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Harry Potter’s breakup made the front page of the Daily Prophet. Again.

DISASTER DATE: CHOSEN ONE DUMPED—AGAIN!

Harry groaned and dropped the paper face-down on the kitchen table like it had personally insulted him. Technically, it had. The headline was accompanied by a candid photo of him scowling outside a restaurant, wand halfway raised, as his now-ex-boyfriend flounced off into a floo portal in dramatic tears.

Hermione had already circled it in red. With three hearts. And written, in her neat, judgement-heavy handwriting: Stop dating reporters, Harry.

He buried his face in his hands and let out a long, pitiful groan.

From across the table, Ron noisily munched his toast. “Mate,” he said around a mouthful. “Not gonna lie. That photo’s a little iconic.”

“Shut up.”

“Looks like you’re about to Avada him.”

Harry lifted his head just far enough to glare. “He said I was emotionally unavailable. In public. While drunk. After I paid for dinner.”

“He’s not wrong, you know,” Hermione said, flipping another page without looking up. “You do have a history of shutting down the second anyone gets too close.”

Harry scoffed. “That’s not true.”

Ron raised a brow. “You ghosted someone for saying ‘I love you’ too soon.”

“He said it on the third date,” Harry snapped. “While crying. In a bubble bath.”

“Still counts,” Hermione said cheerfully.

Harry looked between them, betrayed. “Why are you both acting like I’m some emotionally stunted disaster?”

“Because you are,” they said in unison.

Harry let out a strangled noise and dropped his face into his hands. “I cannot believe I’m being ambushed in my own kitchen.”

“We brought muffins,” Hermione offered.

“I’m throwing them at you.”

“You need a rebound,” Ron said cheerfully. “Someone hot. Someone completely unhinged. Someone who’ll make the gossip columns implode and remind everyone you still have it.”

Harry lifted his head just enough to squint. “Define ‘unhinged.’”

“Malfoy?”

“Hard pass.”

“...Riddle?”

Harry blinked. Then groaned again, this time deeper. “I’d rather date a dementor.”

“You already kissed him,” Ron said innocently.

“That was a dare and it was sixth year—”

“And last Christmas at Theo’s party.”

“That was mistletoe and firewhisky—”

“And two weeks ago at the Ministry gala. On purpose.”

Hermione looked up slowly. “Wait. That was real?”

“No comment.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance.

“Harry,” Hermione said, very slowly, like one might approach a wounded creature or a man caught with his hand in a Riddle-shaped cookie jar. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

Harry shifted in his seat. “It’s… complicated.”

“Oh my God,” Ron said. “You’re shagging him.”

“I said it’s complicated!”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Ron dropped his toast.

“Bloody hell, Harry.”

“Just—drop it, okay? It’s not— It was never— It’s over.”

Hermione arched a brow. “So that means you’re not inviting him to Ginny’s wedding this weekend?”

He recoiled like she’d slapped him. “What?! No! Why would I—he’s not—he wouldn’t even—!”

“Oh, he’d go,” Ron muttered darkly. “That smug bastard would wear white just to spite everyone and probably snog you in front of the press.”

Harry flushed. And not entirely with anger.

He hated that Ron was right.

Because Tom Riddle would do exactly that.

He’d show up late, of course—cool and unbothered, all slow strides and tailored black robes that clung in the right places, like sin stitched in silk. His eyes would scan the room like it bored him. Until they landed on Harry. And then he’d smile—lazy, dangerous, like he knew exactly what Harry looked like naked and planned to say so over champagne. He’d lean in close, his breath warm against Harry’s jaw, and say something filthy under the pretense of affection. Just loud enough to make Rita Skeeter choke on her punch. He’d flirt with the bride, smirk at the groom, and by the time the cake mysteriously exploded, everyone would still be asking where he bought his cologne.

Harry hated how much he didn’t hate the idea.

“Okay, pause,” he said, holding up a hand. “Let’s say, hypothetically, I asked him to come. For optics.”

Ron choked on his tea. “You mean as a date?!”

Hermione’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “Fake dating for social recovery. Bold move.”

“It’s not fake if he’s been inside you,” Ron muttered into his cup.

“Ronald!”

“I hate everything,” Harry muttered.

Just then, a tap came at the window.

An owl. Black as pitch, red-eyed, and carrying a sleek black envelope.

“Oh no,” Harry said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Hermione opened the window.

The owl swooped in, deposited the envelope neatly in Harry’s lap, then ruffled its feathers like it was judging his life choices.

Harry stared at the wax seal. Serpent-shaped. Smirking.

He cracked it open with a sense of foreboding.

Inside, a single line of handwriting:

> Heard you’re in need of a date.

I’m available. For a price.

– T.

Harry’s stomach flipped.

He reread it.

Twice.

Then he slammed the envelope on the table and stood up so quickly his chair scraped the floor.

“I’m going to kill him.”

---

Tom Riddle lived in a converted tower flat above Knockturn Alley—of course he did. There were runes on the door and it opened with a hiss like a snake's breath when Harry knocked.

“Potter,” Tom drawled, not looking up from his book as the door swung open.

He was shirtless.

Of course he was.

Harry made a strangled noise. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tom turned a page lazily, legs sprawled on a dark velvet chaise like he was posing for a camera.

“Define your terms,” he said.

“You sent me a letter!”

“Romantic, wasn’t it?”

“You’re blackmailing me into taking you to a wedding!”

“Is it blackmail,” Tom said slowly, standing, “if it’s exactly what you want?”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

Then Tom stepped forward.

Bare chest. Low-slung trousers. The barest hint of a very smug smile.

Harry’s brain short-circuited.

Tom reached up. Brushed a strand of hair from Harry’s forehead. “You want to make your ex cry, don’t you?”

“I—”

“You want to watch your friends squirm.”

“Tom.”

“You want me to put on a show.” His voice dropped. “And I am very good at putting on a show.”

Harry's breath caught.

Tom leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Just say the word, Harry,” he whispered. “I’ll be whatever you need.”

For a moment, Harry said nothing.

Then: “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re half-hard. Shall we call it even?”

“I'm going to regret this.”

Tom grinned. “No. You're going to enjoy it. And then regret it.”

He stepped back, clapping his hands once. “Pack for three days. Bring your wand. And maybe some lube. I assume we’re not really pretending in bed?”

Harry swallowed hard. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace. Temporarily.”

Harry glared at him.

And tried very hard not to stare at his mouth.

Or his chest.

Or how unfairly gorgeous he looked with absolutely no remorse.

“I expect champagne,” Harry muttered.

“I expect gratitude,” Tom replied. “And maybe a blowjob.”

Harry turned to leave.

“Wear something tight, Potter!”

“I hope someone hexes you at the reception!”

Tom only laughed. And Harry hated—hated—how much he was already looking forward to it.

-

Harry meant to leave.

He really did.

But then Tom leaned against the doorframe—bare chest, pants riding low, arms folded—and asked, ever so softly, “Are you going to keep pretending you didn’t like it?”

And Harry—tragically human and already annoyed with himself—froze.

