shouldn't have." Tom prompted as a way of greeting.
The boy smiled, indulgent as he turned to face him. The grey antlers stitched in the fabric that extended from his back ended somewhere around his chest, from where leaves of dark green and yellow dangled down his front like vines.
"Shouldn't I?" He tilted his head, and curls fell over his forehead as he looked up at Tom. A small smile played at his lips.
He smelled like vanilla and roses.
"I'll be sure to have consequences." He leaned forward a bit, into the boy's space, trying to get a feel of both his magic and sweet scent.
"Will it?" A real smile stretched then, full of teeth.
Samhain at Aviary Manor was terribly dreadful. He had known it would be since he accepted the invitation.
In fact, he was sure each family that had been invited knew it would be a shit show, and yet not one of them had come forward to take the host mantle from the Lestranges.
To be sure, no one wanted that kind of family drama in their own homes.
On top of that, Tom was growing rather bored of the stagnant conversations floating around, every single guest present trying to one up the other with useless accomplishments, or new positions within the corrupt Ministry, or new houses bought on foreign land for an extraordinarily inflated price, and so on and on it dragged on.
Finally, when he thought he wouldn't be able to stand another story about a breeder who liked to sell Kneazles bred with Wampuses (and what dreadful creatures, so wild they would bite the hand that fed them), a hand gently laid on his back.
He turned his head to find two green eyes curiously gazing up at him, a knowing look about him that said he knew he was interrupting and he just didn't care.
The boy leaned in to whisper in his ear, standing on the tips of his toes and using his arm for balance in a display not often seen in the crowd Tom was used to frequent. Too close. Too improper.
"Do you dance?" His voice was breathy and playful, their faces close together.
"Obviously." He muttered back, face turning to lock onto green eyes.
"Obviously. " The boy repeated back, expectant and unabashed at his own forwardness.
Well. Dancing certainly seemed more entertaining than standing around listening to people trying to tilt their noses any more closer to the ceiling.
He adjusted the arm the boy was already touching, prompting him to hold on.
"Let's go, then."
He dragged the stranger somewhere towards the outskirts of the dancing crowd, grabbing onto his cold hand and turning him about. He guided him to hold onto his shoulder, while his own hand settled right above his hip.
"They really don't know when to let it go, do they?" The boy mumbled, gaze locked towards the direction they had just come from. "I swear this looks like a dick measuring competition."
A startled chuckle left Tom's lips.
"What, you didn't want to join?" He couldn't help himself, even if he tried.
"Do I look like someone who would want to–don't answer that." He cast a suspicious look up at Tom, green eyes narrowed. "Do you like to watch the dick measuring?"
A smirk stretched across Tom's face.
"I'm not opposed." And Salazar knew just how far Tom had gone in the past to get the things he wanted. The amount of things he had to stand by and shoulder just to get a glimpse of what should have been his in the first place. He didn't lower himself quite so hard as of late, more than angry enough to strike if looked at with even a hint of contempt in the faces of his peers.
"Of course you aren't." The stranger shot back, aggravated.
"Are we still speaking of pricks?" The smile on Tom's face was somewhere between predatory and entertained.
The boy tilted his head to the side, green eyes framed by silver wire glasses glinting with mischief. Up close the scar looked more like a natural discoloration of the skin rather than a carving down his flesh. Tom could count the white eyelashes obscuring one green eye with how close they stood together.
"Dunno, are we?" There was a hint of teasing in his tone, light and airy as he leaned a little into Tom's space.
Tom retaliated, and grabbed onto his waist more firmly, arm going all the way around forcing the boy to take a step (a stumble) towards him.
The boy scoffed, a look half offended crossing his face. His nose scrunched up and the light dusting of freckles across his skin moved in unison like stars reflected on water.
"How about introductions before you insinuate yourself to me?" Tom settled on, as he moved them from side to side, steps easy and measured.
"Is that what you think I was doing?" The boy muttered back, eyes falling towards their feet, trying to find the rhythm. He took a stumble and a sidestep, almost stepped into Tom's shoes twice before he leaned more heavily onto him.
