Breathing in the crisp air surrounding him, Harry smiled lightly from his place on the ledge.
There had been a time where the thought of him sitting at the ledge of a high window was associated with nothing but pain and memories. Now, however, the window ledge represented absolutely nothing. It was a blank slate. One that he was determined to fill with warmth and love.
Releasing his breath, Harry watched as clouds escaped his mouth, small puffs that transformed in the cold around him. The boy sighed contently as he leaned his head against the window frame, allowing his mind to wonder.
“Love?” Harry startled momentarily before looking back and seeing his lover.
His lover, who was standing at the door with an admiring smile and two mugs in hand.
“Yes?” The word was spoken softly, through a lazy smirk. A smirk that spoke of utter comfort. Comfort—something Harry of the past would have scoffed at.
“Move up, would you?” Tom huffed the words as he made his way towards Harry, manoeuvring the mugs as to avoid any spillage in his attempt to sit.
Obediently, Harry moved over, leaving just enough space within the frame of their small window for his husband to sit. Once Tom was seated, Harry could feel the rewards of just how little space he had left for the older man. Their arms stuck together and their thighs overlapped on one another, fighting for more space.
Rolling his eyes at Harry's pettiness, Tom handed his spouse a mug. “Hot chocolate, tooth rotting. Just how you like it.”
“Ha ha.. such a comedian. And what’s yours, coffee so black your stomach screams for help?” Harry knew his smile was growing as he spoke, and he didn’t try to hide it.
Tom had grown used to his lover's sharp tongue; he had been victims of it many times when they were enemies. However, he didn’t think he would ever grow used to the overwhelming sensation of fondness that now flooded his being, replacing the previous rage that would overcome him whenever Harry sassed him.
Instead of replying, Tom chose to look sideways at his husband, observing the faraway look that had overcome the other man's face. He was beautiful. Many people knew that; there was not one person that could deny the beauty of Harry Potter. But at moments like this, when Tom could observe just how ethereal Harry was. When he could see the red that blossomed on the chosen ones cheeks or the way his lashes stuck together just slightly in response to the cold. Tom couldn’t help but let the possessive and selfish monster within him preen with pride. Pride that this was all his to see.
Breaking out of his admiring observation, Tom chose to speak on his curiosity: “What’s on your mind?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“I asked.” Tom spoke his response with a raised brow, turning back to face ahead as he waited for Harry’s response.
Harry sucked in a breath at his lover's question; facing forward, he steeled himself to tell the truth. He didn’t mean to let his mind wander through the past, but at times he just couldn’t stop it. Letting his gaze flicker to Tom and back to the view, he spoke. “Back then, back when you were after me. I used to stand on ledges like this.”
Tom's stomach dropped; he couldn’t help the interruption that escaped him. “No.”
Shaking his head, the younger continued his train of thought. "No, not that; just listen. I would stand on ledges like this and fall back. My broom would always catch me on my command, but the feeling of falling... The feeling of the wind pushing through me and the way my ears would pop. I just felt free.” Harry finished his sentence with a reminiscing smile.
The older man felt relief wash through his body before the wave of guilt. He knew the answers, but he couldn’t resist the question of conformation that left him in response to Harry's confession. “From?”
“You.”
Harry felt no guilt in confessing this; he had been young and afraid. But he had fought to get this happiness, and he would acknowledge the pain that came before it, proudly. Tom had helped create him, and he had no regrets in making Tom aware of this fact.
Tom would not allow himself to wallow in the stabbing sadness that this confession had caused him; he knew the villain he had been to was Harry, and he would not act as a victim in this situation of his making. Instead, he huffed out a defeated laugh. “Sounds about on brand for us.” He nudged Harry as he spoke.
Harry smiled wide at Tom. “Wanna try?” This time the younger had turned his head to face Tom as he spoke.
The dark wizard raised a scandalised eyebrow, turning to face Harry. “Absolutely not; I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to try less. Thank you.”
