The moon hung high in the velvet sky, casting its silver glow upon the world below. Harry stepped through the door with a whisper of a creak, his boots muffled on the polished wood of the hallway. The world outside was cloaked in the silken veil of midnight, the air crisp with the remnants of a long day’s wear. Another long day had passed, another case closed. The weight of his Auror work still clung to him—an unseen burden that refused to be shaken, weariness settling deep in his bones. But the scent of their home, warm and inviting, welcomed him like a soft embrace, and Harry couldn’t help but exhale a quiet sigh of relief.
His eyes wandered, almost of their own accord, to the study. The light flickered from beneath the door—a soft amber hue, like the last breath of the sun before it yielded to night. Despite his exhaustion, a pang of concern wormed its way into his chest.
Tom was still up.
"Tom?" Harry murmured softly, as if he might disturb something delicate. But the response was as he’d expected: silence.
Harry sighed, a sound filled with affection, feeling the ache of it in his chest. He loosened the knot of his tie and shed his coat slowly, as if each movement took a little more effort than the last. Then, with quiet resolve, he made his way toward the study, his body weary but his heart full of a deep, overwhelming sensation. It surged within him as he reached the door and pushed it open.
Leaning against the doorframe of the study, Harry's chest tightened as he took in the sight of Tom.
Tom, bathed in the soft golden glow of their study, hunched over the desk, surrounded by open books and scrolls. His quill scratched furiously at a page, the only sound in the room besides the soft flicker of candlelight. His brow was furrowed, lips pursed in concentration, every inch of him absorbed in the pages before him. Tom's dark hair fell over his eyes, a few loose strands catching the light, and his pale skin seemed almost ethereal against the warmth of the room.
He was utterly gorgeous in that moment—distracted, engrossed in something only he could understand. Harry watched the faint light from the candles cast shadows along Tom's sharp features: the elegant line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes shone with intensity and quiet brilliance.
Yet there was a weariness to him tonight—a subtle tremor in the way he held the quill, the faint lines of fatigue beneath his eyes that even his sharp intellect could not erase.
Tom always got so immersed in his research, so deeply wrapped in the labyrinth of his thoughts, that the world around him seemed to fade away. It was one of the things Harry loved most about him—the way Tom could lose himself so completely in his mind, like a scholar lost in the pages of an ancient tome. But tonight, it was late—far too late for such devotion to anything but rest.
"Tom," Harry called again, his tone now a little softer, coaxing. "It’s well past midnight. You should come to bed."
Tom’s quill paused its dance across the parchment, his mind evidently miles away from anything else. He looked up slowly. Harry's heart, as always, skipped a few beats when he looked into those beautiful dark eyes.
"I'm almost done," he murmured, his voice low and distant, as though the mere suggestion of sleep was too trivial to entertain.
Harry’s lips twitched into a smile, but it was laced with a fond sort of exasperation. "Tom, love," he said, stepping closer to the desk, his voice warmer now, like a gentle breeze. "You’ve been at this for hours. Come to bed."
There was a slight hesitation in Tom’s posture—a brief tightening of his jaw, a flicker of emotions behind those calculating eyes. "I'll be there soon," he promised.
Harry knew that tone. He gave a small shake of his head, his heart fluttering with affection for this brilliant, stubborn man. But he said nothing more, choosing instead to retreat to their bedroom.
As he crossed the threshold into their bedroom, exhaustion settled in again, a heavy cloak of tiredness that clung to him like a second skin.
He undressed slowly, slipping beneath the cool embrace of the sheets, but the comfort of the bed couldn’t chase away the restless stirrings in his mind. His thoughts, as always, returned to Tom. The quiet way their eyes had met, the soft curve of Tom’s lips when he had looked up. He could still feel Tom’s presence lingering, the magnetic pull of him even from across the house.
The bed felt far too large and empty without Tom beside him, and no matter how many times Harry turned his head to the side, hoping for the comfort of his presence, the quiet remained unbroken.
Sleep, it seemed, would not come.
For a long while, Harry lay restless, the sheets cold against his skin, the empty space beside him a constant reminder of how much he longed for Tom’s warmth—how much he wanted Tom to rest his tired eyes. He stared at the ceiling, his mind unwilling to settle, the quiet only adding to the longing that churned inside him.
In the dim silence, he found himself unable to bear it any longer. With a soft, resolute exhale, Harry slid from the bed, the cool air of the room brushing against his skin as he made his way back into the study.
There, still at the desk, sat Tom—curled over his notes like a sculpture, his body bent in a perfect curve, his face serene and peaceful atop his notes. His quill had long since slipped from his fingers, leaving them gently curled on the edge of the desk. Harry’s heart clenched at the sight of him—so brilliant, so driven, yet so fragile in these moments. His mind might be infinite, but his body was only human.
"Tom," Harry whispered, his voice a sweet melody that reached out across the still room.
With deliberate care, Harry stepped forward again, his touch so light it could have been a dream. His fingers stroked through Tom’s dark hair, a promise whispered in the form of a touch. Tom stirred, a soft hum escaping his lips, but he did not wake, not fully. There was an intimacy in the gesture, a quiet trust that spoke volumes.
Leaning in, Harry pressed a soft kiss to Tom’s temple, his lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary—a kiss filled with all the overwhelming love in his heart.
"My darling," Harry whispered, his voice a soft allure, a blend of longing and unwavering devotion. "Let’s get you to bed."
With a tenderness only Harry could offer, he lifted Tom from the desk, cradling him close, his heart swelling as he felt the warmth of Tom’s body settle against his own. The weight of Tom’s body, solid and real, grounded Harry in a way nothing else ever could.
Tom stirred again but remained lost in sleep, and Harry carried him with ease to their bedroom, his heart light despite the lingering exhaustion that clung to him.
He laid Tom gently on the bed, gathering him near. He paused to take in the beauty of his face—how his lips curved so naturally, how the line of his jaw was perfect in its quiet strength. Tom Riddle, so handsome, so utterly his.
For a moment, Harry simply stayed there, holding Tom close, his hands caressing the soft strands of Tom’s dark hair, his fingers gently smoothing the errant strands from his forehead. His fingers brushed over Tom’s face, tracing the sharp contours of his cheekbone, the delicate curve of his jaw. He let his hand rest there, his thumb gently brushing over Tom's skin, feeling the warmth of him.
Tom’s face softened even more under his touch, and Harry felt the warmth flood his chest, a tenderness so fierce it stuttered his heart.
In the quiet of the night, Harry whispered against Tom's forehead, his lips grazing the skin as he spoke. "I love you," he murmured the sweetest confession, a truth so deep it left him breathless.
Tom’s breath faltered, a slight shudder passing through him as he slowly stirred, his eyes fluttering open, blinking as though waking from a dream. He looked up at Harry, his expression a beautiful mixture of confusion and affection.
And Harry, his heart steady and brimming with warmth, simply smiled as he held Tom close. The quiet wrapped around them in a tender embrace, filled with the comfort of shared breaths and the unshakable promise of their bond. No words were needed—only the soft touch of Harry’s hand and the way Tom leaned into him, surrendering to the safety they found in each other. Together, in the stillness of the night, they could rest.