Chapter Text
Harry was asleep on the couch. This wasn’t an uncommon development, as he usually plopped down for an afternoon nap after they all finished eating. Mister Voldemort was pretending to read the newspaper by the dining room, eyes straying towards Harry and the slow rise and fall of his chest every few seconds. This wasn’t an uncommon development either.
Creep.
James’ head lolled to the side, curls flopping as it came to rest on the couch’s arm. He looked fascinated by whatever was playing on the telly. He opened his mouth to speak and Tom straightened in alarm. “Hey, who films the animals—”
“Shhhhh.” Tom hissed, sending a murderous glare his way. “Harry’s asleep.” His voice was a low whisper, but the admonishment was clear.
James blushed, looking at his hands. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
“There’s a silencing charm over Harry, child, no need to fret,” Voldemort said over his newspaper. His pale fingers blended with the paper. He reminded Tom of the old priest that Mrs. Cole used to call when one of the children was sick. His ugly mug usually scared the death out of the convalescents.
“He hates them,” Tom argued, annoyed.
“Yet he sleeps better with them on, and this way he gets to spend more time with you two brats. Don’t argue with me, child. You won’t win.”
That way you can also stare at him for a good hour or so. Bloody convenient, if you ask me, thought Tom. He scowled, going back to his book. He knew better than to talk back to adults, especially ones that thought themselves above anyone else.
The hum of the fan in the corner filled the room. The house was covered in cooling charms, but sometimes only the muggle device could get the job done. It was one of Tom’s favorite new inventions, aside from the VHS player.
“What was your question, James?”
The boy looked at him from the corner of his eye. Tom sniffed, turning the page with an unnecessary amount of aggression.
“I just wanted to know who films the animals.”
Voldemort hummed. “The animals?”
“Yes, the ones from National Geographic. Do they put cameras on other animals? Like the leopards? How do they do that?” James asked.
Tom rolled his eyes around him so often he was sure they would disappear into his skull. “Photographers film them.” You idiot, he wanted to end with.
Voldemort red slits narrowed.
“But how? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“I think getting close enough to put a camera around a leopard’s neck is significantly more dangerous, James, honestly.”
“But they could save a lot of time! They could choose a more tame leopard and then send it to the rest of the pack, so he can film the others. I mean, it’s still dangerous, but whatever.”
Voldemort flickered his hand Tom’s way, effectively telling him to keep his mouth shut. “That is a very interesting line of thought, James.”
Tom huffed, tuning them out.
After a while Harry stirred, mumbling incoherently. “Crookshanks bloody furball. Not nice, ermione.”
The sofa was way too small for him, so his feet and a good portion of his legs ended up dangling from the edge. It could’ve been easier to admit he was going to take a nap and head to his room, but Harry liked repeating that on the rare occasions he fell asleep, (twice a week, minimum), it was completely accidental.
Tom didn’t mind. James spoke less (mostly) and Voldemort was a lot more complacent, as long as they didn’t disturb his Watching Harry time. It was also one of the few moments of the day Tom found he could completely concentrate on his reading without locking himself in his room.
Aunt Hermione had moved on, finally, from fictional books, and had started recommending a mix of essays and historic novels. Most of them were muggle, to Tom's annoyance, but he was willing to bite his tongue if it meant he had someone to discuss them with. James was illiterate, Voldemort was too impatient and Harry got a glazed look in his eyes if the conversation went on for longer than half an hour.
Harry groaned, stretching his arms over his head. “Fuck, that was nice,” he said. His voice was hoarse.
Tom looked up from the page, blinking a couple of times to clear his vision. He saw Voldemort cancel the silencing charm with a subtle slash of his wrist.
“Haven’t slept that well in ages,” Harry continued, mouth wide open in a yawn. A bone in his jaw cracked. “Seriously.”
Tom closed the book, deciding he was done for the day. “Whose Crookshanks?”
Harry scratched his eyebrow. “M’srry, what?”
“Crookshanks. You were mumbling something about Crookshanks furr. Is it an animal?”
James brightened. “Yes! It’s Aunt Mione’s cat! She’s very grumpy.” His cheeks were burnt from the sun, round and pink like the apples that grew in Ottery St. Catchpole.
Tom dragged his eyes away, scowling.
Harry snorted. “That she is. She hates Ron’s guts.” He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with a satisfied groan. “Merlin, I love this sofa.”
“It will destroy your back,” Voldemort said, without looking up.
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Boy Who Lived, remember?” he said, tapping his forehead. “I think I’ll be alright.” He extended his arm. “Accio Harry’s glasses.”
