Aconitum

Harry entered the Hospital room, a bunch of flowers clutched tightly in one hand. Tom had been so patient, offering kind words and more orange blossoms- “on the house,” he had insisted- even if Harry had been admittedly a little shell-shocked. Harry thought he might have still had Ginny’s dried blood on his hands, so Tom had reacted remarkably well, all things considered.

Surprisingly, his parents were already there, sat by Ginny’s bedside. Lily looked sad, but James was desolate- he and Ginny had always been close. They’d found a lot in common.

“Harry,” Lily said softly, spotting him hovering in the doorway. His mother didn’t say anything else, simply standing up and opening her arms.

Harry rushed towards her, burrowing himself into the safety of her hug. There was nothing like a mother’s embrace, and he breathed deeply, intoxicated by the familiar scent of warm, sweet safety. He didn’t know when he started crying, but wasn’t sure how to stop.

He was seized with the sudden urge to explain himself- he didn’t want her to misunderstand, she needed to get it-

“I still love her,” he said, choked, and drew back slightly to gaze desperately into Lily’s eyes.

“Of course you do,” she said, smiling down at him sadly. “She’s one of your best friends.”

Harry slumped, overwhelmed by a wave of pure relief. He should have known his mum would understand, even if Harry himself couldn’t place when he’d fallen out of love with Ginny. Had he even been in love with her in the first place, or just some abstract ideal? He still didn’t know.

“How is she?” Harry asked, glancing reluctantly towards the bed. Ginny looked so pale and still, like she was dead already.

“They don’t really know,” James looked defeated, running a hand through his hair. Silver patches glinted in the candlelight. “Apparently they’ve never seen an illness like this. She’s in a coma at the moment. She might wake up…”

“Or she might not,” Lily finished gently.

“They don’t know what did it?”

James sighed. “It might be a curse, or some kind of allergic reaction- they aren’t sure. It could be exhaustion, for all that they bloody know.”

“But we’re in a hospital!” Harry protested. “We’re in a hospital, and they can’t even diagnose an illness?!”

Lily sighed. “They’re doing their best-“

“But their best isn’t worth shit,” James said firmly.

“I’ll thank you to remember, darling,” Lily said sternly, pinning James with a disapproving glare, “That we are in a hospital, and some sensitivity would be appropriate.”

“Merlin,” James said, visibly shrinking back. “Did Molly teach you that look?”

Lily simply smiled enigmatically, and turned her attention back to Harry.

“Those are nice flowers, dear,” Lily tried for a light tone, obvious trying to alleviate the mood. “I’ll get a vase, shall I?”

“Er, yeah, thanks.”

Lily waved her wand, and a vase that Harry recognised from his childhood appeared, already full of fresh water. Lily took the flowers from Harry’s hands and performed a quick slicing charm, and then passed them to James expectantly.

“You do it. I was never very good at aesthetics.”

“Am I just a servant to you?” James complained, placing the flowers in the vase decoratively and sprucing up the leaves with a quick spell.

“A slave, dear,” Lily corrected sweetly. “You don’t get paid.”

“Not in money,” James wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, and dodged his wife’s stinging spell.

“There,” Lily said, examining the flower arrangement with satisfaction. “Where did you get them? They’re gorgeous.”

“Aconitum,” Harry replied, before realising that didn’t actually explain anything. “Oh, er, it’s this flower shop on Knockturn Alley that I found by accident. I’ve become…” Harry could feel his face heating up, “…friends with the owner.”

“Friends, eh?” James grinned teasingly.

“Dad, I’m married!” Harry protested laughingly.

Their smiles froze as they glanced over to Ginny’s still body, and the atmosphere became heavy once more.

Lily squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “You know don’t have to put your life on hold, don’t you, dear? Not enjoying yourself won’t help Ginny.”

“I know,” Harry said unconvincingly. “I know.”

The months passed, which Harry filled with work and his- now regular- visits to Aconitum. They were miserable and long, and Harry felt guilty whenever he visited St Mungo’s. What if Ginny was like this because of him? What if the stress got to her? What if she died angry at him?

And then, finally, months later: a break through, and Harry found himself rushing to Aconitum for reasons he didn’t quite know (or want to admit.)

“Ginny woke up!” he announced delightedly, charging into the (eternally empty) store.

Tom’s eyebrows shot up, and he pushed aside a magazine. “She did?”

“Completely unexpected- the doctors were all shocked. Apparently her magic is fighting back.” Harry grinned.

“Do they know what’s wrong with her yet?”

“No. They think it’s some kind of virus, but that’s it.”

“Surely she knows what happened, though.”

“Not really- she says she just remembers getting ill and then a bit of the therapy session before she passed. She couldn’t really say much, she was pretty groggy. Kept insisting that we all looked like broomsticks.”

Tom laughed. “Broomsticks?”

“She’s always been Quidditch mad, even more than Ron. I reckon she could beat Oliver Wood for passion, and he once told me to jump from my broom if it meant I caught the snitch. She practically lives and breathes Quidditch.” Harry smiled softly. “She’s always said she fell in love with my flying.”

“Maybe that was the problem,” Tom suggested. “Too much distance between you. There can’t be much intimacy in a Quidditch match.”

“You’d be surprised.” Harry could still remember the comforting glint of Ginny’s hair in the sunlight, the freedom and safety in knowing you could dive to the ground, and someone could catch you.

“I was never much of a flier,” Tom said. “I always preferred to hole myself up in the library. I was, admittedly, a little asocial.”

“That sounds lonely,” Harry said, who had always had a huge group of larger-than-life friends. Joining Gryffindor was almost like gaining a noisy, unwanted extended family.

“I had a few close associates,” Tom replied, looking reflective. “I was focused, and it worked out in the end. I got what I wanted.”

“You were a Slytherin, weren’t you?” Harry remembered. “I always forget that. It seems a bit odd for a Slytherin to end up working in a flower shop.”

