Chapter 14
The tournament started tomorrow, and so did the end.
Harry had signed up for the duelling competition - figured if everything was sorted out by the finale, when he duelled Voldemort, that a duelling competition would be a fitting end.
One more worthy of Tom, and the man he loved, because despite how it would be easier to simply stab him in the back after a pretended reconciliation, he wasn't sure he could bear to do it.
But too many people had died for his weakness already when it came to Tom Riddle and the monster he'd become.
Harry tugged his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. He let the heat and crackle of the fire soothe him. With his eyes closed, the familiar room with the familiar smell of parchment and burning wood and fucking coffee-with-cinammon it was like the years fell away.
But even years ago, it hadn't been perfect. Not in these beautiful rooms that were supposed to be everything they both wanted out of life, proof of success.
Was it possible to travel back in time twice?
Surely, in some universe, somewhere, things had to work out for him and Tom?
Or maybe they were just fate's favourite chew toys and were damned to kill each other - the prophecy certainly suggested it.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, unable to focus on his plans, drawing his knees to his chest.
"I didn't imagine you'd be nervous about the tournament," Voldemort said.
Harry's eyes snapped open and he whipped around. "Do you ever knock?"
"I did knock," Tom said, quietly. "Several times, though you seem to have been too lost in your thoughts to hear me." The Dark Lord approached him, studying him.
Harry looked away first.
He didn't expect the Dark Lord to settle to sit next to him by the fire, close enough that it ached in Harry's chest. Because something so casual, so easy, was something Tom would have done - not Voldemort. Voldemort lounged on thrones like he'd been born on them.
Harry stilled, staring at the flames. Hyper-aware of the close proximity, the mere inches between them. The way the firelight flickered over bone-white skin and left it looking even more inhuman than normal. More beautiful, too, in a strange and terrible way. Like a carving of the finest alabaster.
Maybe he could see why people assumed Harry Potter was fragile in comparison to Lord Voldemort.
His nails bit into his palms, and, for once, he had nothing left to say. Or maybe he had everything to say, too much of it for any words to find a way out of his mouth.
Maybe Voldemort knew this was the last night too, because for once he didn't press or mock. He just stared, steadily, like he was committing every inch of Harry to memory.
Harry's throat thickened. "I would have assumed you and Miss Rowle had a lot of preparations to go over still, for the carnival tomorrow," he rasped.
"Yes," Voldemort said. He didn't offer any more than that though, even when the silence stretched. Nor did he make any move to go and do those very important preparations.
Harry turned to look at him, properly. And, for a moment, all he saw was everything they used to have. Beyond Voldemort, beyond blood and prophecy, beyond the years and right back to the start.
It changed nothing, of course, but… "Do you want to go for a walk?" he asked. "I've been working all day, I could use some air."
Voldemort's head tilted, but he simply stood and held out a hand.
Foolishly, Harry took it. Just for tonight.
They didn't end up walking among the rose bushes. They didn't end up anywhere on the extensive grounds of Voldemort's base at all.
Harry stared around the fields of wildflowers, the small and unassuming cottage. The lake that stretched black and still in the moonlight. "Where are we?" it came out closer to a whisper than he'd intended.
Maybe he should have been afraid to let Voldemort apparate them anywhere, but he hadn't even thought.
"I come here sometimes," Voldemort said. "When I want some privacy. Some peace."
It had often been rumoured that Voldemort had many safe houses, many bases he could flee to if his main one ever became compromised. But Harry hadn't expected to see any of them anymore, or anything like this.
"I like it," he said.
"I had it made for you." Tom's voice was quieter than he'd ever heard it. "Everything here is you."
Certainly, fields of untamed flowers and grass wasn't particularly along the lines of the splendour and richness of Voldemort's manor. This was simpler, freer, than those suffocating halls.
Harry turned to look at him, heartbeat drumming in his ears. Was he about to be made a prisoner? But no, there wasn't that sort of look on the Dark Lord's face. He swallowed. "And why are we here?"
"Because you wanted some peace and this is the only peace I would ever be able to give you," Voldemort said, simply. "That I will ever be able to give you."
Harry wished he'd made up some kind of lie, some kind of scheme, instead. Said something cruel, perhaps. This felt like a goodbye, of sorts. A confession, maybe. An acceptance. His head tilted as he released a steadying breath, waiting for more. Waiting for the right thing to say to pop into his brain but nothing came.
"It's...thank you."
Perhaps this was still a trick, something to make him change his mind. Honesty could be as cruel a weapon as deception.