That line. That tone.

That smug, velvety purr of a voice that knew exactly where to press and how hard to twist.

He turned back around. Slowly.

Tom’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened—slow and warm. Not that Harry noticed.

He was too busy remembering.

---

It had been three weeks ago.

The Ministry gala.

The kind of event where champagne floated on silver trays, politicians postured over puffed-up laws no one would enforce, and Harry spent most of the night regretting everything from his shoes to his entire career.

Tom had cornered him on the balcony.

Of course he had.

Harry had gone outside for air, tie loose around his neck, already halfway to apparating home and pretending to be sick. And then—

“Leaving already, Potter?”

Harry didn’t even need to turn. He recognized that voice the way skin knows the brush of a familiar hand.

“Didn’t realize this party was your kind of scene,” Harry muttered.

Tom emerged from the shadows like something summoned. All crisp black robes, sharp cheekbones, and the unsettling calm of someone who didn’t need to try to dominate a room—he already did.

“I go where the fireworks are.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Try the buffet.”

But Tom didn’t move. Didn’t smile.

He just studied Harry for a long, quiet second.

Then: “You look tired.”

Harry’s breath hitched—because it wasn’t teasing.

It was low. Gentle. Almost... concerned.

That should’ve been his first warning.

Instead, he said, “Yeah, well. Fighting evil takes it out of you.”

Tom stepped closer. “I thought you were the evil, these days.”

A beat. Then Harry smirked. “Then I must be losing my touch.”

Tom didn’t laugh.

He just looked at him—really looked, like he was weighing him again after all these years, like he was cataloguing the changes: the slight stubble, the tired eyes, the tension in his jaw.

And maybe that was the second warning.

Because the next thing Harry knew, Tom was in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to see the flicker of something uncertain in his gaze.

“I could help you forget,” Tom said softly. “Just for tonight.”

Harry’s heart tripped.

He meant to say no.

He really, really did.

But what came out was, “You always say that.”

Tom’s voice dipped. “And I always deliver.”

---

The room Tom had rented was upstairs in the Ministry’s guest wing, still warm with magic and faintly perfumed with starflower and old books.

The door had barely clicked shut before Harry was slammed back against it, Tom’s mouth on his with a precision that felt earned.

Not soft.

Never soft.

Tom kissed like he was laying a claim. Fingers threaded into Harry’s hair, the other hand slipping beneath his robes, dragging down his collar like it had offended him just by existing.

And Harry—fuck, Harry let him.

Let him press their hips together, let him mouth along his jaw, biting just enough to mark, sucking hard enough to bruise. He let Tom taste him like he was trying to memorize it. Like he was hungry.

“Still pretending you don’t want me?” Tom murmured against his throat, voice all silk and grit. “Because your cock disagrees.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “You talk too much.”

Tom only smiled, teeth flashing white in the dark.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Harry’s breath caught.

Tom didn’t rush. Never did. He dragged his hands up Harry’s thighs, pushed the fabric of his formal robes aside with maddening care, and mouthed along the waistband of his pants like he was tasting the heat through the fabric. Just breathing him in.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he looked up.

His eyes burned like polished obsidian.

Harry swallowed. “If you’re waiting for an invitation—”

Tom’s hands tugged his trousers down in one swift movement, cutting him off.

“No invitation needed,” he said, voice dark with promise. “You’ve begged for this before.”

“I have never begged.”

Tom smiled. Then licked a long, lazy stripe up the underside of Harry’s cock.

Harry’s knees nearly gave out.

Tom’s mouth—sweet Merlin, that mouth—was heat and pressure and perfect torment. He took Harry in slow, inch by inch, lips stretched wide, eyes never leaving his. His hands curled around Harry’s thighs to keep him still, though Harry was already clinging to the edge of control.

And when Tom hollowed his cheeks—fuck. That was it.

Harry let out a rough groan and carded his fingers into Tom’s hair, hips bucking just once, too sharp, too honest. Tom moaned around him like he liked it. Like he wanted Harry to lose it.

He pulled off with a wet pop and stroked him lazily, eyes gleaming.

“You’re so fucking easy,” he whispered, voice velvet-dirty. “All I have to do is touch you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Harry muttered, breathless. “You’re just conveniently located.”

“Oh? Then why do you look like you’ll fall apart if I stop?”

And then he sucked him down again, this time rougher, faster, sucking like he meant to leave Harry wrecked and grateful.

Harry didn’t last long.

He warned him. “Tom—fuck—Tom, I’m—”

Tom didn’t stop.

Didn’t even slow down.

Just swallowed and held him there until Harry’s whole body shook with it, every nerve singing like he’d been kissed by lightning.

He slumped back against the door, boneless and ruined.

Tom stood slowly, wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned in until their lips almost touched.

“Told you,” he whispered. “I always deliver.”

Harry was still catching his breath. “Don’t get smug. That wasn’t even the best you’ve ever done.”

Tom arched a brow. “Then we should try again.”

He kissed him this time—hungry, open-mouthed, still tasting of heat and ego and power.

They didn’t make it to the bed.

That was the third warning.

And Harry had ignored that one, too.

---

The memory ended with Harry coming back to himself in the present, standing now in Tom’s flat again, chest tight and fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe.

Tom hadn’t moved.

He just watched him with that maddening calm, like he knew where Harry’s mind had gone. Maybe he did.

And maybe that was the problem.

“You could’ve just said no,” Tom said finally, voice low, almost casual. “If you didn’t want me at the wedding.”

Harry forced out a breath. “You’re manipulative.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You don’t know what this means.”

Tom stepped closer.

“I know exactly what it means,” he murmured, crowding into Harry’s space again. “It means you couldn’t stop thinking about me after the gala. It means you still want this.”

He ran his fingers along the line of Harry’s arm. Slow. Measured. Possessive.

“It means,” he said, brushing their noses together, “you didn’t come here to say no.”

Harry’s voice came out rough. “I came here to warn you not to pull any stunts.”

Tom smiled. “You mean like making you come so hard you forget your ex’s name?”

Harry swore under his breath.

But his hips twitched forward anyway.

Tom caught the movement and pressed a thigh between his legs—firm and knowing—and Harry bit down on a curse as his body betrayed him.

“Still insufferable,” Harry said, voice thick.

“And you’re still hard,” Tom replied.

They stood like that for a long second.

Then Harry exhaled.

“Three days. No mind games. Just pretending.”

Tom’s lips curved into a slow, lethal grin. “Oh, Harry. I never pretend.”

---

The Burrow had changed.

Harry wasn’t sure what he expected—gingham tablecloths, flying pots, maybe a disapproving house-elf with a monocle—but this?

This was a manor.

Blossoms floated midair, their petals unfolding in slow, impossible spirals of gold and silver. Lanterns hung from nothing, glowing soft and warm like bottled moonlight. Rows of ivory chairs curved in elegant spirals, nestled between hedges shaped like curling vines and flowering serpents. Somewhere, distant and sweet, a harp played a song that tugged gently at the edge of Harry’s chest, as if it remembered something he didn’t.