“There’s ambition in everything,” Tom said musingly. “The sweetest flower hides the sharpest thorn.”

Harry snorted. “Flower metaphors.”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, his smile very aware. “Metaphors. Anyway, I’m sure Ginny will recover soon. It sounds like she’s still fighting strong.”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled fondly. “She always was a fighter. We’re all very relieved- we thought for a while…” he suppressed a shudder, and tried for something cheerful. “Yeah, well, maybe Molly will stop bursting into tears now. It gets a bit uncomfortable when you’re all having dinner, and she starts sobbing into the potatoes.”

“I can imagine.”

“Ginny finds it hilarious. Keeps offering her a tissue.”

“Ginny has quite the sense of humour.”

Harry was distant, staring down at the pile of severed rose stems. “It’s one of the things I fell in love with her for.”

“Such a shame that we can fall out of love as easily as we stumble in,” Tom murmured, and as Harry glanced up, he was caught in Tom’s gaze. It was almost magnetic, and Tom’s eyes seemed to be saying something just out of Harry’s reach.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled hoarsely. “Shame.”

“Would you like to identify the flowers?” Tom asked suddenly, breaking the spell. He gestured towards the counter, where Harry noticed a pile of newly-cut roses. They looked normal- he didn’t know why they needed ‘identifying’.

Harry coughed. “Er, yeah, sure. I can do that… But aren’t they just roses?”

Tom chuckled, and Harry felt like he’d missed a joke. “They’re never just roses.”

Tom waved his wand (Harry would never get over how elegant Tom was), and a book, the one Harry had seen what felt like years ago, appeared in front of him. Harry glanced up at Tom for permission, and received an encouraging nod in return.

He opened the cover and turned the pages gently, his eyes widening at the meticulousness of Tom’s handwritten and hand drawn notes and diagrams. Only Hermione’s notes matched up to this thorough neatness.

“Merlin,” Harry muttered.

His attention was drawn to a particularly vibrant page, showing a pretty flower in the same shade of silvery-blue as a patronus. It had some kind of Latin name that Harry didn’t even try to pronounce, but his eyes focussed on the summarised purpose.

“Aids in memory loss,” Harry murmured. “I didn’t know there was a flower for that.”

He flicked through the rest of the book, spotting catchy titles like ‘Peeping Poppies’, and ‘Turthurinthiums’. Eventually, he came to the right page and- glancing between the image and the flowers in front of him to check they matched- he asked Tom if they were sunshine roses.

“Perfect,” Tom said, joining Harry very close and laying a hand over the page, fingertips barely touching his. The gesture felt like approval. “Soon, it’ll be almost like you work here.”

“Hey Gin!” Harry announced cheerfully, sweeping into the hospital wing room. It had been almost two weeks since Ginny woke up, and she was looking better and better every day.

“Broom-shagger,” she grumbled, hiding under the covers from piercing sunlight as Harry flung the curtains open.

“That’s entirely inappropriate language,” Harry grinned. “We’re in a hospital.”

“I know,” Ginny glared at him balefully, her head appeared from beneath the sheets. “I’m the patient.”

“So I suppose you won’t want breakfast then…” Harry unshrunk and unfroze an English breakfast from his bag, and sent it to hover over the bed.

That caught her attention.

“Give.” Ginny gestured impatiently, finally pulling the covers down to his waist, and Harry left the plate come to a rest on her lap, along with a pair of cutlery.

Ginny wasted little time in shredding the bacon and stuffing it into her mouth, followed closely by a forkful of baked beans.

“The f’d here tastes like b’llocks,” she explained whilst chewing. “I’m starvin’.”

“You look an awful lot like Ron right now,” Harry commented thoughtfully, and dodged the pillow she sent flying in his direction.

“I brought flowers too,” he said, pulling them out of his bag again. “From Tom.”

“More flowers from Tom?” Ginny said suggestively, watching as Harry removed the old ones and replaced them with a fresh bouquet. “They’re different today.”

“Said he felt like a change,” Harry shrugged.

“They’re a gorgeous colour,” Ginny commented.

She was right: the pink tone to the petals was luxurious and rich, and this came from Harry, who associated any shade of pink with unpleasant memories of family visits to his Aunt and Uncle’s.

Ginny went back to eating, and Harry took a seat by the bed.

“So how’s that investigation going?” Ginny asked finally, pausing briefly in her feast.

“Huh?”

“That investigation you mentioned ages ago. Into the Minister.”

“You listened?” Harry asked, very surprised and rather excited.

“Look, I’m not saying I believe you, and I still don’t think Lucius Malfoy is some kind of Dementor, but you seemed quite passionate about it. I thought I’d see what you had to say.”

The momentary excitement left Harry, and he slumped. “I’ve hit a bit of a brick wall,” he admitted. “You know I told you about the owl? Well, I passed the letter onto this guy who said that he could trace it back to its sender. It’d been a while since I got an update, so I looked into it. Turns out he died when his house burned down months ago, so that explains it.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I think it was foul play. He just ‘happened’ to burn to death on the evening that I sent the letter to him,” Harry glowered, “but the Ministry disagrees. So the letter’s gone and Malfoy’s covered up his tracks irritatingly well. I’ve been reduced to rifling through newspapers of his old campaign for anything suspicious.”

“Well, if anyone can find it, it’s you,” Ginny said generously. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so bloody-minded and stubborn.”

“Thanks,” Harry grinned.

Ginny rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. “You know, our marriage is a lot better when we’re not actually together,” she commented.

“You’ve always been my best friend, Gin,” Harry said earnestly. “You’re confident and you have a wicked sense of humour- you can make me feel alive like no one else, seriously. I just don’t think you’re meant to be my wife.”

“We’ll get a divorce when I get out of this Merlin-forsaken place,” Ginny said decisively. “I’m not letting mum keep us both miserable anymore. Beside, Dean popped by the other day, and he’s gotten really fit.”