"Weren't you?"
"You're the one who approached me in the first place!" He looked contrite and impossibly offended, an impatient hand moving the curls around his face back and away before settling it back on Tom's shoulder.
A smirk broke onto his face before Tom could think to stop it.
"Perhaps I was the one doing the se–"
"Harry." He interrupted, before Tom could continue. "Well. Hadrian, technically." He clarified, an uncomfortable shift to his step letting Tom know he didn't like the form of address. "Peverell." He added, more as an afterthought than anything.
"Tom Riddle."
"I know."
"Oh?" Well. Wasn't that interesting? After all, Tom knew little to nothing of his surname. He was sure, however, he'd heard it somewhere. Perhaps a foreign name?
"You came with Lord Black." Harry said, as if that was any form of explanation.
"I did." Tom's tone hinting at Harry to continue, but the boy only looked away towards the dancing crowd.
"I can't believe they let them Host with the smell of cooling bodies in every corner of the Manor. They even planted roses at the front, the disrespect." He spoke in a low voice, only meant for Tom's ears. He was looking towards the entrance door.
Indeed, in the front garden white roses had been planted besides the main path, unusually in full bloom for the time of year, too late into fall for them to be so full of flowers. The sickly sweet smell of roses had almost made Tom gag as they approached the front door.
"Why roses?" He couldn't help but ask, as the boy seemed impossibly offended by this fact alone.
He looked back at Tom, green eyes searching for a moment. He answered back slowly, carefully and with a patient tone about him that said he knew much more than he let on.
"It has been described to me, multiple times and on countless occasions, that death smells sickly sweet." He said, with a put upon look that said it was all bullshit. "It really doesn't. It smells foetid, sour and pungent. Meat is meat, after all, and death comes whether or not it's a muggle or a witch or a rat. The bitterly sweet smell of vanilla and flowers is to cover it all up. But you can definitely tell it's not just the roses up at front."
Tom hummed, swaying them gently away from the warpath of a couple intent on twirling out of orbit.
"They really are smearing their name through the mud. Soon enough there will be no one to sit on that god awful throne, and the vultures will pick at their bodies like a feast."
The infamous throne sat in the corner of the ball room. It was tacky, Victorian in nature. Multiple ravens crawled on top of one another made out of metal and glass. In some parts it was rusting, and hints of red here and there could be caught in the light of the candles.
"Another show." Tom agreed, as soon as House Lestrange fell, another would take its place. It was a matter of survival.
Harry sighed in his arms, dragging Tom away towards the edge of the crowd as the couple circling around had once more almost bumped into them.
"Enough of that. What about you, Tom Riddle?" There was an air that said Harry had much more to say about the Lestranges, but he withheld his tongue.
"Shouldn't you know? You knew who I came with, after all." He teased.
"Excuse me, I don't pretend to know every single one of Orion's little friends." He had the vague notion that he'd never been referred to as such.
"I resent that."
"Good." A mischievous smile settled on the curve of Harry's lips.
"How do you know each other, then?" A groan left Harry as he tilted his head back towards the ceiling, exasperated beyond measure.
"Lord Black invited me over for tea last month, he tried to coax me into a marriage with his daughter—"
"To Lucretia?"
"–I should have known, really." He continued, as if he hadn't interrupted him. However, the pink tint to his cheeks betrayed him. The freckles became more prominent against his blush, going from beneath his eyes all the way up his temple and around his nose. "After I told him I really wasn't interested he changed tracks and started on about how Orion would be an excellent match and–"
"To Orion?" Harry turned impossibly redder.
"–shut up! Anyways I barely escaped that conversation, only for him to try and corner me to introduce me to his son on each and every place we cross paths–"
"Terribly dreadful." He mumbled beneath his breath, however Harry was on one track and speaking a mile a minute.
"Isn't it? I can't even look at the twins in the eyes knowing their father is trying to set us up–"
"Do you want to be set up?"
"No! It would be like... marrying into my own family, I don't know." He grimaced.