“Did they… remodel?” Harry asked, stunned, as he and Tom stood at the edge of the newly paved Floo patio, their luggage levitating behind them like nervous attendants.

“Charmed expansion,” Tom said mildly, taking in the scene. “Tastefully done. A bit tacky, but then, so are most weddings.”

Harry elbowed him. “Be nice.”

“I am,” Tom said, and slipped his hand into Harry’s like it was nothing.

Harry nearly tripped over his own feet.

“You don’t have to do that,” he hissed under his breath.

Tom raised one elegant brow. “Darling. We’re supposed to be a couple. You want them to think we sleep on opposite sides of the house and send each other owls during sex?”

Harry flushed. “We don’t—”

“Not anymore,” Tom said silkily, tightening his grip and starting toward the house.

And that was when everything went to hell.

They’d barely passed the garden archway when the crowd spotted them.

It happened in waves.

The music faltered. Conversations stopped mid-laugh. Heads turned.

And then—

Gasps.

Literal, actual gasps.

Someone dropped a glass. Someone else dropped a fork.

And Molly Weasley, standing on the front steps in an apron and floral wand holster, dropped an entire enchanted tray of floating deviled eggs.

“Merlin’s beard,” she breathed.

There, in full view of half the wedding guests, stood **Harry Potter—**golden boy, Chosen One, beloved pseudo-son of the bride’s mother—hand-in-hand with Tom Riddle. The Heir of Slytherin. Publicly.

Tom, for his part, looked utterly unbothered.

In fact, he looked pleased.

He gave the crowd a dazzling smile, like he’d just won a prize.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice warm and smooth as honey. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

Someone coughed in disbelief.

Luna Lovegood—who was wearing a crown of fluttering paper butterflies and sipping from a goblet that may or may not have had a fish swimming in it—clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, finally!”

Draco Malfoy, standing near the gift table with a drink and far too many tailored buttons, arched a single skeptical eyebrow and muttered, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Should we run?” Harry whispered.

“No need,” Tom murmured back. “I thrive under pressure.”

He gave Harry’s hand a gentle squeeze—gentle, but firm, the kind of grip that said we’re doing this, so smile pretty—and led him into the fray.

---

Molly recovered first.

She dusted off her apron, smiled far too widely, and all but launched herself down the steps.

“Harry, dear!” she said, pulling him into a tight hug that very nearly dislodged Tom’s hand from his. “We’re so glad you could make it!”

Her voice pitched upward slightly—strained pleasantness, the universal sound of a woman seeing her favorite son arrive with a date she absolutely did not pre-approve.

“And you must be…?”

“Tom,” Tom said smoothly, releasing Harry’s hand just long enough to extend his own. “Riddle. Thank you so much for inviting me. The house is charming.”

Molly blinked at his outstretched hand like it might sprout fangs. But years of Weasley manners kicked in.

She shook it.

Barely.

“I—yes. Well. It’s lovely to have you. I think.”

Tom’s smile widened.

Harry groaned internally. This was going to be so much worse than he thought.

---

Inside, things weren’t better.

The magically expanded interior of the Burrow was filled with people Harry hadn’t seen in years: schoolmates, extended family, the entire Quibbler editorial staff, three separate bands tuning instruments, and—of course—Ginny, radiant in her pre-wedding robes, eyes going wide when she spotted Harry and Tom walk in.

She glided over, dress shimmering, bridesmaids trailing behind her like ducks.

“Harry,” she said, and kissed his cheek. Then turned to Tom. “Riddle.”

“Ms. Weasley,” Tom said, and offered her a delicate bow. “Enchanting as ever.”

She blinked.

“Did you just flirt with me at my own wedding?”

“Only a little,” Tom said. “I assure you, I’m spoken for.”

And then—the bastard—he turned, cupped Harry’s cheek, and kissed him.

Just a brush of lips. Just long enough to count.

And just public enough to make everyone in the room freeze again.

Harry stood there, stunned.

His brain short-circuited. He could hear it whirring.

Ginny blinked twice. Then shrugged. “Honestly? Respect.”

Hermione, off to the side, muttered something that sounded like "this is either genius or a crime."

Ron was holding a canapé and staring like he’d just watched a puppy get hit by a carriage.

Tom smiled politely at all of them and reached for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

Harry wanted to die.

---

They made it through the next hour with minimal casualties—though Tom caused at least three awkward silences, two faintings (one genuine, one exaggerated), and one poorly timed flash of wand sparks that set a decorative tablecloth on fire.

But worst of all?

The worst part?

Harry kept catching himself staring.

Not because Tom was being outrageous. Not because he was playing up the theatrics or acting out his usual brand of stylish menace.

But because he was being... good at it.

Too good.

He asked polite questions. Complimented the floral arrangements. Laughed at Arthur’s jokes. Even helped George levitate a rogue chair that kept trying to escape the ceremony space.

And when Harry pulled him aside at one point—muttering, “What the hell are you doing? You’re supposed to be faking it”—Tom only smiled, leaned in, and said, “I am.”

Then kissed him again.

Slower this time.

Just long enough for Harry’s stomach to do something it absolutely should not have done—a slow, lazy flip that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the way Tom’s hand lingered on his waist.

---

By the time the welcome dinner was in full swing and Luna stood to give a toast involving man-eating lilies, mildly possessive love potions, and a surprisingly intense monologue from Hogwarts: A History , Harry was officially spiraling.

He downed his third glass of wine, refused to look at Tom, and tried to remember why he’d thought this was a good idea in the first place.

Spoiler: it was not.

Tom leaned in during dessert, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“You’re doing so well, love.”

Harry choked on a raspberry.

Tom just grinned.

And everyone watched them like they were real.

---

The guest rooms at the new-and-improved Burrow were suspiciously cozy.

Cozy in the way that suggested a deliberate lack of boundaries. Cozy like married couple on a second honeymoon. Cozy like definitely only one bed, and it’s absolutely charmed to squeak.

Harry stared at the room.

Then stared at the bed.

Then stared at Molly, who was smiling brightly, clearly too pleased with herself.

“We thought you two might prefer something more private,” she chirped. “The walls are soundproofed! Isn’t that fun?”

Harry did not think it was fun.

Harry thought it was a trap.

Tom, behind him, made a soft hum of approval. “Very considerate. Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”

Molly blushed like she'd been handed a bouquet.

“Breakfast starts at eight!” she said, and vanished before Harry could protest.

The door shut with a click of finality.

Silence.

Harry turned very slowly.

Tom was already unbuttoning his cuffs.

“Oh no,” Harry said, backing up a step. “Don’t even think about getting comfortable.”

Tom glanced up with a smile that could only be described as dangerously amused. “Darling, I intend to do a great deal more than that.”

“There’s one bed.”

“I noticed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“You’ll ruin your back.”

“Better that than—”

Tom dropped onto the mattress, lounging like a prince, legs spread just wide enough to be obscene. “Then what, exactly? Accidentally brushing knees in the night? Waking up with your hand on my thigh?” He tilted his head, voice dipped to velvet. “Or are you afraid you’ll like it?”