"I wanted to see you here, once," Voldemort said. "Before I kill you...or before you try to kill me."
Harry didn't freeze this time, simply sticking his hands into his pockets. Because of course Tom would know - maybe not all the whys, but he'd know this. Slowly, a smile spread over his lips. Some of the tension left him.
Maybe, by the time it was done, at least there'd be no more secrets and bitterness between them. That would be nice.
"If you love me," he asked, very quietly. "Why won't you fight for me anyway?"
Tom didn't miss a beat. "If I ruin you, why are you still here?"
Harry laughed - because really, what other response could Voldemort have possibly given?
"Maybe it's fate," he said.
"Fate? Are you trying to ruin the moment? You know my feelings on fate perfectly well, Harry…" Voldemort reached out again. "Come, I'll give you a tour."
It was the calmest he could remember them being around each other in years, the most amicable. He supposed murder was a lot easier than love.
They ended up at the edges of the lake, but maybe that was obvious too. For a moment, it felt like they were in sync again, sharing the same thoughts in glances as easy as breathing.
Harry flopped back to stare at the sky, unafraid even when Tom had confessed to plotting to murder him as much as Harry had made the decision to do it in turn. Neither of them would finish it tonight, and tonight wouldn't exist in any official textbooks or histories about how the war between them came to end.
He exhaled a breath. "When did you make this place?"
"Not long after I proposed to you," Tom said. "I intended it as a surprise, a gift."
The thought didn't hurt as much as Harry had expected too - it ached, but a good ache.
"I'm surprised you haven't destroyed it."
"Many times, I intended to." Tom looked down at him, and Harry shifted his gaze from the stairs. Pale fingers traced over his cheek.
Harry caught them in a flash.
This time, instead of moving away or shoving Voldemort away from him, he let the fingers curl around his own and brought the knuckles up to his lips.
Scarlet eyes widened.
"Why didn't you?" Harry asked, head tilting.
It seemed to take Tom a moment to gather himself enough to respond, as he shifted instead. Moving so his knees straddled either side of Harry's thighs, hovering above him - free hand braced on the ground next to Harry's ears.
Harry didn't move.
"It was not my place to," Tom said. "It's yours - it's always been yours."
Harry's throat tightened and he pressed another kiss to Tom's knuckles, before letting go of his hand.
Tom's fingers carded through his hair, brushing the strands back from his forehead. Carefully, so carefully.
"Do you think you'll be happy with Rowle? If you survive?"
"You're asking a lot of questions tonight, Harry," Tom murmured. He dipped down, brushed their lips together. It wasn't quite a kiss, maybe it was supposed to be an answer.
"Maybe if you'd asked more, and listened, we wouldn't be here," Harry said.
Tom had an endless curiosity about the world, and once upon a time Tom had listened to what the world had to say too. Even if it was for the purposes of manipulation and weaponry, he'd listened.
But somewhere along the line he'd stopped listening, to Harry at least.
Tom stopped, staring at him, unreadable. Then his head tilted. "Tell me you don't love me," he said.
Harry rolled his eyes and leaned up to kiss him instead.
The Black Lake glittered anything but black in the pale morning sunshine, shot through with specks of deep blue and a soft, rolling grey. The breeze drifted warm and lazy, carrying it with the scent of pine and soil from the Forbidden Forest.
"You're going to wrinkle your robes," Tom's voice drifted to his ears.
Harry grinned, not opening his eyes. "You'll fix them for me, I'm sure."
"And you're going to miss the graduation ceremony if you're not careful."
Harry cracked open on one eye to squint up at his boyfriend, only for his grin to falter at the intent look on Tom's face. Of course, Tom in general was prone to intentness, but Harry still sat up.
Tom's lips curled a little at the corners, and he leaned down to wind his fingers into Harry's hair, pressing their mouths together.
Harry arched up eagerly into the kiss, before he promptly yanked Tom down on top of him. Tangled up and panting in the grass, robes definitely wrinkled. "Don't worry," he said, innocently. "I'll fix them." He smoothed his hands down Tom's back.
Tom nipped his throat, before settling comfortably enough despite his apparent urgency earlier. "Will you marry me?"
The question came so out of nowhere that for a moment Harry disregarded it entirely. Then he blinked, pulling back a little, hands pausing in their idle exploration. His mouth drained dry. "What?"
Tom looked a bit too calm for it to be genuine, as he brushed Harry's ever-wild hair back from his forehead. "Will you marry me?"
Harry blinked.