"That isn't a deterrent to most people in this room." Tom threw in, just to watch Harry glare back up at him. When Harry noticed the playful gleam in his eyes he tossed his head back with a groan.
"Don't play into it too." He whined, hitting the back of his hand lightly against Tom's chest.
"Why not, darling? You look possibly entertained, dare I say." Tom swayed them from side to side at the rhythm of the music, a possessive hand still curved around Harry's waist, keeping their bodies flush against each other.
"Do you want me to marry Orion?" There was an accusing tone somewhere deep in there.
"You would make a dreadful consort." Tom said, poking at him a little.
The whine Harry let out in response was truly delightful. He leaned forward into Tom's chest, hiding his red face somewhere in between the lapels of his robes.
"You're awful."
Tom bit his lip, endeared beyond measure and terribly fascinated.
"I've been told. Many times."
"I'm sure you have."
They danced for a while, sharing comments on the dress of some or another, critiquing a Lord who was way too drunk for the time of night, or the god-awful wood one of the witches at the far corner called a wand.
Tom wasn't blind to the looks they were getting as more and more time went on, when neither of them changed dancing partners.
Lord Black looked personally offended by the whole thing.
Harry was an easy weight on his arms, comfortable and self assured as he found his footing in between their steps, following along both Tom and the music as they moved across the room.
Their dance was interrupted just as Harry was starting to slow, clearly tired of going around in circles. Tom had wanted to ask if he wanted to sit down and eat, but he didn't get the opportunity to do so.
Orion appeared by their side like a particularly uninvited dark cloud. Harry turned away to hide his face on Tom's chest, far too improper and impossibly amusing.
"Would you like to dance, Hadrian?" Orion asked in the most monotone Tom had ever heard him utter out. He looked as enthusiastic as Harry at the prospect. He was only being polite for the sake of his father, Tom knew.
It didn't make the curl of anger and jealousy any less intense.
"No." Harry mumbled against the fabric of his robes, face still buried.
"I could get you a drink, perhaps?" He continued, as if Harry hadn't spoken.
Harry only grabbed tighter onto Tom, and if he had been anyone else but this endearing boy he would have cursed them black and blue.
Orion looked at him in the eyes and took a careful step back. He wouldn't want to step on a serpent ready to strike, after all.
"How about a walk outside?" He said. But he was not addressing Harry. The question was turned to Tom, begging him to get them away to have an out of the situation just so Lord Black wouldn't come breathing down his neck again.
Tom nodded, prying Harry's hands away from his robes as he walked them down towards the gardens.
"They really don't know when to quit, I swear." Harry mumbled as they lost sight of Orion and the surrounding crowd.
Tom wondered what made Harry so special Lord Black wanted him in his family by unbreakable ties so insistently.
~
The Library had fallen slowly to decay, after a time. The books remained unread, gathering dust and magic, forgotten where they sat for years and years and years. The armchairs remained unused, moving from side to side of the library wondering why no one would come in.
A ghoul had moved in at some point, and after the last of a long dynasty of shopkeepers died in their sleep, it took over manning the desk.
The ghoul didn't much understand the concept of time, and much less the use of Wizarding money. But it kept the shop clean of other plagues, such as insects and rats and the occasional ashwinder, a magical snake that grew from the everlasting magical fire by the corner of the main floor when the ghoul wasn't looking.
For a brief period of two years, a kind witch had tried to convert it into a cozy little coffee shop. As one can imagine, it didn't last.
Both the ghoul and the magical fire had refused to leave, the books had been crammed into the attic one on top of another and the armchairs reluctantly repurposed.
Yet, the buildings falling apart around it, and the fact that the little side alley's entrance, branching from Diagon, was covered by bigger, flashier shops made it impossible for the café to survive.
Years went by, and the building sat sad and (mostly) empty.
Then the Childe of Death came along.
~
The smell from the gardens at the back of the Aviary Manor was less intense than those at front. It probably had something to do with the lack of rose brushes set up on every inch of the path leading up the front door. It had clearly been a statement, for those who knew to read into it.