Harry made a strangled sound that could generously be translated as fuck you.

Tom grinned. “Eventually.”

---

The room was warm. Too warm. Or maybe that was just Harry.

He busied himself with unpacking, which mostly meant loudly flinging clothes onto a conjured chair and muttering under his breath.

Tom watched from the bed, utterly at ease.

He’d unbuttoned his shirt completely now, letting it hang open. His skin was pale and smooth, the kind of pale that made veins look like art, and Harry—despite himself—glanced. Just once.

Tom noticed.

Of course he did.

“Like what you see?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Harry turned away, ears burning.

He could feel Tom’s smirk from across the room.

---

By the time the sun had fully dipped below the horizon and the enchanted sconces lit themselves with soft gold light, Harry had successfully avoided looking at the bed for a solid hour.

But eventually, one could only pretend to organize socks for so long.

“I’ll take the left side,” Tom said casually, already sliding under the duvet like he belonged there.

“I’m not sleeping next to you.”

“Then sleep with me,” Tom offered, winking.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when your mouth is on mine.”

Harry threw a pillow at his face.

Tom caught it.

And laughed.

The bastard.

---

Harry changed in the bathroom with the door locked.

When he finally emerged—in an old t-shirt and soft joggers he definitely hadn’t worn just to be comfortable—Tom looked up from a book he’d summoned and gave him a look.

Not a leer.

Not exactly.

But it was appreciative. Measured. Like Harry was a puzzle he was solving one limb at a time.

“What?” Harry snapped.

Tom’s voice was quiet. “You’re beautiful when you’re flustered.”

Harry blinked.

It wasn’t teasing. Not fully.

He didn’t know what to do with that. So he ignored it.

Slid into the other side of the bed—carefully, pointedly keeping distance—and turned his back.

The mattress dipped behind him.

He could feel the heat of Tom’s body. The shift of fabric. The faint rustle of sheets as he moved.

Then—

“You’re really going to pretend we haven’t shared a bed before?”

Harry’s voice was tight. “That was different.”

“How?”

“That was… not in my ex-girlfriend’s childhood home.”

Tom chuckled, low and warm. “True. Bit of a mood killer.”

“Also, we weren’t faking anything.”

A pause.

Then: “Aren’t we still not?”

Harry rolled over, eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tom met his gaze in the dark. His eyes gleamed, moonlight catching the edge of something softer—something dangerous.

“It means,” he said, “you can keep pretending this is all for show. But I know how you kiss me when no one’s looking. I know the way your voice breaks when you come.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

Tom shifted closer, their legs brushing. “You want to keep playing pretend, Potter, that’s fine. But don’t lie to yourself.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Harry swallowed. “You’re insufferable.”

Tom smiled, slow and sure. “And you’re hard again.”

Harry cursed, rolled over, and buried his face in the pillow.

Tom chuckled, low and lethal, and didn’t press further.

But later—much later, when the room was quiet and Harry thought Tom was asleep—he felt a hand slide over his waist.

Just resting there.

Not possessive.

Not urgent.

Just there.

Like they weren’t faking anything at all.

And Harry, against all reason, didn’t pull away.

---

The next morning began with suspicious silence.

No children screaming. No ghoul stomping. Not even a single cursed teapot in distress.

Which, in a Weasley household, was deeply unnatural.

Harry cracked open an eye. Sunlight was filtering through sheer curtains enchanted to glow rose-gold. Somewhere downstairs, he could hear Ginny’s wedding planner yelling about the location of the ice sculpture, but up here, everything was calm.

Too calm.

And warm.

Very warm.

He blinked again and realized why.

Tom Riddle was spooning him.

One arm draped over Harry’s waist, fingers curled lightly against his stomach. His chest pressed flush to Harry’s back, long legs tangled with his own. And Harry—

Harry hadn’t moved all night.

He was still in the same place he’d fallen asleep: facing away, trying to ignore the slow rise and fall of Tom’s breathing behind him. He’d meant to stay stiff, unbothered, dignified.

Except at some point, apparently, his body had betrayed him completely.

He was… relaxed.

His fingers had found their way around Tom’s wrist. His shoulders had melted against the pillow. His hips—

He bolted upright so fast he nearly elbowed Tom in the throat.

“Fuck—!”

Tom blinked awake, groggy and gloriously shirtless, hair mussed in every direction. He looked infuriatingly well-rested. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Don’t—call me—sweetheart—”

Tom yawned. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

Harry scrambled out of bed, face flaming. “You were all over me!”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“I was asleep!”

Tom tilted his head lazily. “So you’re saying you only liked it subconsciously?”

Harry groaned into his hands. “I hate you.”

“I believe you,” Tom said smoothly, “just not when you’re moaning my name.”

---

Downstairs, the chaos of wedding prep was in full swing.

Guests were moving in and out of rooms. Children were chasing enchanted confetti. A peacock had somehow gotten onto the porch and was refusing to leave. Ron was levitating place cards with a scowl, and Hermione was holding an entire seating chart hostage with color-coded notes and at least three backup plans.

Harry made it to the breakfast table without incident—mostly because Tom was behind him like a shadow, one hand low on Harry’s back, offering polite nods and smiles to everyone like he hadn’t literally been groping Harry in his sleep an hour ago.

Harry tried to focus on his tea.

Failed.

Tried again.

Failed harder.

Because everyone was looking.

And not in the what the hell is Riddle doing here? way anymore.

No, the glances had shifted. People were whispering behind serviettes, smiling too softly, watching them the way people did with couples who hadn’t admitted they were in love yet but were clearly halfway to naming their future cat.

Harry caught Ron’s confused squint first.

Then Hermione’s knowing smile.

Then Neville’s surprised double take from across the room when Tom leaned in and murmured, “You missed a spot,” and wiped butter off Harry’s lip with his thumb.

Harry nearly fell out of his chair.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he hissed, cheeks burning.

“Doing what?” Tom asked innocently, licking his thumb.

“You’re playing it up.”

Tom tilted his head. “Isn’t that the job?”

Harry opened his mouth to argue.

Then closed it.

Because the truth was—

It didn’t feel like acting.

Not really.

Not when Tom reached for his hand under the table and twined their fingers together so naturally, so effortlessly, like it was a habit instead of a stunt. Not when his thumb brushed over Harry’s knuckle in lazy circles. Not when Harry’s heart—traitorous bastard that it was—skipped just slightly at the contact.

He looked around the table.

Hermione was watching him.

Not Tom. Him.

And she wasn’t frowning.

She was smiling.

Soft. Small. Almost sad.

He didn’t like that look.

---

Later, while Tom was cornered by Ginny’s Aunt Muriel (who seemed deeply interested in whether he was related to “that charming boy Voldemort”), Harry slipped into the back garden for air.

Hermione found him leaning against a tree, fiddling with the edges of his sleeve like it might distract him from his own heartbeat.

“Hey,” she said gently.

“Hi.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Then—

“You look… happy,” she said.