The black-rimmed glasses flew into his open palm. Tom loved that pair: He and James had chosen it after Teddy, the absolute pillock, accidentally broke Harry’s old ones.
Voldemort put the paper down and exhaled. “I suppose you are right.”
Harry smiled without showing teeth. Ronald called it his arsehole smile. “Took you long enough to see it.” His hands were clenched at the side of his legs.
They’d been at odds for a few weeks now. Harry was good at pretending in front of them—concealing his anger behind the lines of his forehead and the insides of his closed fists—but unlike other children his age, Tom was smart enough to pick up on context clues.
It all had started when Ronald arrived at their door one morning, pale as ash. A former classmate of theirs, Dean Thomas, had passed away. He had offed himself, apparently. They spoke in whispers weaved in lazy silencing charms, but when Tom really paid attention he could understand enough words to put it together. He didn’t know who this Thomas fellow was, nor did he care, but he was smart enough to pretend in front of Harry. Voldemort wasn’t, unfortunately, as he’d stared blankly at them when the news broke.
“Who?” He’d asked.
Even if he’d wanted to, Tom couldn’t have found a way to defend him. What a moron.
“Why does she hate Ron?” James interrupted, oblivious to the weird tension hanging in the room.
Harry blinked. “Who? Crookshanks?”
James nodded in confirmation.
“Erm,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. She just does.”
“The real question is, why wouldn’t she? He chews with his mouth open,” Tom said with a grimace. He started to get up, dusting off his shorts. The armchair squeaked in protest.
“That happened once, Tom.”
He scoffed. “Once is enough, I think.” Tom walked around the sofa and crossed the hallway that led to the kitchen, keeping an eye on the cabinets. He’d gotten a sudden urge to drink hot chocolate, despite the heat.
His need for sugar was getting unmanageable lately.
“Hey kid, what are you doing?” Harry shouted from the living room.
“Mind your business!” Tom shot back. In the orphanage he would’ve gotten a caning for that.
A delighted laugh reached his ears. “You’re getting a sweet treat, aren’t you?” Harry’s face peeked through the door. He seemed to have forgotten about his anger.
Tom got on his tiptoes to reach the place where Harry kept the chocolate, annoyed. “No, I’m not.” The evidence was damming.
“Liar,” Harry sing-sang. “Good thing you’re small, or else I’d have to keep this under lock.” He ruffled Tom’s hair, bringing down the bag.
The tip of Tom’s ears turned red. “I’m taller than James.”
The boy in question appeared behind him, making him jump. “Just by an inch.”
“Jesus Christ, James!” Tom wheezed, ignoring Harry’s amused chuckle. “Someone ought to put a bell on you!” He breathed out, bringing a hand to his chest. His heart was beating furiously.
“I’m really quiet, aren’t I?” James looked ridiculously proud of himself.
“A ninja, basically,” Harry said. The two high fived.
Tom rolled his eyes. Again.
“Ninjas, please.” He opened the lower cabinet and took out a pan. He placed it next to the chocolate and moved to grab the milk from the fridge. It was Molly’s recipe, which Tom had done so many times he could practically recite it in his sleep. “Get out of the way.”
Harry dragged a stool from the center of the kitchen. He gestured at James to come closer, lifting him in the air and setting him next to the stove. “Why? Don’t you want help?” Harry asked, getting up a second later.
James grinned, peering down the bag. “I love hot chocolate. Even in the summer.” When he smiled you could see his missing front teeth, the only real evidence of the time he crashed his bike into the Weasleys’ fence.
Tom closed his eyes and counted down from ten. “I can do it by myself.” When he opened them again he saw Harry’s fond smile directed at him.
“I’m sure you can, you’ll just take twice as long.”
Tom almost growled. “I’m not that small.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was the third tallest boy at the orphanage.” Not true, he was the fifth, but still. Harry’s lack of confidence was insulting.
“Did you drink hot chocolate at the orphanage? Aunt Petunia never let me.”
Both of them whipped their heads towards James, mouths snapping close. Harry made a pained noise.
James tapped his knees, eyes travelling between the two. “Wait no, that’s not true. She let me one time, during the school’s Christmas festival. It was really nice,” he continued. The silence stretched on. He tapped his knees again. “Um, so, did you, Tom? Drink hot chocolate?”
Tom took a step closer towards Harry, afraid he might lose his balance and fall off the stool. “No, I didn’t. Chocolate is really expensive.”
James’ face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
They stayed quiet for a good thirty seconds.
“Well!” Harry exclaimed, drawing his shoulders back. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll eat so much candy that by the time you’re older and diabetic, you won't be able to stand the sight of it.” His voice was laced with fake cheer.