The two smiled at each other almost manically, recognising a kind of easy openness that hadn’t been present in their relationship for years.

“You’re getting out in a week,” Harry said. “Hold on ‘til then, and then you can jump Dean.”

“And you can grab that hot florist of yours,” Ginny replied, wriggling her eyebrows. “I’m fairly sure none of these flowers are actually for me.”

“’Course they are,” Harry insisted, flushing red. “He told me so.”

“No straight man sends this many flowers to his ‘friend’s’ estranged wife,” Ginny teased. “He’s either a serial killer, or he’s very into you. Or both.”

Harry rolled his eyes, and drank in the image of Ginny; healthy and smiling. This was how he wanted it to go. A chapter ending.

“I’m sorry,” Ginny said suddenly. “For the lying. For the whole thing. It’s just… in Hogwarts, everyone knew that if you wanted to get to know Harry Potter, you had to be in the DA. And I didn’t really get the DA… but I wanted you. So I joined and then I lied, and then we were going on dates, and how did I bring up ‘oh sorry, I actually don’t mind Lucius Malfoy’?”

Harry sighed. “You know what you don’t do? You don’t marry me, Ginny.”

“But I wanted to marry you,” she said fiercely. “More than anything. But then we were moving in, and talking about kids, and I thought I could keep it up, even if you were distant- and then there was that stupid day when I just blurted out the truth. I don’t even know what came over me.”

Harry did.

“And then you wouldn’t even touch me, Harry!” Ginny said hotly. “And you were barely ever home- you looked at me like I was dirt.  Just because I don’t hate Lucius Malfoy-”

“That’s not why!” Harry protested. “You didn’t need to do any of this, Gin. I just wanted someone who listened… I wanted a relationship. Not a performance. And not some clone of myself.”

“Sometimes I miss that version of me,” Ginny admitted. “She was easier.”

“I don’t. She was a lie.” Harry took a deep breath. “I suppose this might be partly my fault. You always seemed so strong and composed- but I think you might just have been hiding. And I never really tried to break past that, did I?”

“Maybe.” Ginny looked down, and she looked so sad and lost that Harry reached out to her.

“Just hold on, Gin,” he said softly, and hugged her tightly. It was like hugging a memory. “You’ll be right as rain soon.”

Harry could not have been more wrong.

QUIDDITCH REPORTER DIES IN ST MUNGO’S HOSPITAL

In the early hours of this morning, Quidditch reporter Ginny Potter succumbed to an unknown illness in St Mungo’s Hospital.

“Ms Potter had been on the path to recovery,” claimed Head Healer, Maximus Rue, “But for some reason, her symptoms were exacerbated very suddenly last night, and Ms Potter passed mere hours after.”

Her death has caused a sudden panic amongst the public, as Ms Potter is the first patient to die of an unidentified disease in forty-two years, since the dramatic outbreak of blood malediction which took the life of some thirty witches and wizards until a cure was created by famous Healer Horace Slughorn.

A spokesperson for the hospital told the Daily Prophet that “St Mungo’s is entirely safe, there is no need for a panic. This was an isolated case, and is in no way an indication of foul play or an epidemic. The best thing for the public to do is stay calm.”

Ms Potter is survived by her loving family, and her husband: Harry Potter, now a widower, who works for the Ministry within the Auror department. That same Auror department will soon be launching an investigation to look for any wrong-doings conducted by the hospital staff, or, indeed, any evidence of foul play.

Tom met Harry’s parents at the funeral. Harry wasn’t sure why he’d invited the florist- he just wanted a friend there who wasn’t looking at Harry and mourning his and Ginny’s perfect marriage and their wonderful future together. He wanted someone who got it.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Tom said politely, presenting Lily with an arrangement of black roses.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Lily said gratefully, cooing over them.

“You must be Tom,” James said, and held out his hand. He looked vaguely disapproving, and Harry was distinctly reminded of the first time he brought Ginny home.

“Tom Riddle,” Tom smiled, and shook James’ hand firmly.

James looked friendlier as they broke apart, and Harry decided that men were stupid. All it took was a handshake, and his father was all smiles for the new boy- for the new friend. Friend.

For Merlin’s sake, it was his wife’s funeral.

The wind in the graveyard grew suddenly colder.

“I think the ceremony’s starting soon,” Harry said grimly, glancing towards the ceremony official, who was looking more and more excitedly ‘somber’.

His parents gave him a parting hug and wandered towards Molly and Arthur, exchanging condolences.

“I’ll be here,” Tom promised quietly, squeezing Harry’s hand. It was like Harry held an ember nestled in his palm, and he took a deep breath. He could do this.

The ceremony seemed to fly by. The coffin was lowered into the ground, the ceremony official waffled on, and Molly gave a halting speech before bursting into tears. Harry had been asked to say a few words, but he’d refused. He didn’t know what he’d say.

Here lies Ginny: we were about to get a divorce, but I miss her so much that every time I think of her I want to rip the fucking heart from my chest and crush it to dust.

He thought not.

Harry spent most of the actual burial feeling numb. He stared straight ahead, noticing the way that the wind tugged on the tree branches, making it seem almost like they were waving goodbye.

It wasn’t until the after party, when they had all trudged on towards the Burrow, that Harry really felt anything. That it all hit him. The staggering realisation that he’d never talk to Ginny again sort of crept up on him, tapping him on the shoulder lightly and draping over his shoulders. His chest suddenly felt tighter, and his hands started shaking.

The world slowed, voices fading away to a low, threatening rumble and the people around him moved distantly and heavily, like viewed through a thick sheet of glass. His lungs constricted and he drew in a shuddering breath. He tried to look around for someone- Tom- to help, but every inch he tried to turn his head made him feel like he was going to burst into tears. Or flames.

Suddenly, from nowhere, pair of arms wrapped tightly around him. Harry felt frozen, his arms pinned to his side. He couldn’t move. He could barely gasp through his teeth.