Like Harry.
Tom spied at his companion from the corner of his eyes, from his slim build to the dark circles most people would cover behind a glamour. It was clearly intentional on his part, as he seemed to leave nothing for speculation.
His hands were covered in silver rings carved with runes and stones inlaid in between, and pendants and piercings hung from his ears and glinted in the moonlight every time he turned his head.
He wondered what the antlers at his back meant.
Everything about him was slightly dark, and he carried something heavy with him Tom could not name, but he could feel deep within himself.
A sense of uneasiness, despite his rather cheerful and harmless demeanor.
A mask of sorts.
It felt like a pull, as if Harry was a black hole and Tom nothing but a dying star waiting to be sucked in, stardust and magic wavering between them, dancing around just as their bodies had, not a moment before.
Harry looked up at him from beneath his bangs, green eyes curious.
They were finally far enough for the music in the ballroom to be nothing but a murmur in the night.
The Estate where the Aviary sat was within a valley split by a roaring river flowing from the surrounding mountains, water clear most of the year, except for a few weeks where rainstorms fell with the fury of gods seeking vengeance, water tearing apart stones and earth in it's path down the mountain, dark and muddy and dangerous.
The water was clear now, a mirror of silver flowing calmly and without rush.
A wooden bridge had been erected at some point, curved over the river bed. On the other side there was a long stretch of green tall grass, seemingly unaffected by the cold.
Tom and Harry walked close together, shoulders brushing as they made their way down to the water.
Harry slipped a hand on one of his robe pockets and pulled out a brown piece of paper that was crinkled at the edges. The strong smell of dark chocolate reached Tom's nose before his eyes could settle on the dark treat between Harry's hands.
A smile had settled on Harry's face when their eyes met, and he offered up a piece without being prompted.
The bittersweet taste, mixed together with the feeling of Harry's heavy magic made Tom sigh and close his eyes as they walked down the slope of the hill. The calming sound of the water and the chill feeling of the night made the knot stubbornly sat between his shoulder blades, tighten and let go.
Harry slipped his arm on the crook of his elbow and leaned towards him a little, just resting his weight as they walked down in tandem.
"Do you think either Callum or Corvus will be dead by the time we walk back?" His voice stretched far in the night.
"I don't know." Tom responded, a lightness to his tone he hadn't had in himself in a while. "Depends on how much time you want to spend out here with me." He teased. "An hour? Perhaps two?" He let a beat pass between them. "Three days?"
A startled laugh left Harry, light and fleeting in the night.
"An eternity?" Harry shot back instead, green eyes looking far into the night sky. The stars seemed to twinkle in answer.
"I can deal with that."
~
The antique shop was filled to the brim with objects.
Just as the library had, the items had been collected from hand to hand and passed down a long line of people to reach the shop.
The shelves that had once made up the library had been repurposed with loving hands, and narrow paths stretched between them as they stood side by side. If a person were to enter they would have to dodge items that refused to stay on the confines of the shelves themselves, sometimes on the floor or floating around trying to find a spot to call a temporary home.
Not one item was the same as another, on the main floor. From priceless heirlooms of long lost families, to stones and jewelry lovingly crafted by Goblins, to paintings and statues on all shapes and sizes.
The top of the shelves themselves acted as a middle floor, between the main floor and the first one, connected by planks of wood and ladders to open a path between each section. Even more objects had been placed there, and the plants hanging from the ceiling looked down with apprehension as people walked on the precariously placed paths on top of the bookshelves. Little kids, as usual, loved to climb.
The second and third floor functioned mostly as the original building had intended: a Library. The books had been more than pleased to be put back on the shelves, on the floor and tables and even windowsills. Muggle records and books had been added, and even if they didn't hold any magic themselves, they soaked the ambient flow around them like sponges, filling up to the littlest atom with magic. The surrounding books found it funny, so they let the muggle things stay.
The armchairs moved from place to place, and sometimes they even came down to the main floor and helped people along the shop like particularly enthusiastic puppies.