Tom reached into his pocket and twirled a small box between his fingers, before sitting up, warm and heavy on Harry's legs as he opened it up. The Gaunt Ring sat inside - Tom's one connection to his family and everything he held most dear in his heritage.
But Harry's breath had stolen out of his lungs a long time ago. "I'm still not sure I heard you right," he managed, voice a bit hoarse. "Aren't you supposed to be one knee?"
"Probably."
Tom's expression settled more guarded than Harry had ever seen it before, and looking closely, Tom barely breathed.
He was serious. Tom was actually asking him to marry him.
Of course, they'd talked about the future plenty, and breaking up never really entered the discussion, but…
"Even though I'm a halfblood?" he asked, very quietly.
Tom's hands faltered where they held out the ring, his jaw clenching. "If you don't want to-"
"-Of course I want to. That was never the question now, was it?" Harry said, keeping his tone gentle.
Tom's gaze darted up to his. He wetted his lips, eyes bright and wanting and needing and so dark too. Burning.
Harry cupped his cheeks, leaning in to press another kiss to Tom's mouth. Feeling him melt under it, the maelstrom soothed rather than whipped up.
"Even then," Tom murmured against his lips. "Even if you were my greatest enemy. Even if everything, Harry. There's no world where I wouldn't want you by my side. That's why I'm asking."
Harry released a shaky breath, a stupid smile tugging at him. "Well, when you put it that way...ask me again. On one knee this time, you bast-"
Tom's lips crushed against his. They stayed tangled up in the sunshine, robes smudging in the grass, for a long time before Tom found the breath to ask again.
They just about made graduation.
The kiss tingled down Tom's spine, far softer than he'd expected. Funny, he'd thought that if he ever kissed Harry knowingly for the last time, that it would be all heat and urgency and teeth. Desperation to cling on.
It wasn't.
It lingered warm between them, reverent and breathless as Harry's hands curled into his hair. Their hips ground together, slow and indulgent - as if they had all the time in the world and not just this one night that would never officially exist.
As if endless minutes of feather light kisses made up split knuckles and spilled blood, those that had fallen on both sides not just because of this stupid, hateful love, but maybe because of it a little.
But Harry was beautiful like this - flushed in the moonlight, eyes as bright and wild as they ever were. Searingly, defiantly, gorgeously alive and unbroken.
Funny, to think he'd ever let this slip from his fingers somewhere along the line.
"What?" Harry murmured. "Don't stop."
He mouthed along Harry's throat, unable to resist sucking blooming purple marks.
The second after that, they'd rolled and Harry kissed him again, warm and steady as he straddled him, trapping Tom's hands stretched above his head.
Here, away from cities and bombs and the spark of spells, the stars shone clearly above them. The world was quiet. No one demanding a comment or a solution, no camera flashes or need to look perfect in them. Just Harry.
He clutched hold of him tighter, nails raking down his back.
And the kiss turned hot and hungry, savage and claiming and full of teeth.
Clothes were discarded faster now, the glide of skin and the snatch of hands muffled in the grass and the lap of waves along the edge of the shore.
"There's a bed inside. Champagne."
"Scheming bastard." Harry tugged him inside anyway, grip relentless. A whirlwind in human form, leaving devastation in his wake. At least, Tom's devastation, always.
He gave as good as he got. Spun them again when they reached the bed - kiss-drunk with reddened lips, all composure lost somewhere on the way - and bent Harry over the mattress. Pressing hot and hard against him, kisses smudging along his spine and mapping out scars that nobody had any right to leave.
Maybe he'd like to kill Harry like this, once the truce was broken. Kill him with kisses as he writhed beneath, panting and needy and all his.
Harry rocked back against him, teasing. Maddening.
He reached a hand around to stroke him, to wring out every gasp and moan denied to him in all the years they spent fighting. Ended up pounding him into the mattress, heat and need and pleasure which shot through like lightning, as Harry twisted his fingers into the sheets to ground himself. Ended up spent and boneless on the mattress, with Harry tucked warm and close and utterly delectable.
After ten minutes, Harry shifted on top of him again, raising a brow.
With the wicked smile on his face, one had to wonder which one of them was the Dark Lord. He recognized that look too, and wetted his lips. Heat plunging into his stomach like he'd never been ice for years.
"So," Harry said, coaxing him to spread his legs wider. "These preparations for the carnival tomorrow."
"I think I can heartlessly and irresponsibly abandon them."
Just for one night that would never officially exist. One night was all they had.
They were in love, and love didn't change a single thing.