Tom scrunched his nose.
“What’s diabetic?” James asked, at the same time Tom stated, “I’ll have a cure by then.”
Harry’s eyes softened. “I have no doubt. You’ll both achieve whatever you put your minds on.” The corner of his mouth attempted a smile, but it couldn’t completely erase the uneasiness behind it. He always acted weird whenever either talked about their childhoods.
“I’m sure. James will make a very good binman one day,” Tom sniffed, satisfied when Harry let out a snort.
“Prick,” the boy mumbled under his breath.
Harry ruffled their hair. “Don’t be a prat, Tom.” He turned towards the counter. “Or you won’t get dessert.”
James jumped to the floor. “I want to help!” he said, looking over the ingredients. “I’m really good at cooking!”
Harry nodded. “Let’s get to it, then.”
Tom watched the tense line of his back.
If things had been different he would’ve been very smug about Harry’s concern: Oh, Tom would’ve milked every last drop of it! An adult, visibly upset by Tom’s pitiful anecdotes. Imagine that! Except Harry dealt with pain by disappearing to The Burrow for hours at a time, only coming back when the moon was high and his cheeks were flushed from drinking.
“You reek of whiskey,” Voldemort had said.
“Lazy men drown their sorrows in whiskey,” Mrs. Cole used to say.
Harry wasn’t lazy, but Tom suspected he had plenty of sorrows. It was smarter to leave it alone.
Molly’s recipe wasn’t particularly difficult, it just took a lot of time. They needed to sit by the stove and blend the mix with enough regularity to ensure the cornstarch and chocolate dissolved. Tom would usually read in between blending, but with Harry and James there he didn’t even attempt to.
“Do you think I’ll get diabetes if I eat too much treacle tart at Hogwarts?”
“Um, I don’t think so. I was joking.” Harry’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mostly.”
Tom cocked his head. “Can we get diabetes to begin with?”
“We’re wizards, Tom, not Superman,” Harry said, laughing. “Where would be the fun in that?”
“Mmm. I’m sure there’s a correlation between muggle diseases and our autoimmune system. There’s a reason why cancer is so rare in magical children.” Tom nodded, deep in thought. “I’ll have to ask Mister Voldemort about it.”
“Erm, yes. You do that.”
James licked his thumb, smearing chocolate in his upper lip. “Dudley really likes Christopher Reeve.”
Harry grimaced. “I remember. He said it was his inspiration to get buff.”
James squinted at the wall, looking like he was trying to conjure the picture in his head and having a hard time at it. “Did he? Get buff?”
“I mean, kind of? He wasn’t Superman, but he was a lot fitter.”
“Dudley’s dumber than a box of rocks.” James snorted. “He probably spells it with a Z. To be Superman you have to be smart and fit.”
“Erm.” Harry tried to pass his laugh as a cough. “That’s mean. A bit true, but mean— ”
Tom snapped. “I’ve told you not to talk about things I know nothing about!” He slammed down the spoon with a loud clack.
James’ mouth dropped open. “You don’t know who Superman is?”
“How on Earth would I know?” Tom hissed.
Harry reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Breathe, mate. We’ve talked about this. It’s not on purpose.” Tom exhaled carefully, leaning against Harry’s stomach.
“I’m sorry. I just thought Superman was like, old. Even Mrs. Figgs knows who he is.”
Tom bared his teeth. I’ll show you old.
“James, not helping.” Harry squeezed Tom’s shoulder with more force than what was strictly necessary. “We can see the movie when this is ready, alright? This way we can all talk about Superman.”
“I’d rather claw my eyes out, thank you.”
Harry huffed. “Dramatic little shit,” he said, purposefully disheveling Tom’s hair. “C’mmon, don’t make us beg.”
Tom ducked under his arm and jumped back. “You don’t have to beg, Harry. It’s obvious that you two are more than capable of having a good time without me.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I am not being like anything,” Tom shot back, standing straighter. He didn’t have more time to revel in Harry’s attention, however, as the knobhead chose that exact moment to interrupt.
“Will Vee watch the movie with us?”
Harry looked away from Tom, smile faltering. “What? Superman?”
“Yep.”
“Erm, I guess?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know what he will do. Voldemort’s a very busy man, y’know? He’ll probably head down to the lab later.”
“Liar, he always watches movies with us. You just don’t want him there.”
Tom bit back a groan.
“I’m sorry, what?” Harry asked, eyes almost falling out of his sockets.
“When are you going to forgive him?”
“Forgive what? I’m not mad!”