“I’m so sorry!” a voice declared, very close to his ear and so loud (he flinched), and he vaguely recognised the voice. Hermione.

“G-Ginny’s dead,” he stuttered distantly. “She’s gone.”

“I know,” Hermione said feelingly. “I can’t believe it either. Do you remember Hogwarts: when we had a DA meeting and we used to sneak down to the Quidditch pitch? Ginny would always steal a broom, and you’d dare her-“

Hermione kept talking, but Harry couldn’t hear a word, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. He became aware that he was mouthing something, trying to say anything that could stop her talking, but the words were stuck in his throat. He felt like he was screaming underwater.

Suddenly, he was drawn out of Hermione’s arms gently, but firmly. The guiding hand was like an anchor, jerking him back to the present.

“You must be Tom,” Hermione said. “You did the flowers for the funeral. They were lovely.”

“Thank you,” Tom said politely. “I just thought I’d come over and rescue Harry. He was looking a tad overwhelmed.”

“Oh!” She gasped, blanching. “Oh Harry, I’m sorry. I was doing that thing again, where I over-talk, wasn’t I? Ron always tells me I do that. He’s looking for you, by the way. Although I think he got distracted by the buffet.”

“It’s fine.” His voice was hoarse, raw and bleeding. “I- I feel...”He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I know you and Ginny weren’t happy,” Hermione said quietly. “I… I can’t understand what this is like for you. I’m so sorry, Harry.” And she placed a single touch to his cheek, smiling sadly. “You deserve to be happy.”

Harry choked, and realised he was crying.

“He will be,” Tom said. “I’ll look after him.”

“So this is where you’ve been then,” Hermione said thoughtfully, laying a hand on Harry’s arm and scanning Tom discerningly.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to reply.

Hermione sighed, and pressed a light kiss to Harry’s forehead. “Call me, okay? I haven’t seen you in the Ministry for ages.  You could come over for dinner? Ron would love to see you.”

Harry nodded mutely, and Hermione left with a concerned backwards glance. As she whispered into Neville’s ear on the other side of the room, Neville frowned and caught Harry’s eye, mouthing: ‘are you okay?’

Harry tried for another nod, but thought it probably came out like a twitch. The tears were still wet on his cheeks, and he turned away from the pair with a pained stab in his chest. He had to get away.

“I know you’re not ‘fine’, so don’t try and tell me that you are,” Tom said, following Harry as he wandered into a corridor and ducked into a rarely-used store cupboard. The Burrow lived up to its name: an endless supply of tiny interconnected spaces.

“I just… I didn’t realise she was dead,” Harry stuttered, stumbling as the tears welled up again. “I didn’t realise she was gone.”

And he fell forwards onto Tom, practically wailing.

“I hate her,” he gasped, barely able to see through the tears. “I hate her. She made me hate her and then she left.”

Tom enfolding him into an embrace and Harry practically melted into his robes, his fingers tangled in Tom’s collar. He sobbed for what must have been half an hour, until he was left faintly sniffling and shaking, energy drained.

“I don’t want to go back to that empty apartment,” he mumbled, exhausted. “Knowing why it’s empty.”

“Move in with me.”

Harry could have thought of a billion reasons why that was a terrible idea- they’d only know each other for a matter of months after all, but somehow, staring into Tom’s kind, very handsome face, a quiet “okay” tripped from his tongue.

And that, in the end, was that.

As it turned out, Tom lived in a spacious apartment above Aconitum, which Harry moved into the following weekend.

“Why didn’t I know this existed?” he complained, lugging boxes up the stairs.

(Tom had suggested that Harry levitate them, which prompted Harry to launch into a lengthy campaign on why wizards shouldn’t become dependent on magic. Tom had actually offered some thoughtful counterpoints, which left Harry blinking in surprise. No one ever responded to his rants. No one ever listened to them enough- other than Hermione, of course, but she tended to agree with him.)

“I don’t spend that much time in the apartment,” Tom called down. He had levitated his share of the boxes, and was now watching Harry carry his with vague bemusement. “There’s a kitchen adjoined to the shop, as you know, so I only really sleep upstairs.”

Harry mentally linked Tom and beds together, and tried to conceal his blush.

There was a sudden knock from downstairs.

That was strange. Aconitum never had customers.

Tom’s face shifted: suddenly darker than Harry had ever seen before. It was just a flicker; a moment and Tom was back to normal, but it left Harry reeling.

“I’ll get the door,” Tom said, obviously irritated.

And then he swept past Harry, back down the stairs towards the shop, and all at once he seemed like more than just a florist. His robes flowed around him like waves crashing on the shore, his shoulders cut a strong, angry line-

Harry tore his eyes away from Tom’s irritatingly well-formed shoulders, and continued up the stairs. That was not an avenue he wanted to pursue. Beside, why would Tom want Harry? He’d dealt with Harry’s endless complaints about his marriage- he doubted Tom was itching to jump into that role.

Harry continued carting the box up the stairs, and flung it into the spare room. And then he went downstairs to see who Tom was talking to.

What? Let it never be said that Harry Potter let something like privacy get in the way of satisfying his own curiosity.

“I’ve been patient, Smith, but my patience has limits.”

“I’m trying, but it’s not easy to find out what he left-“

The voice broke off as Harry entered the shop, but he recognised it anyway. Zacharias Smith, looking penitent but defensive, was stood opposite Tom as they both stared at Harry.

Harry raised his hand in an awkward wave.

“Potter?” Smith frowned. “Why are you here?”

“Harry’s just moving in to live with me,” Tom replied.

“He is?” Smith’s eyebrows raised, and he glanced between Tom and Harry.

“No,” Tom said sardonically. “I’m lying, obviously.” And his hand shifted to his side.

“I- I should go,” Smith said suddenly, his eyes following Tom’s hand. Harry had no idea why. “I’ll see you at the office, Potter.”

“Actually,” Harry said, making a sudden decision. “I’m taking some time off. I don’t think I could handle… you know.”