The chosen one laughed at this, wandlessly levitating their mugs and sending them overhead back into the house to rest on a desk somewhere behind them. “To late.”
“What do you mean?” Before Tom could finish his reply, he felt it. The slight nudging at his back could only be his husband attempting to push him off their very high window ledge.
“Don’t worry, there’s a broom down there somewhere... I hope,” Harry had muttered the last part of the sentence in an attempt at humour and an attempt that he knew Tom was absolutely despising him for.
Shooting his panicked husband an innocent smile he made for one final push at the man's back, that would definitely make the man drop down. Only, he hadn't planned for his husband to grab him in retaliation, and before he knew it, they were both falling from the highest window of their manner.
Unfazed by the sudden development, Harry began to laugh joyfully as he and his husband both plummeted to what his husband would swear to be their death.
Extremely unamused by the situation at hand and extremely afraid of their fate, Tom fought past the pressure on his lungs to scream the words he was sure were going to be his last: “I swear to God Potter, I fucking hate you and love you. God do I love you.” Opening his eyes at the end of his sentence, Tom saw the ground getting closer and faster. They’re going to die, he was sure of it. Just 30 feet more and the lovers would be gone from the world.
There was so much he hadn't done, hadn't said. Wanted to say to Harry. But instead here he was plummeting to his death, holding onto said man with all the might magic would allow him. Oh, the ground was getting closer, Harry’s laughter was getting louder, and
A boy and a man shot awake in bed, both gasping for breath and both in disbelief.
The man, the dark lord, looked down at his serpentine hand and let his hand clench around nothing as he thought of the feeling his dream had given him—the feeling of clutching onto Harry Potter.
Voldemort didn’t know what to feel for himself; he had dreamt of Harry Potter, dreamt of loving Harry Potter, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to feel disgust. Instead, all he felt was a gaping hole in his chest, a hole that left him contemplating all the possibilities he has been too blind to see and all the ones he is too cowardice to pursue.
Voldemort, no. He didn’t feel like Voldemort right now. Right now he found himself feeling like Tom Riddle, the loveless orphan; only he felt oddly loved at this moment. And wasn’t that something? The one part of himself that never received love was feeling the most loved. All due to a dream—a dream in which Harry Potter loved him for Tom Riddle. His most shameful part.
The boy breathed deeply, gasping for air at his sudden loss. He allowed his hand to touch his cheek only to find that tears had begun to fall. Dropping his hand, the boy who lived looked up into the darkness that surrounded him and allowed himself to relive the sound of his own laugh.
He had dreamt of Voldemort? Harry had never been more confused, more conflicted. He had dreamt of Voldemort, and he regrets waking up. The boy who lived never thought he would regret escaping thoughts of Voldemort, but here he was. Crying at the loss of Voldemort's presence, a presence that his subconscious had made up.
Standing on shaky legs, Harry tiptoed to the window ledge of the dorm. Carful not to wake any of the other boys, he grabbed his broom that had been waiting patiently besides the window before releasing the latch and allowing the broom to drop past the ledge and towards the ground below the tower.
Slowly, Harry then stepped onto the ledge and let himself fall backwards, into the freedom that the air gave him.
He was falling, in contrast to his dream. Harry did not laugh. Instead, he closed his eyes as he willed his broom to catch him, which it did just when he was 10 feet away from crashing to the ground. Smiling lightly, Harry willed himself to sit up on his broom, grabbing the wood and aiming to fly up. Once the boy was satisfied with the distance he had put between himself and the ground, he sat comfortably and watched, watching the trees of the forest as they swayed gently in the wind.
In that moment, he decided he would not go back to sleep tonight. He was going to sit here on his broom and watch the sun rise between the trees as he reminisced on the picture his subconscious had created for him.
At Malfoy manner, there stood a dark lord, in front of the ledge of the highest window the manner had to offer. A dark lord who decided he was more in favour of watching the sun rise for the rest of the night than attempting to go back to sleep.