James set his jaw, his expression mirroring Harry’s. They always looked the most similar when they were being stubborn about something. “But you are!” His eyes strayed towards the window that faced the garden, falling on the burnt patch of lily trees Voldemort had started working on for Harry’s birthday.
Harry had set them on fires the day he got the news about his friend.
Harry swallowed with difficulty and looked away from the garden. “Look, James—” He took off his glasses and started rubbing his eyelids, sighing. “It’s complicated. There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”
“What things?”
Tom pinched the back of James’ arm, pleased when the boy squirmed in his seat. “Leave it alone, you berk!” he hissed. “He doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Ow.” James tried to twist away. “Ow, I’m sorry!”
“Hey, stop it.” Harry grabbed the cuff of Tom’s shirt and dragged him back. His sneakers squeaked as they slid over the floor. “It’s alright. He has a right to be curious.”
Tom scoffed.
Harry focused on James, taking his arm out and observing the scratch under the light. “I should’ve thought about it. When I was a kid it made me very angry when adults didn’t explain things.” His eyes narrowed. “Episkey,” he said, and the scratch disappeared. “Jesus, Tom, you’re worse than a bloody cat.”
“He scratches because he’s too weak to throw a punch.”
Tom cheeks flushed crimson. “That’s a lie!”
“It’s not. You needed my help to open a water bottle yesterday,” James said, smug.
“I will strangle you, Harry James.”
James’ left dimple winked at him. “You can try.”
“Hey, both of you, shut it.” Harry lifted his wand threateningly. “I don’t want another visit to St. Mungos.”
They snapped their mouths close and looked at each other. The main Healer of the Pediatrician Wing was terrifying.
“Just sit, will you?” Harry put his wand back into his jean’s pocket. “The chocolate’s ready. We can talk while we drink.”
Tom crossed his arms, but did as he was told. James immediately followed suit.
“Alright.” Harry set two steaming mugs on the counter. “And if you start fighting again, I swear to god, you’ll sleep in the bloody garden tonight.”
They nodded.
“Good.” Harry cleared his throat. The kitchen stools were very tall, so they were a lot closer to his face. From that angle Tom could see the beginnings of stubble covering his jaw. “The thing between Voldemort and me is complicated. There’s a lot of stuff I can’t explain right now. Stuff that has to do with the war.”
“Why? Why can’t you explain it?” James asked.
Tom couldn’t help but admit that he was curious too. “You can’t or you won’t?”
“Both.” Harry grit his teeth, looking away. “It’s a long story, and I don’t think it makes sense to get into details. Whether you like it or not, I’m your guardian now, and it’s up to me to decide what’s pertinent for your development and what isn’t.”
“You sound like you swallowed a book about responsible parenting,” Tom said.
Harry laughed bitterly. “I’ve been talking to Hermione, so yeah, basically.”
James took a sip of the chocolate, an intense look of concentration on his face. “I don’t understand what this has to do with your row with Vee, though.”
Harry’s eyes lingered in the lighting scar hidden behind James’ fringe, a mirror to the one on his own forehead. “Remember how I told you a while ago that Voldemort and I were on opposite sides of the war?”
The boy fidgeted, looking uncomfortable by the intensity of Harry’s scrutiny. “Um, yes?”
“It has to do with that.” Harry said. “I can’t help but get mad sometimes. Some days it’s worse than others.” He sighed. “It’s the memories, I guess.”
“But why? That happened ages ago.” James frowned, confused. “I’m talking about right now.”
Tom kicked him from underneath the table, feeling at his wits end. “If you saw Dudley in ten years, would you feel like inviting him for lunch?”
“Erm, no?” James looked at him like he was stupid, which was ironic. “He’d probably eat my food.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Well, there you go.”
Harry blinked a couple of times. “You know, that’s a pretty good way of putting it.” He sounded insultingly surprised by Tom’s insight.
Please.
“Of course it was. I’m very smart, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Tom set his mug down, careful not to spill any chocolate. “And I know how to hold a grudge.”
“That I knew.” Harry leaned closer and grabbed the back of Tom’s neck, drawing him forward to kiss his forehead. “It shouldn’t have thrown me off how empathetic you are.”
Tom blushed to the root of his hair. “I mean, obviously.” He sat down again, dazed. “I am a very empathetic person.” The back of his neck was burning.
James snorted something that sounded like sure.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “What?”
James cleared his throat, looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh. Nothing, he mouthed back.
Tom didn’t reach over and pour his drink over his lap because Harry was watching.