Tom’s other hand was a comforting presence at the small of his back.

“Yes, the investigation into Ginny’s death is starting soon, isn’t it?” Smith said insensitively, and then suddenly turned very white: pale and drained of colour. “I should go. Now.”

And then he turned and fled.

“What an odd little man,” Tom said pleasantly.

Harry snorted and punched his arm. “Shut up. He’s good with plants, though. I suppose that’s why you were talking?”

“Yes. Something like that.”

A soft hoot had Harry glancing up, to notice a distinctive white owl perched in the eaves. It looked familiar- Harry thought it might have delivered him a letter before.

“That’s a nice owl.”

“Hmm?” Tom said curiously, following Harry’s gaze. “Oh yes. It does long haul deliveries for me sometimes.”

“Has it got a name?”

“I like to call it Mendacium.”

“That’s a nice name.”

Tom’s lips quirked, and his eyes gleamed. “Isn’t it just?”

“Have you seen this?” Harry asked excitedly, rushing down the stairs and jumping up to perch on the edge of the shop counter. He brandished a newspaper at Tom, who looked politely interested.

Harry shook out the paper dramatically and cleared his throat, reading the article aloud. “Yesterday, Minister Malfoy announced his decision to introduce a branch of the Muggleborn Registration Department that will formally vet and monitor the pureblood homes in which muggleborns are placed. Despite objections about the high tax increases and further restrictions on pureblood families, the Minister has assured the public that it is necessary to counter the ‘possible connection between high suicide rates and unfortunately placed muggleborns’. He does however ask the public to keep in mind the severe drop in muggleborn abuse cases and muggle hate crimes that have resulted from the Registration.”

Tom raised an eyebrow elegantly. “How extraordinary.”

“This is amazing,” Harry said strongly. “I mean, fuck Malfoy for saying that it’s a ‘possible connection’- he knows damn well what happened with Colin Creevey- but this is a step in the right direction.” He couldn’t stop grinning,

Tom didn’t look quite as excited, but he smiled at Harry’s joy. “I’m glad you’re happy. Surely you now have little cause to hate the Minister? He seems to be doing good things.”

Harry frowned, and his joy dimmed a little. “But I’m not sure this is Malfoy.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry bit his lip and considered Tom, jumping down from the counter. “Come on,” he muttered, and lead Tom to the kitchen by his wrist. Tom followed obediently, although he wore a subtle smirk, like he thought Harry was being faintly ridiculous.

As Harry pulled the kitchen door closed behind them, he glanced around, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he expected to see- perhaps Ministry pixies, hovering behind him and listening in.

Tom looked bemused. “Is this really necessary?”

“It’s sensitive information,” Harry said at last. “And important.”

“I’m listening.”

And that was all Harry needed to hear. He told Tom of receiving the mysterious owl that day in the Ministry, and his suspicions of Malfoy, and the odd death when he tried to trace the letter, and his unexplainable, absolute certainty that Malfoy was not what he seemed.

At the end of it all, Tom cocked his head and appeared to think it over.

“Surely,” he began slowly, “If this mysterious person is behind Malfoy’s actions, then it’s a good thing. They seem to hold… sympathy for muggleborns.”

Something flickered in Tom’s eyes that Harry couldn’t- wouldn’t-decipher (it didn’t look a lot like disgust, it didn’t).

“And so perhaps,” Tom continued, “it might be wise to let them make those changes undisturbed.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “But not if they brought the Registration into effect in the first-” Harry froze, his heart nearly freezing with him, and he gazed up at Tom with wide eyes.

“What is it?”

Harry was suddenly aware of how tight and constricted the tiny kitchen was; the gap between their chests was barely the length of a wand. Tom’s breath was warm and intimate on his skin. “You believe me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Tom said simply.

And something in Harry’s chest sparked- the excitement and attraction striking an unstoppable flame, and his breath became shallow.

“You… you think I’m right.”

Tom nodded.

“You believe me,” Harry breathed.

And suddenly Harry was crossing the short distance between them, sliding off his glasses and tilting his head.

And then they were kissing.

For a brief moment, Harry panicked- oh god he was kissing Tom, what if Tom hated him, what if Tom didn’t- but when Tom responded hungrily, Harry’s world imploded. Tom was fierce and passionate and burning, lacing a hand through Harry’s hair in a gesture that clearly said ‘mine’.

Tom’s teeth tugged sharply at his bottom lip and Harry moaned into the kiss, his skin hot and flushed. Harry’s arms wound around Tom’s waist and pulled him closer, running a greedy hand over Tom’s chest.

“Oh my god,” Harry gasped as they broke apart, but Tom barely gave him a moment to breath, pushing him backwards. Harry grunted a little as his back collided with the wall, but before he could properly think it, Tom’s mouth was over his once more.

When they finally broke apart, Harry’s mind felt fuzzily frazzled, and he blinked up at Tom. “I…”

“I thought you wouldn’t want me,” Tom said, and it was the most vulnerable Harry had ever heard him. Harry couldn’t see properly- he was blind as a bat without his glasses- but he thought there might have been a flash of red across Tom’s face.

“Clearly you were wrong,” Harry grinned ruefully.

“I was,” Tom replied, looking a little in awe of Harry, and then he pressed their lips together again. It was gentle and sweet this time, and they moved in tandem, drinking in warmth from the other.

When the kiss ended, Harry’s forehead was pressed against Tom’s, and he smiled dopily. “I guess I won’t be needing the spare bedroom after all.”

“No,” Tom agreed, squeezing Harry’s hand. “You won’t.”

“I’m so glad you could come over, Harry,” Hermione said as she closed the front door behind him and drew him into a hug. “I don’t see you nearly often enough these days.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry shrugged. “A lot’s been going on, hasn’t it?”

“It really has. How are you?” Hermione fussed, as she led them into the sitting room. The Longbottom-Weasley house was very different to the Burrow; all open-plan and filled with light; modern touches dotted around the place.