The ghoul still manned the desk sometimes, but more often than not it sat behind it by an open window that was sunny year round, a couple of plants had been placed by it's stool and it grumbled and grunted from time to time to remind the rude people that visited the store, it was still very much alive (as much as a creature such as this could be) and would not hesitate to being harm if they were being disrespectful. The plants around it seemed to agree with the sentiment, and they would curl around the shoulders of the shop owner with a possessiveness not seen anywhere else in Britain.
The basement had been a new addition.
It was not easily accessible for those witches and wizards that came from the world above looking to buy or sell, looking to read and wander.
The basement was a transition place for some.
A train station for others. A pit stop on a long ride that would take them elsewhere.
Sometimes it served as a tea house, or a coffee stop, or even a forest.
For Harry, it was the place where he saw the most people come through.
Somewhere simply lost and trying to find their way back, even if their souls told them they had to go on. For others, it was a place to share tea and stories and wait for just a little more. They were not ready yet.
Sometimes all they needed was an ear to listen. Someone to tell all the troubles they'd had in life and still wrapped around them in death.
Some were angry beyond measure, and they would lash out and try to find a way out to hurt the people above. Harry could not let those go.
The ghoul manned the desk for days and days after the angry ones visited. An impatient and concerned tone to its grunts that informed the local shoppers it was not to be aggravated too much, lest it would attack. The plants sometimes had to hold onto it for good measure.
Most of all, the shop was filled with magic. And stories. And the occasional ghost.
Harry was quite proud of it, even if it wasn't the life he would have envisioned for himself once upon a time.
Sirius' death during his fifth year, and the consequent hunger that had haunted his every step had been more than enough for Harry to take the wrong train one night.
Enough to end up in the tea house below an abandoned library-turned-shop.
Death had been more than pleased at the company.
~
Harry stepped first into the wooden bridge, and dragged Tom by the hand until they stood together in the middle.
The calming sound of the water was a balm to his soul. He had seen way too many shadows clinging to people for one night. He didn't need to know exactly how many people would obscure his doorstep in the next few months, thank you.
He turned to the boy by his side.
Tom Riddle both looked so much like the shadow of the Diary he had met in his second year, and yet nothing like it. He looked older, and a tiredness that could not be fixed by sleep or rest pulled down at his blue eyes. His hair stood long in loose curls, the point between having to cut it or commit to a ponytail not far now. He looked pale and a little hollow, and yet he stood tall by Harry, and impossibly warm.
He was half a Soul now, he knew. It should not be possible for this boy to stand as warm and as sane as he did.
There was a void in the tear of his soul Harry had felt as soon as he had stepped on the dance floor. It sucked light and magic with a tremendous pull, and Harry wondered how it was Tom hadn't noticed.
His magic worked overtime to fill the void that would remain open like a wound left to fester and crawl with foulness if left alone.
Harry turned to face him, eyes closed and hand resting somewhere in Tom's chest.
He could feel it even now, trying to pull his own magic in the black hole in hopes it would fix it.
The amount of magic required to keep it going made Harry intimately aware he stood beside the most powerful wizard he had encountered, ever.
A second coming of Merlin, perhaps. If only he hadn't been so foolish to think a simple Horcrux would be enough to stray Death from his path.
Half a Soul was half the magic, after all.
It was impressive the only tales of soul sickness were the dark circles and the pale complexion. It spoke more about his strength than Harry was careful to admit, even to himself.
He let his magic be sucked by the boy, and he felt more than heard the sigh Tom let out.
They were standing already very close together, but Tom brought him even closer by putting an arm around him.
When he lifted his head he found two dark intense eyes gazing down at him, perhaps a little perplexed at the mystery package that was Harry himself.
He couldn't help the hand that moved the curls away from Tom's handsome face, a thought between grabbing a pair of scissors or using magic to get rid of the extra length.
Tom must have sensed his intentions, as his eyes turned a little mischievous.
"I know." He sighed, put upon.