Harry snorted. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” She looked at him sidelong. “I’ve known you a long time, Harry. I can tell when you’re pretending. And I can tell when something’s real.”

Harry didn’t answer.

Hermione nudged him with her elbow. “You like him.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s an arse.”

“But you like him.”

He didn’t say anything.

She waited.

And then, quietly, like a truth too heavy to hold anymore, he admitted: “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Hermione’s face softened. “You mean the plan to bring your possibly-sociopathic former school rival slash situationship to your ex’s wedding didn’t go flawlessly?”

Harry gave her a weak smile. “I didn’t think he’d be so… good at it.”

Hermione arched a brow. “You mean the part where he holds your hand like it’s second nature? Or the part where you look at him like he’s the last thing keeping you sane?”

Harry groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Merlin. I’m doomed.”

“Not necessarily.” She leaned against the tree next to him. “Just… don’t run from it if it’s real.”

Harry peeked at her through his fingers. “You’re giving me relationship advice?”

“You brought a walking hex in a designer robe as your plus one,” she said cheerfully. “Someone has to.”

---

They didn’t talk about it again.

Not for the rest of the day.

Not when Tom handed him a drink without being asked. Not when he slipped a grounding hand to Harry’s lower back while photographers swarmed. Not when Harry—just for a moment—leaned into it, tilted his head toward Tom’s shoulder, and let himself forget it was pretend.

But that night, as he lay in bed again, heartbeat far too loud in the dark, he stared at the ceiling and thought—

This isn’t fake anymore.

And the terrifying part?

He didn’t want it to be.

---

The rehearsal dinner was over. The last toast had been given, the last enchanted dessert cart had rolled away, and the garden lanterns had dimmed themselves one by one, leaving only soft candlelight scattered through the trees.

It was late.

Most of the guests had turned in for the night. The Weasleys had retreated inside to argue about seating charts and bouquet wards. Somewhere in the distance, Ron was loudly trying to convince George not to enchant the champagne.

And Harry—Harry was in the orchard with Tom, under the heavy hush of stars, wondering how the hell he got here.

“I didn’t think we’d make it past dinner,” he said, staring up through the branches. “I thought you’d hex someone before pudding.”

Tom gave him a sideways look, lounging against the tree trunk casually. “I considered it. But you looked too pretty when you laughed at Fred’s toast.”

Harry blinked. “What?”

Tom didn’t repeat it.

Just watched him with a gaze too steady, too sharp, too knowing.

Harry cleared his throat. “You’re better at this than I expected.”

“At what? Being tolerable?”

“Being…” Harry gestured vaguely. “Boyfriendly.”

Tom smirked. “That’s not a word.”

“It is if I say it is.”

“Potter logic.”

“You’ve survived worse.”

Tom’s smile faded, but not completely. “You’re still surprised.”

“Of course I am. You’re usually five minutes away from committing light arson.”

“And now?”

Harry hesitated. “Now you’re holding my hand in public and helping Molly carry soup.”

“That’s your bar for emotional intimacy? Soup?”

“You didn’t even hex it!”

Tom let out a quiet laugh.

But something shifted between them then. Something less funny. Less playful.

Because Harry was still watching him.

And Tom—Tom was still holding his gaze like a dare.

“I’ve done worse things for you,” Tom said softly.

The words dropped like stones into the stillness.

Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”

Tom didn’t answer.

Just pushed off the tree and stepped closer. The candlelight caught the edge of his face, highlighting the cut of his cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, the softness at the corners of his mouth when he wasn’t being smug.

He stood in front of Harry, close enough to touch.

“Do you remember,” he said, voice low, “the Auror gala two years ago?”

Harry stiffened. “You’re going to have to be more specific. There’ve been a lot of questionable galas.”

“The one where you wore black.”

“That’s… most of them.”

Tom smiled. “The one where you wore that tailored midnight set. Charms layered over it like shadow. Your hair was slicked back. You had a cut on your cheek.”

Harry blinked.

He hadn’t thought anyone remembered that gala.

He certainly didn’t remember Tom being there.

But the detail—

“That was after the Altair raid,” Harry murmured. “I got clipped by a curse. Couldn’t hide the scar in time.”

“I liked it,” Tom said. “You looked like a storm someone had tried to bottle.”

Harry’s mouth went dry.

“You were watching me?”

“I’m always watching you.”

There was no smile in Tom’s voice this time. No teasing. Just raw honesty, laid bare.

Harry looked away. “You don’t mean that.”

Tom stepped forward again, so close now Harry could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“I know how you take your tea,” he said quietly. “I know your favorite section in Flourish and Blotts. I know which hand you sleep on when your back hurts. I know you clench your jaw when you lie. And I know you hate the smell of rose perfume but wear it around Ginny anyway because you don’t want her to feel bad.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“You’ve been paying attention.”

“I always have.”

“Why?”

Tom’s voice didn’t waver. “Because it’s you.”

---

Harry stepped back.

He needed air.

Space.

Something.

But Tom followed—unhurried, unapologetic, like a predator that already knew the outcome.

“You keep acting like this is just a game,” he said. “Like you brought me here to mess with your ex, make a scene, protect your image—”

“Because I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Tom’s eyes burned.

“You brought me here because you wanted to see what it would feel like if we were real.”

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it. He hated that his pulse betrayed him. That his fists were clenched and he hadn’t even noticed. That every part of him was screaming that Tom was right.

Tom’s voice dropped. “And now you’re scared. Because it feels like it’s real.”

Harry’s voice cracked. “It’s not.”

Tom stepped even closer.

And now they were chest to chest. Breath to breath. No space left for lies.

“You want me,” Tom said, softer now. Like a confession. Like a truth too heavy to hold back. “And you always have.”

Harry’s throat went tight.

“I want you,” Tom said again. “And I’ve never once pretended I didn’t.”

Their faces were inches apart.

And Harry—fuck—Harry wanted to close that distance. Wanted to fall into it. Into him. Into the one person who’d always seen through every mask, every wall, every half-truth.

But if he kissed Tom now, if he gave in—

There’d be no going back.

No pretending.

No fake.

And maybe—maybe he wasn’t ready for that.

Not yet.

So instead, he swallowed, forced himself to look away, and said, “You’re wrong.”

Tom didn’t stop him.

Didn’t argue.

He just nodded once, like he’d expected it.

But as Harry walked away, he heard Tom say—quiet and certain:

“You’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

---

Back in their room, Harry didn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling.

Listened to the soft sound of Tom breathing beside him, even and slow.

And told himself he didn’t wish they were still pretending.

Because the truth—the awful, terrifying truth—

Was that he didn’t want fake.

He wanted more.

And that scared him more than anything else ever had.

---

The wedding was—predictably—a circus.

A beautiful, shimmering, emotionally loaded circus with Weasleys running the tent.

It started with enchanted petals falling from the sky in slow, graceful spirals. Each one changed color depending on who it landed on—red for love, blue for longing, gold for commitment. When one landed on Tom’s shoulder and turned violet—desire—Harry swatted it off so hard he startled three pigeons.