Harry took a seat on the sofa, plucking a mug out of the air as it came flying towards him, obeying a small twitch of Hermione’s wand. He took a sip and closed his eyes in satisfaction. His favourite.

“I’m fine,” Harry said, the words ringing more true than they had at the funeral. “Trying to keep busy.”

“You haven’t gone back to work yet, have you?” Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “Do you have any plans for when you might?”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I don’t think I can deal with investigating Ginny’s death, so I’ll probably go back when it’s all wrapped up. I’m enjoying the vacation though. It’s nice working in Tom’s shop.”

Hermione blinked, a little taken aback. “You’re working with Tom?”

“Yes, well, I live with him now.”

“You live with him?!” she squawked.

“Well, we’re dating-“

“You’re WHAT?!”

Hermione’s screech was so loud that it brought Ron charging into the room, swearing and brandishing his wand.

“Blimey, Hermione!” he panted, taking in a shocked-looking Harry and Hermione.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows in a uniquely Hermione ‘you are an idiot’ way.

“I thought you were being attacked! Or my mum when Fred and George have done something stupid.”

Harry snorted softly.

“I asked you to stop comparing me to your mother, Ronald,” Hermione said stiffly, her cheeks going a faint pink. “You didn’t marry your mother.”

“I know I didn’t,” Ron said fondly, putting his wand away and pecking his wife on the lips. “My mum would never wear what you did last night-“

“Ron!” Hermione said shrilly, turning a nice shade of maroon. “We have company.”

“I noticed,” Ron said cheerfully, sitting down beside her. “Hey mate.”

“Hey Ron,” Harry grinned back. “And no offence, but I don’t want to know what Hermione was wearing. Some things are best kept private, I reckon.”

“Fair enough,” Ron shrugged. “You’re missing out though, mate. Best moment of my life.”

“Ron!” Hermione repeated, but her smile was a little pleased. “Not now.”

“Whatever you say, my darling wife. As always, you are both terrifying and awe-inspiring.” Ron pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

“You’re not as charming as you think you are,” Hermione said sharply, but couldn’t hide a smirk. “Besides, there are more important things to discuss. Harry’s datingTom Riddle.”

Ron froze. “Dating?” he stuttered. “But you and Gin-“

The joviality fell away for a brief minute, and Harry saw a shadow of grief dancing behind Ron’s eyes. But the moment passed, and Ron’s grin was back.

“The flower shop bloke? Nice one.” And Ron held out his hand for a high-five, which Harry accepted reluctantly. The air was suddenly thick with tension, and Ron was the only one unwilling to acknowledge it.

Ron leaned forward on the sofa, ignoring how stiff Hermione had gotten. “Is he good looking then? I don’t know what you look for in a bloke. Nice bum? Abs? Nipples? I think Charlie got his nipples pierced once, and he’s into all that gay stuff. It was great: Mum couldn’t even go ballistic, ‘cause she had to be ‘supportive of his identity’-”

“Dear,” Hermione said loudly. “Would you pop out and grab us some milk? And walk back from the shop, please, you know I don’t like it when it’s apparated.”

“Sure. I’ll be back in a bit,” Ron said, getting to his feet and giving Harry a light hug. “Come around again, yeah? Bring Tom- we can go for a pint. Hermione’s a monster.”

“I just have a high tolerance,” she protested.

Ron snorted, pulling on his coat. “Last Wednesday, she drank three blokes under the table, and then gave us all a lecture on the manufacturing process of Firewhiskey.”

“The legalities are fascinating,” Hermione assured Harry as she ushered her husband out of the door. “Bring back some semi-skimmed!” she called out, and slammed it shut.

Harry’s entire body lost tension as they listened to the sound of Ron’s footsteps retreating.

“How is he?” Harry frowned.

“Coping,” Hermione said. “Obviously everyone is devastated- you know that- but Ron and Ginny were always very close. The two youngest, and all that.”

Harry nodded, and wondered if he should feel guilty for not being torn up.

“No, don’t feel bad,” Hermione said quickly, taking a seat beside Harry and covered one of his hands with hers. “It’s brilliant that you’re moving on. And your relationship with Ginny was obviously very different to Ron’s. You’re coping in your own way.”

She leant her head on his shoulder, and Harry was fiercely reminded of cosy evenings in the Gryffindor common room, gathered around the fireplace, all piled onto the comfy armchairs. They had to wait until seventh year to grab those armchairs. They had to earn them.

“We just want you to be happy,” Hermione murmured.

“I am,” Harry replied, a smile lighting up his features involuntarily. “Really. Tom’s great.”

Hermione drew away from Harry and narrowed her eyes at his distant expression, before her eyes widened in comprehension. “You’re in love,” she breathed softly, like the feeling might crack if she spoke too loud.

“I’m not ‘in love’, ‘Mione,” Harry said, a little exasperated. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?”

“Mark my words, Harry Potter,” Hermione announced. “I’ve never known you to do anything by halves. You’ll realise you’re in love with that boy soon enough. Just you wait.”

“I think you’re being overdramatic-”

“Just. You. Wait.”

Harry, as it turned out, was deliriously in love.

He and Tom had been dating for a few months, but it felt like both years and seconds had passed in that time. His father and friends had been surprised to see him fall so quickly after Ginny… passed, but Lily had offered him a sweet smile and told him that she’d known the whole time, and Hermione had made sure to show her full support, as long as he was happy.

And he was.

Harry glanced over at Tom, lying on the other side of the bed, the duvet gathered around his waist as he thumbed through a copy of the Daily Prophet, and grinned.

Tom was brilliant, as Harry had quickly learnt. His brain worked in ways that Harry couldn’t even begin to understand, leaping from conclusion to conclusion. Tom kept up with all the latest academic journals, and his essays were regularly featured. He even read Transfiguration Theory before bed. Said it ‘relaxed him’.