"Yet you let it get this long." Harry tugged a curl down and stretched it as far as it could go. It reached somewhere around his chin. "Either commit to it or cut it. Terribly improper of you to go around with a mop for a head full of hair."
A sharp smile was all the warning he got, as a hand tugged down the satin piece of fabric holding his hair in place and mostly away from his face. Black curls settled around his face like a mane. There was a reason Harry didn't wear his hair down without an excessive amount of hair products. His curls were not soft and tame like Tom's, rather they stubbornly wanted to fit one on top of the other in tight circles and twists. It had been worse when he had short hair, as the ends spiked every which way they wanted.
"Hey!" He went for the cloth with small hands, even as Tom held it out of reach and above their heads.
"You are one to talk about cutting down hair."
"Don't you dare shame me for my hair, Tom Riddle. It was all well and good before you got your hands on it!"
Perhaps Harry should have worded it differently.
Hands sunk into the back of his hair, warm and big and playful. They tilted his head back and Harry had no choice but to meet Tom's hungry gaze.
There was no question needed between them, no confirmation for the next step in their dance.
Tom's lips met his in a slow kiss, languid and wet and right.
Harry sighed as he leaned more weight onto him, knowing his hands would hold his body firm and the warmth of their magic met in the middle, in all the points where they touched. His hands went from Tom's chest up his neck and up his cheeks.
Tom's hands traveled down his back to his waist, and held Harry more firmly in his place against him.
Tom Riddle smelled oddly sweet. Like a half blend between vanilla and chocolate fighting for its life, a hint of bitterness and spice making its way in between.
It reminded Harry of the times Remus Lupin had slipped pieces and bits of chocolate into his hands for all of his third year, between classes and recesses and times when Harry stared a little too hard off into the sky with words stuck on his throat.
Oddly enough, the House Elves had taken it upon themselves to leave handmade (homemade) chocolate carefully wrapped in paper in between the lapels of his robes, in his pockets, in his trunk. He often found the pieces when he least expected it, and when he most needed them. Like at the Dursleys during the long summer months, or when he went on walks along the forest and found his hands reaching for his pockets, or more often enough: when he was sad and in need of a pick me up.
(Fifth year had him eating chocolate every day, enough to make him sick more than once. Madam Pomfrey had huffed and puffed at him for such an unbalanced diet).
(Luna, oddly enough, seemed to be the only one to notice, the only one to not shy away from his anger or look away at the depth of his sadness. Somewhere in December that year she had slipped a potion to the House Elves to mix with the chocolate so it wouldn't upset his stomach).
(He doesn't think he deserved the kindness, but Luna had only smiled at him as they sat between the herd of Thestrals and ate their chocolate).
They kissed for a long stretch of time, the river and the stars their only witness.
Harry had the question at the tip of his tongue.
Tom bit down on his neck with hunger, leaving bruises and kisses on his wake.
At some point his hands wandered even lower, and two big hands grabbed onto the back of his thighs prompting him to let himself be lifted or fall backwards.
Tom grunted against his mouth at the added weight, but stood sure and still as Harry wrapped his legs around his middle. The hands on the back of his thighs hugged him beneath his bottom and let Harry sit a little higher.
He sighed against Tom's mouth, leaning back a bit and trusting his hands to hold him up.
Tom's eyes were two black holes as they looked up at him. His gaze was half lidded, hungry and wanting. His magic seemed to simmer beneath the surface of his skin, calling out to his own magic and awaking it in a way nothing had before.
He desperately wanted to ask. He wanted to drag Tom home and never let him leave.
An explosion at their back startled them enough for Tom to take a hurried step back, turning them about so whatever had caused the ruckus would hit Tom head first.
Harry was deposited back on the ground before the wave of magic could reach them. Both of their wands dropped on their hands.
A fire started somewhere deep in the Manor and climbed up with a hunger that said it could only be of magical origins.
The shape of a Phoenix eating smaller birds could be seen through the flames.
Someone had cast a fiendfyre inside a small space crowded with the most influential people currently in power in Britain.
It was an act of War.
They waited for half a heartbeat.
Then they ran towards the fire.