It only got worse from there.

The guest list was absurd. Every table groaned under the weight of magical dignitaries, old professors, retired Quidditch stars, and at least two Ministers of Magic (current and former) pretending they’d always been friends. Fleur looked like a goddess. Hagrid cried before Ginny even walked in. Fred and George spelled their ties to match the bridesmaids' dresses. 

But somehow, somehow, the real spectacle wasn’t the wedding.

It was Harry and Tom.

Or more precisely, the fact that Harry Potter had brought Tom Riddle as his date.

Whispers followed them wherever they went.

Is it real?

Didn’t they duel once in a pub?

He kissed him on the cheek.

No, I saw him feed him a bite of cake—

You can’t fake that kind of tension.

Harry wanted to die.

Tom, meanwhile, thrived.

He wore a dark green velvet robe trimmed with silver embroidery and the kind of smug expression that said he knew exactly what he looked like and how many people were staring. His hair was slicked back in waves, his collarbone bare beneath the open neckline, and his mouth—

Merlin, that mouth.

Harry was doing fine. Perfectly fine. Completely fine. Until Tom leaned in and said, just loud enough for only him to hear:

“You’ve been checking me out for twelve minutes.”

“I’m checking for hidden knives.”

Tom smiled. “You can frisk me later.”

Harry took another glass of champagne.

---

Throughout the ceremony, Tom’s hand stayed on Harry’s lower back.

Steady. Possessive. Comforting in a way that set Harry’s whole body on edge.

He whispered commentary only Harry could hear—light jabs at the officiant’s robes, gentle amusement at Percy tearing up, a compliment about Ginny’s train that sounded so genuine Harry had to double-check he wasn’t being hexed.

When someone asked how they’d met, Tom said smoothly, “At Hogwarts. I was stalking him in a library. He thought I was trying to hex him. He wasn’t wrong.”

Harry choked on his wine.

Tom only smiled sweetly. “It was love at first hex.”

By the time the cake was cut and the band started up, the crowd had accepted their presence as fact. That didn’t mean the rumors stopped. It just meant people stopped being subtle.

Aunts asked about their “future.” Colleagues asked if they were “serious.” Someone (probably George) slipped them a wedding favor with a note that read: Your turn next?

Tom read it. Smirked. Folded it into a tiny paper swan and sent it floating into Harry’s wine.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” Harry muttered.

“I enjoy you,” Tom said.

Harry rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t move away.

Not even when Tom reached for his hand again and laced their fingers together like it was second nature.

---

Then the music shifted.

The lights dimmed. The petals slowed. A soft, gliding tune filled the garden—the kind of song meant for slow dances and first kisses and terrible, inevitable decisions.

“Dance with me,” Tom said.

Harry froze. “I don’t dance.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I dance badly.”

“I like it when you’re bad.”

Harry stared at him.

Tom held out his hand. “Come on. For the illusion.”

Harry’s resolve lasted exactly three seconds.

Then he let Tom lead him onto the floor.

---

The world blurred.

They moved slowly—too slowly—under strands of floating lights. The other couples disappeared around them. Even the petals held still in the air, caught mid-fall like the moment had frozen.

Harry’s hand rested on Tom’s shoulder. His other was cradled in Tom’s palm. Their chests nearly touched. Every time they turned, they got closer. Every time they breathed, the space between them tightened.

“You’re not bad at this,” Tom murmured.

“I’m distracted.”

“By?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Tom stepped a little closer.

Their foreheads nearly touched.

“Tell me to stop,” Tom whispered.

Harry didn’t.

“You look at me like you’re trying not to want me.”

“I’m not trying.”

“You’re failing.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Is that supposed to be charming?”

Tom’s fingers tightened just slightly around his waist.

“It’s supposed to be honest.”

The music dipped. Slowed. Softened.

Their foreheads touched.

And then Tom said, just above a whisper:

“I could make it real. You’d only have to say yes.”

Harry’s heart punched against his ribs.

The words sat there between them, warm and heavy, thrumming like a spell waiting for a wand. Everything stilled. Even the air held its breath.

Tom’s eyes searched his.

Open. Uncharacteristically unguarded.

No smirk.

No trap.

Just a quiet, impossible truth.

Harry opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

And then—

Someone tripped and crashed into a nearby table, sending champagne bottles toppling and a full tray of mini treacle tarts exploding across the floor.

The moment shattered.

People laughed. The band recovered. Ginny started shouting something about cake emergencies. A gnome ran underfoot with a ring pillow in its mouth.

Harry stepped back.

Broke the contact.

The song ended.

So did the silence.

Tom said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Because Harry was already reeling.

Already wondering what would’ve happened if he’d just said yes.

---

The chaos of the reception swallowed them whole.

After the slow dance disaster, Harry fled under the pretense of helping with the spilled treacle tarts, grabbing napkins and muttering spells that jammed halfway out of his wand. He ignored the wine that had soaked through his shirt. Ignored Ginny's questioning glance and Hermione’s “Are you okay?” whisper.

Tom didn’t follow him.

Not at first.

And that—that should’ve helped.

Should’ve let Harry cool down, pull himself together, remember that this wasn’t real. That it was all a show. That he’d asked Tom here, not the other way around.

But it didn’t help.

Because now he was furious.

Furious with Tom, for saying it. For meaning it.

Furious with himself, for wanting to believe it.

He stormed out of the garden and down one of the stone paths that wound into the orchard behind the Burrow, fists clenched, magic sparking faintly at his fingertips.

He didn’t hear Tom until he spoke.

“Running away?” the voice said, soft and sharp behind him.

Harry spun.

Tom stood in the moonlight at the top of the path, backlit by floating lanterns, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes dark with something that wasn’t entirely anger.

But it wasn’t calm, either.

It was something worse.

Need. And knowledge.

Harry’s voice came out low and dangerous. “You shouldn’t have said it.”

Tom stepped down the path slowly. “Said what?”

“You know what.”

“I told you the truth.”

“You ruined it,” Harry snapped. “It was working. We were doing fine.”

“You were doing fine pretending.”

“That was the point. ”

Tom stopped in front of him, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he was studying a puzzle he already knew how to solve.

“You’re shaking.”

Harry looked down.

His hands were trembling.

He clenched them tighter.

Tom’s voice dropped. “Why does this scare you so much?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why are you breathing like I already kissed you?”

Harry took a step back.

Tom followed.

“You think if you keep your distance, you won’t fall,” Tom murmured. “But you already have. You just don’t want to look down.”

Harry swallowed. “Don’t you dare —”

Tom stepped close— too close—crowding into his space, hand reaching up to cup the side of his face with unbearable gentleness.

“Say you don’t want this,” he whispered. “And I’ll stop.”

Harry’s mouth opened.

But nothing came out.

Because Tom’s thumb was brushing over his cheek. Because his other hand slid slowly to Harry’s hip, grounding and possessive. Because he leaned in and Harry—

Harry didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t want to stop it.

And then—

Then Tom kissed him.