Harry really couldn’t work out what Tom was doing working in a flower shop. Granted, it was a flower shop that he owned… but with Tom’s brains and charm, he could have easily been Minister. Or a really terrifying Dark Lord.

Harry chuckled at the idea, peering down at an old article on Grindelwald’s imprisonment. Tom as a Dark Lord- that was a hilarious thought.

Harry put another article to the side, barely able to stomach looking at Malfoy’s smug face any longer. He’d brought the articles on Malfoy’s campaign to bed again, in the hopes that whilst looking through them something would leap out at him. It hadn’t yet, but Harry was fairly desperate. He had to know who was controlling Lucius Malfoy.

“Are you still looking at those?” Tom asked absently, turning another page. “You’re not going to find anything on your third look through.”

“I might,” Harry said stubbornly, despite his blurring vision.

Tom got very exasperated whenever Harry brought articles or reports to bed. He liked to claim that he would never bring work into the bedroom, and Harry would helpfully point out the Dragon Tree in the corner.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Tom rolled his eyes and glanced over at Harry. His body seemed to ripple over the sheets until suddenly he was crouched over Harry, his bare skin barely skimming Harry’s chest. Despite himself, Harry’s breathing quickened.

“Is that really how you want to spend the night?” Tom murmured against Harry’s neck, pressing a soft kiss beneath his ear. “We could be having so much more fun doing other things.”

Harry let out a low groan involuntarily, and his hips rolled. Tom smirked against his collarbone.

No. He needed to stop this. Tom was trying to distract him.

He took a moment to gather himself, and pushed Tom off of him. “No, not now. You know this is important.”

Tom looked disappointed, but nodded in acquiescence. His eyebrows shot up when he spotted the article still lying in Harry’s hands.

“Huh.”

“What?”

Tom peered over Harry’s shoulder. “Can I take a look at that? I think Borgin mentioned something about it the other day.”

“Sure,” Harry allowed, his cheeks still a little red, and passed the clipping over.

“And would you mind terribly making me some tea? I have an awful headache.”

Harry huffed and suggested that perhaps Tom shouldn’t read in half-darkness then, but kissed his forehead and trudged towards the stairs obligingly.

“Just put the article back in the pile!” he called out.

“I will!”

Harry smiled when he later saw the article, crinkle-free, placed carefully back on his pile. God, he loved Tom.

But of course, all good things must come to an end.

It was looking through the newspaper articles all over again that did it.

Harry was tired, Tom was out picking up some samples of a new vine somewhere, and so Harry made the decision to leaf through the old articles from the Malfoy campaign for the hundredth time. Perhaps he had missed something.

And so, in the late hours of the evening, when Harry was nearly falling asleep, he noticed an odd sheen to one of the articles. The one Tom had asked to see. It wasn’t particularly interesting- mostly about rejuvenation in Knockturn Alley; some kind of early Malfoy charity work. It was right from the beginning of the campaign, before Malfoy had even announced his move into politics, which made it nearly 30 years old. The sheen Harry had noticed was over the photo, showing a sly, young Lucius Malfoy shaking hands with an over-enthused business owner.

Harry could remember Ginny telling him about this specific effect, when she thought that she wanted to go into newspapers rather than radio. The sheen was an indication that the photo had been altered by magic post-publication, which meant you could restore the original photo…

Well, curiosity killed the cat.

“Pictura restituatio,” Harry muttered, and flicked his wand.

The ink raised itself off of the page and swarmed over the paper like a colony of ants, reforming and changing. Whenever it finally settled, the photo was mostly the same.

Except for the shops in the background: Aconitum now nestled smugly amongst them.

That wasn’t right.

Tom would only have been 5 when this picture was taken, and unless he built Aconitum as a 5 year old, this photo was wrong.

…Or Tom was wrong.

Harry squinted into the windows of the little, flat shop; and sure enough, standing in the window and smirking down on the proceedings was Tom, looking identical to when Harry had kissed him goodbye this morning.

Harry’s mouth dropped into a little ‘o’ of shock, and he frowned as he reached up a finger to cover the image of Tom’s face. But no, when he pulled the finger away again, it was still there. Tom’s smug little smirk.

And then it sunk in.

Tom had been lying to Harry.

And everything slid into place, somehow, magically; like finding the last puzzle piece under the sofa.

Tom was the Minister’s puppet-master.

He didn’t know why he was suddenly so certain, but he was.

Someone had to have tampered with this photo, and Tom was in the perfect position to sneak into his possessions. And Malfoy had apologised only after Harry had complained to Tom; and those recent Amendments to the Muggleborn registration… they had Tom written all over them.

Because they had Harry written all over them.

It all made sense: why else would someone as brilliant as Tom be working in a flower shop?

Unless that wasn’t all he did.

Tom had sent that owl, that fateful day. Harry had even seen that very same animal, winging around the eaves of the shop when Smith came in. He just hadn’t recognised it.

Mendacium.

Harry didn’t understand why Tom was apparently actually at least 60 years old, he didn’t understand why Tom had been involved in all this secrecy, he didn’t understand why- but only one thing really mattered.

Tom had lied to Harry.

Harry had to see if there was anything else suspicious.

He had to know.

He descended the stairs hazily, as if in a dream, guided by a shaking hold on the handrail. He wandered into the shop, numbed by shock as it plunged like a wave of icy cold water down his back.

This couldn’t be happening.

He summoned the Flower Register- if there was anything to be found, surely Tom would keep it in there. And as he flicked through the book, now that the veil had been lifted, now that he could see, he began recognising things.

The orange flowers- so lovingly carried to Ginny on the eve of their breakup- latched onto a person’s magical core and slowly broke down their immune system. They were responsible for Ginny’s collapse.

Smith had lied when he said they were harmless. Of course he had.

Harry barely noticed collapsing to the floor.

The next page showed the pink flowers, brought the evening before Ginny’s sudden deterioration- caused swift and painful death.

Tom did this.

And then the Peeping Poppies… the flowers that spied.