“I think you’re both really awesome kids. I couldn’t be prouder, actually.” Harry’s smile looked more genuine this time. He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m really glad we talked.”
“What are we going to do about Voldemort, though?”
“You keep on doing as you’ve been doing so far, alright? Let me worry about him,” Harry said, turning towards James.
James’ breath depleted. “I’m not worried.” He looked at his hands. “Not too much, anyways. It just feels weird, when you’re mad. I feel weird.”
“I know mate, but there’s nothing you can do about it,” Harry said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Hell, Hermione would say there’s nothing I can do about it!” he laughed. “Just focus on yourself, alright? We’ll handle the rest.”
“Alright, I guess.”
“Good. I’ll clean the dishes while you get ready to watch the movie, ‘kay? Just for today.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Run along.”
***
Later that evening when it was time to go to bed, Tom asked Voldemort if he could read him a story. Harry, who was usually the designated person for the job, sent him a look equal parts confused and offended.
“Um, sure. Night, Tom.”
Tom sighed, burdened by the weight of his nobility. “Goodnight.”
Voldemort sat in a transfigurated chair beside the window. He held up the book with a nonverbal levitating charm, flicking the page every few minutes.
“Thus fell two heroes; one the pride of Thrace,
And one the leader of the Epeian race;
Death's sable shade at once o'ercast their eyes,
In dust the vanquish'd and the victor lies.”
Tom lasted about five minutes. “Alright, stop. You’re horrible.”
Voldemort paused, bringing the book down. If he’d had eyebrows he probably would’ve arched one. “Excuse me?”
“You’re horrible. Stop reading.”
Voldemort's nasal cavities flickered. “What part exactly do you find so horrible?”
“Everything! You don’t even do the voices!”
“It’s the Iliad. It does not need voices.”
Tom huffed. “Yes, well, Harry does them.”
Voldemort crossed one long leg over the other. “Harry is infinitely more patient than I am.”
“That’s why I usually ask him,” Tom grumbled over his breath.
“Speak louder, child.”
“Did you hear us talking in the kitchen?”
Voldemort cocked his head to the side. “I’m sorry?” The moon’s reflection shined on his scalp, making him look like a glorified streetlamp. Tom was sure the man would not appreciate the comparison.
“Yes. In the kitchen. I know you use eavesdropping spells sometimes.”
The air grew heavy.
“That is a very serious accusation.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Please, I wasn’t even going to tell Harry.” He thought it over. “Though I suggest you start being more subtle about it, or one day he’s going to catch you.”
Voldemort observed him carefully, still as a snake.
“It’s just, if you heard our conversation, you probably heard what he said about you.” Tom waited a few seconds to see if Voldemort would answer, resuming his speech when it became obvious he wouldn’t. “So you also know that he’s angry, and you know that whatever you’re doing to make up for it is not working.”
“You have enviable observation skills.”
“I know,” Tom preened. “Anyways, you need to hurry up. I don’t know what you did, so I don’t know exactly what you can do to fix it,” (nor would he tell him if he did) “but it has to be quick.”
Voldemort looked towards the window. “These things are seldom quick, Tom,” he said flatly. His fingers twitched above his lap. “If I could cast a spell and set it right, I would have done it already.”
Tom frowned, at a loss of words. He furrowed deeper into the covers. “There has to be something.”
Voldemort turned his head towards him again. His eyes glinted like rubies. “Do you have any suggestions?”
Like Harry’s emeralds, Tom thought. How fitting.
He stayed quiet.
Voldemort hummed, and continued watching out the window. Tom wondered if he was thinking about the lily trees.
They didn’t say anything for a while, and Voldemort made no attempt to pick up the book.
“Is it safe to assume you solicited my presence to discuss the situation with me?” His voice flowed over the crickets singing outside his room, which Tom hadn’t registered hearing until then.
He sighed in his pillow, bunching the sheets up to his chin. “Yes.”
“Very well.” The man got up, black robes billowing after him. “I appreciate your concern. I’m sure Harry would too.” He started walking towards the door, stopping once he reached the pommel. “If I may…”
“Yes?”
“I suggest you heed your own advice.”
Tom straightened. “My advice? About what?”
“James.”
Tom’s cheeks flushed. “What does he have to do with anything?”
Voldemort stared him down. “Don’t play stupid, child.”
His blush deepened. “I didn’t do anything, I swear! I have nothing to apologize for!” Tom spluttered.
“Then you better keep it that way.” And then, for the first time since Tom had met him, he smiled. It was a subtle thing, barely a twitch of his mouth, but so out of place it left Tom staring dumbfoundedly at the door for minutes after he left.
“What?”