And everything else fell away.

-

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and fury and relief , colliding in a kiss that wasn’t just lips but years. Of pretending, of deflecting, of not letting themselves look too long or want too much.

Tom kissed like he was trying to prove something—tongue sliding in with a hunger that felt personal, hands gripping tight enough to bruise. And Harry—Harry matched it. Matched him. Bit back. Pressed forward. Fisted his hands in Tom’s shirt and shoved him back into the orchard wall with a growl.

Tom gasped.

Harry took the opportunity to nip at his throat, teeth scraping skin, tongue following in a line that made Tom shudder.

“You’re such an arrogant bastard,” Harry muttered, panting against his skin.

“And you always like it. ”Tom rasped, fingers digging into Harry’s back.

“Fuck you.”

Tom’s laugh broke apart into a groan when Harry rolled his hips forward, pressing against him hard. There was no hiding how worked up they both were—cocks already stiff, friction through layers of fabric doing nothing to cool them down.

Tom’s hand slid between them, cupping him through his trousers. “You sure that’s not what you came here for?”

Harry made a sound between a curse and a moan.

Tom kissed him again, rougher now, more desperate. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered against Harry’s mouth.

Harry bit his lip in answer, then pushed him down.

Literally.

Onto the mossy ground beneath the trees, soft and shadowed and private enough that not even a floating lantern could find them.

Tom sprawled beneath him, hair mussed, robes rumpled, lips kiss-bitten and pink.

Harry didn’t even hesitate.

He straddled him, grinding down once— hard —and Tom’s hands flew to his hips with a broken sound.

Clothes vanished in pieces.

Buttons undone. Trousers shoved down. Underthings dragged aside.

Skin on skin.

Heat on heat.

Harry fisted Tom’s cock, dragging his hand slow, savoring the way Tom arched into the touch, eyes fluttering shut like he hated how good it felt. Tom's hips bucked, but Harry pinned him with his thighs, kept him grounded.

“You’re always in control,” Harry murmured, pumping him tighter. “But look at you now. Desperate.”

Tom’s breath hitched. “You love it.”

“I do.”

Harry leaned in and kissed him again, slower this time, tongue sliding deep as his hand worked Tom’s cock, slick and steady. Tom moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back, pulling him down, needing more.

When Harry finally slicked his fingers—no wand, no preparation, just a hurried spell murmured against skin and a need that bordered on desperation—and pushed one inside, Tom gasped like the air had been knocked clean out of him.

“Fuck—Harry—”

“Too much?” Harry teased, licking his jaw.

“Not enough.”

“Beg.”

Tom narrowed his eyes.

Then grinned.

“Please,” he whispered, and it was mocking and genuine all at once. “Make me forget my name.”

Harry didn’t wait.

After a quick prep he lined up and pressed in slow, grinding against the tight heat of Tom’s body with a groan that shook him to his core. Tom arched beneath him, biting back a cry, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead.

It was messy.

It was perfect.

Harry fucked him slowly at first—long, deep thrusts that forced eye contact, forced intimacy. Tom didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. Just took him, hand fisted in Harry’s loose shirt, breathing harder with every grind.

“Tell me this isn’t real,” Harry said between thrusts.

Tom’s eyes fluttered. “It’s not—”

Harry slammed into him harder.

Tom swore.

“Try again.”

“It’s—fuck—Harry—”

“That’s what I thought.”

He set a brutal rhythm, panting against Tom’s neck, skin slapping skin in the quiet of the orchard, broken only by gasps and the sound of their bodies colliding. The air smelled like grass and sweat and desperation.

Tom came first.

With a curse. A cry. A Harry, ragged and half-bitten. He spilled across both their stomachs, clenching so tightly around Harry that he followed seconds later, groaning low in his throat, burying his face in Tom’s shoulder as he came.

The world went quiet.

Except for them.

Breathing. Shaking.

Real.

-

They didn’t speak for a while.

Tom’s hand was in Harry’s hair, carding through it slowly. Gently.

Harry didn’t move.

Eventually—

“I still hate you,” he muttered into Tom’s chest.

Tom snorted. “Liar.”

Harry sighed.

Then whispered—

“…Don’t leave yet.”

Tom’s hand stilled for a second.

Then it resumed, softer than before.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not unless you ask me to.”

And Harry?

Harry didn’t say anything at all.

He just held him tighter.

-

The sun rose slowly over the Burrow, spilling warm, golden light through the orchard trees.

Birds chirped. Bees buzzed. Someone’s enchanted bunting was tangled in the hedges, flickering between Congratulations! and Please Don’t Hex the Cake This Time.

And in a soft patch of moss and petals hidden behind the thickest part of the garden wall, Harry Potter woke up in Tom Riddle’s arms.

Which should’ve been horrifying.

Truly, it should’ve sent him straight into a spiral of panic and shame and what have I done —

But it didn’t.

Because Tom was warm.

And the blanket someone—probably Luna—had charmed over them in the middle of the night was warm.

And the soft, sleepy little sigh Tom let out when Harry shifted against his chest was… well.

Warm, too.

Harry blinked blearily into the sun, one leg thrown over Tom’s hip, his fingers tangled loosely in Tom’s hair. Their noses were almost touching. Their chests rose and fell together, breaths syncing unconsciously.

It was too much.

And somehow not enough.

“…Morning,” Tom murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Harry made a noncommittal noise. Somewhere between hi and don’t ruin this.

Tom smiled.

Then— unforgivably —he leaned in and kissed the tip of Harry’s nose.

Harry squinted at him. “Are you trying to give me a stroke?”

“No,” Tom whispered, brushing his thumb against Harry’s cheek. “I’m trying to say good morning.”

“That’s what words are for.”

Tom hummed. “You’re grumpy when you’re well fucked.”

Harry groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Do not start.”

“Too late. Already started.” Tom kissed his bare shoulder. “Might start again.”

“I swear to Merlin—”

Another kiss, this time to the corner of Harry’s mouth.

It was soft. Careful.

Affectionate.

And Harry—who had braced for smugness, for teasing, for a slow smirk and a crude remark—suddenly had no defenses prepared for this.

“I—” he started.

Tom pressed his forehead to Harry’s. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Harry blinked. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Liar.”

“Still not saying it.”

“I know.” Tom closed his eyes. “But you don’t have to pretend.”

Harry didn’t answer.

He just… stayed there. Breathing with him. Soaking in the warmth.

His chest ached.

Not in a bad way. Not like before.

It was just full.

-

Eventually, when limbs began to cramp and the enchanted blanket started politely folding itself away, they untangled—slow and reluctant.

Tom sat up first, rubbing the back of his neck and blinking at the light.

Harry watched the muscles in his back flex with every movement and immediately regretted all his life choices.

Tom caught him staring and smirked. “Careful. You’ll fall in love.”

“I already hate myself enough, thanks.”

“Mm.” Tom stood and stretched, gloriously naked in the morning light. “But did you hate last night?”

Harry hesitated.

Then: “No.”

Tom glanced over his shoulder. “Say it again.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I hated everything except last night.”