“They were in that first bouquet,” Harry breathed softly, horrified. They were the flowers with the delightful little faces.

Tom had heard everything that Harry had said, from the moment they met.

“I was always listening, Harry. To everything you said, in fact.”

That voice had never before made Harry’s heart sink, but now he turned with something close to horror at seeing his partner leaning casually in the doorway. Just like the first day they met.

“Initially,” Tom admitted easily, “I rather wanted to kill you.”

 “Tom,” Harry said lowly, his voice like a sob. “Why?”

“Because I sent that owl, as I’m sure you’ve worked out,” Tom shrugged. “That initial letter that sparked your investigation. And I was curious to see how far you’d get, and how swiftly I’d have to end you. But you can be awfully charming, Harry, and plans changed. There were… different ways that I could control you.”

“Control me?” Harry laughed savagely. “I’m in love with you!”

“Love is a terrible thing,” Tom smiled twistedly. “It’s probably why you’re still alive.”

“Did you kill Ginny?”

Tom said nothing for a moment, watching Harry like his breakdown was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“Tom,” Harry repeated wretchedly. “Did you kill Ginny?”

“Yes.”

Harry let out something that wanted to be a roar, but the sound came out more like a whimper. His head hung low, but he mustered up the strength to whisper. “But... how did you know that I wouldn’t die as well?”

Tom crouched down, so that he was on eye level with Harry, and then he smirked carelessly. “Your locket, that first day. The one that ‘caught’ on the hook.”

“…It had her hair in it.”

“It was the simplest thing to steal, and then all I had to do was key the poison to her magical signature. It was painfully simple, Harry- you really made it too easy.”

Harry sobbed, his limbs shaking. How could Tom do this? “I don’t understand. Why all the secrecy? Why didn’t you just run for Minister in the first place?”

Harry felt frozen in place, unable to move as Tom crept closer and closer, and finally sat down beside him, pulling Harry into a sideways embrace.

“It might have perhaps gone differently,” Tom said softly, “if my mother had died younger. Perhaps I would have become Minister: a symbol for all. But I went to that orphanage knowing the wizarding world. I knew that a light touch, a subtle guidance, and a shadow puppet master was the only way to truly rule the Wizarding World. I went to that orphanage knowing Albus Dumbledore. And so I planned.”

“But why a florist?” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Because I like flowers. And who would suspect the florist?” Tom asked teasingly, raising a single eyebrow. “You didn’t.”

Harry, finally spent, crumbled into Tom’s side, completely losing use of his limbs. “I’m done,” he murmured. “Just kill me.”

“I wouldn’t kill you.” Tom seemed genuinely offended, but offered Harry a smile regardless. “We only need to rewind a little.”

And then Tom brought out one last flower that Harry recognised, and finally, Harry began to struggle. He reached for his wand, but Tom easily knocked it out of his grasp, and it went scattering over the floor.

“No, no, I’m not forgetting-“

Tom shushed him soothingly, and held on despite Harry’s kicking. Either Tom was stronger than Harry remembered, or he’d already been drugged with something. Harry’s limbs did feel a little heavier.

“No,” he protested, and Tom placed a finger to his lips.

“You won’t forget the good bits, I promise,” he assured him, and then he removed Harry’s glasses with a careful hand, brought a powdered blue petal close to Harry’s eyes, and blew.

It was like being hit with a drowsing potion, and Harry could feel himself shutting down even as the dust settled on his cheeks.

“Why?” Harry muttered, one final effort before he closed his eyes and sank into sweet oblivion.

“Because I get everything I want,” Tom said lovingly, pressing a warm kiss to his lips. “And that’s not changing any time soon.”

When Harry awoke, the world seemed off- brighter somehow. He groaned, and rubbed his forehead. That was quite some headache.

“Are you okay?” Tom’s hand stroked through Harry’s hair, and Harry batted it away groggily.

“D’n touch m’,” he mumbled, and Tom froze. “Everything hurts,” Harry complained, and Tom appeared to relax.

“I was levitating a plant pot, and you walked into it,” Tom explained hesitantly, and Harry rolled his eyes because- yeah, that sounded like him. Only, ouch, no, he shouldn’t roll his eyes, because that really, really hurt.

“I need tea,” he murmured, and tried to get up. He flailed slightly, like a tortoise trying to right itself, and then gave up.

“I’ll get it.”

Harry peeled an eyelid open and watched Tom conduct the making of a tea solely with his wand, sending the teabag dancing over the counter towards the boiling water in an odd sort of Irish jig. Tom always made magic look effortless- even the journey of the cup floating through the air looked like ballet.

As Harry fastened his hands around the mug and took a deep sip, his head cleared a little. The space behind his eyes still pulsed, though. “I think I have a concussion.”

“Perhaps I should ask some questions. See how your brain function is,” Tom suggested, and Harry agreed.

“Can’t hurt,” he muttered. Unlike his head.

“What’s your name?”

“Roonil Wazlib.” A brief pause, and then Harry rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. “I’m joking- Harry James Potter.”

“And your birthday?”

“31^st July.”

“And perhaps something more specific: do you remember that rogue owl that you received some months ago? When the Ministry system got a virus?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry said blankly. “Are you sure you’re not the one who smacked his head on a plant pot?”

“Maybe that was too specific. What do you think of Lucius Malfoy?” Tom asked, and the question seemed weirdly searching.

“Malfoy’s a twat,” Harry responded immediately, and Tom laughed with something like relief.

“Well, I suppose we shall have to agree to disagree.”

“Yeah,” Harry said fondly, wrapping an arm around Tom’s waist. “Agree to disagree.”

“Well, I believe you’re injury-free- which means you can sleep. It has gotten rather late.” Tom glanced out of the window at the night beyond, which glittered brighter than Harry could remember. He felt lighter, happier- he hadn’t felt this careless in years.

“Yeah, it has,” Harry murmured, resting his head on Tom’s strong shoulder. “Let’s go to bed.”