“That’s progress.”

-

They dressed slowly, taking longer than strictly necessary.

Harry pretended not to notice when Tom fixed the hem of his shirt for him. Tom pretended not to notice when Harry straightened the fall of his collar. They both pretended not to notice when their fingers brushed and lingered.

It was soft.

Uncomplicated.

Like the tension had dissolved—it wasn’t gone, but… changed. Gentle now. Familiar.

Harry didn’t think about what that meant.

Much.

-

Back in the house, the Weasleys were already half into wedding teardown mode.

Chairs were levitating themselves into neat stacks. The flower arrangements were shrinking back into seedpods with tiny pops. Ginny was arguing with Fleur over post-wedding brunch logistics, and Ron was asleep face-down on a couch with a fork still in his hand.

Hermione caught Harry's eye from the kitchen doorway.

And smiled.

Not smugly.

Not even surprised.

Just soft. Pleased.

Like she’d known this would happen all along.

Harry looked away before he could smile back.

-

Later, after Tom charmed all their luggage to pack itself with a flick of his fingers and casually caught Harry’s falling toothbrush mid-air like some sort of domestic god, they stood together at the edge of the Floo station.

The guests were gone.

The house was quiet again.

But something still hung in the air between them.

Harry shifted awkwardly. “Well. That was… successful.”

Tom raised a brow. “You mean the wedding or the sex?”

“I was trying to be sentimental, you arse.”

Tom’s smirk softened into something else.

He stepped forward, brushing imaginary lint from Harry’s sleeve.

“Next time,” he said, low and warm, “maybe I’ll take you out somewhere before I fuck you in a garden.”

Harry made a face. “Very romantic.”

“Always.”

A beat.

Then Tom added, “Unless you’d rather we never do this again.”

Harry looked up, heart in his throat.

“…I didn’t say that.”

Tom’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.

Then he leaned in and kissed him—gently, slowly, like a promise folded in silk.

When they pulled apart, Tom whispered, “I’ll see you soon, Potter.”

And Harry, for once, didn’t argue.

-

Two days passed.

Two whole, empty days.

The kind of days that moved like honey—slow and golden and far too thick to swallow.

Harry kept busy. Or tried to.

He filed a mission report. Cleaned the flat. Ignored every single one of Hermione’s twenty-two messages asking “So???” and refused to open the Prophet, despite Ron’s dramatic claim that the photo of him and Tom dancing was “literally breaking society.”

He tried to go back to normal.

Tried to forget how Tom had kissed his forehead in the orchard like he meant it.

Tried not to notice how cold his bed felt now that it wasn’t filled with a smug bastard who hogged the blanket and spooned without being asked.

It didn’t work.

Not even a little.

So when the knock came at his door—soft, deliberate, inevitable—he already knew who it was.

He opened it without a word.

Tom stood there.

Perfect as ever.

No robes this time. Just black slacks, an open-collar shirt, and that particular brand of confidence that made it impossible to look away from him.

“You said I could collect my favor,” he said quietly.

Harry didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stepped aside.

Tom walked in.

-

It was quiet at first.

Tom stood in the middle of the living room, looking around like he was mapping the space into memory. Like he already had.

Harry leaned against the door, arms folded. “So.”

“So.”

They stood in silence.

Then—

Tom turned, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on Harry’s.

“I want you.”

It wasn’t a question.

Or a line.

It was a declaration. Honest. Direct.

And Harry felt something break in his chest.

He crossed the room in three steps.

And kissed him like it was the answer to a question he’d never dared ask before.

-

This kiss wasn’t like the others.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t frenzied or sharp with anger.

It was slow. Intentional. Open.

A kiss made of yes.

Tom’s hands found Harry’s waist. Harry’s found his hair. They moved together with a kind of awe, like they couldn’t believe they’d been pretending for so long.

When Tom finally pulled back, he was breathless. Flushed. Smiling.

“Is that a yes?”

Harry grinned, cheeks pink. “It’s a please don’t ever stop. ”

-

Clothes came off slowly.

Buttons slipped free. Zippers dragged down.

Fingers skimmed skin, reverent and unhurried.

Tom pushed Harry back onto the bed like it was instinct—like he already knew every inch of him and still wanted to discover him all over again.

Harry lay back, eyes on Tom like a prayer, legs parted, arms loose over his head.

“Tell me what you want,” Tom murmured, crawling over him.

Harry’s voice was low, wrecked already. “You.”

Tom smiled. “Then I’ll take my time.”

And he did.

-

It started with kisses.

Mouth on collarbones. Shoulders. Thighs.

Every inch of Harry was kissed and touched and tasted like a promise: You’re mine. If you want to be.

Tom’s hands were careful but confident, tracing lines of magic beneath Harry’s skin. His mouth was hot, his tongue slow, and Harry was undone before he was even touched properly—moaning when Tom mouthed over his nipples, whimpering when he kissed the inside of his thighs.

By the time Tom finally— finally —took him into his mouth, Harry was already half gone.

He tangled his fingers in Tom’s hair and whispered his name like it hurt to hold it in.

Tom sucked him slowly, deliberately. He used one hand to stroke the base, the other to hold Harry’s hip still as he teased him open with his mouth—heat and pressure and patience, until Harry was shaking with the effort not to come.

When he was right at the edge, Tom pulled off with a slick pop and kissed his stomach.

“You taste like you missed me.”

Harry laughed—helpless and breathless.

“I did. ”

Tom climbed back up, kissed him again, and whispered, “Good.”

-

The first thrust made Harry see stars.

Not from the pain—not with how careful Tom had been, how many slow, slick strokes he’d used, how long he’d taken to open him up.

But from the fullness.

The stretch.

The intimacy of it.

Of having him here, inside him, surrounding him.

Tom kissed him the whole time.

Soft, sweet kisses to his cheeks, his mouth, the tips of his fingers.

They moved together slowly at first. Not lazy. Just certain.

Like this was what they were meant to do.

Harry wrapped his legs around Tom’s waist and whispered his name into his ear like it was something sacred.

And Tom whispered back.

“You’re mine.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve always been mine.”

“Yes.”

“You love me.”

Harry’s breath caught.

And then—without even thinking—

“Yes.”

Tom kissed him like he’d waited his whole life to hear it.

-

After, they lay tangled together in the sheets, sweaty and warm and ruined in the best possible way.

Harry rested his head on Tom’s chest. Listened to his heartbeat.

“I’m not scared anymore,” he whispered.

Tom’s fingers slid through his hair. “I know.”

“You were right. It was real.”

“I know that, too.”

“I still hate your face.”

“Lucky for you, you’ll be seeing it every morning.”

Harry laughed—real and full and so stupidly in love it made his chest hurt.

“I was going to ask you to stay,” Harry murmured.

Tom leaned in, teeth grazing his jaw. “Darling, you begged me to.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Not what I meant.”

Tom pressed closer. “Doesn’t matter. I’m still here.”

Harry didn’t argue. He didn’t need to.

THE END
(or maybe just the beginning)