November 29th, 1941
Northwest Scotland
Everything appeared mostly the same. No different than what it had looked like when he'd come here in 1945, not unless you counted the difference in the season. Right then it was winter and most of the trees had already shed some of their coat, leaving behind a soft bed of dried leaves to fertilise the earth. It was a stark contrast compared to the wild colours of spring and summer, but nevertheless it was beautiful, especially the sparse sun rays glistening off the frosted surfaces. It added a layer of quiet wonder to the place that he'd always preferred.
But yes, other than the change in the season everything else was just as he remembered.
The narrow stream that flowed to the south was where it was meant to be, housing hundreds of water creatures along its stretch. Several willow trees had their roots planted alongside the glittering silver stream as if purposefully grown there to protect the river from its wild surroundings.
Willow trees weren't the only trees in sight. Alder, Ash, birch, hazel—trees upon trees wherever his gaze fell, all with large, sturdy trunks towering several feet above his head. Even the air smelt the same, fresh and earthy.
And the cottage was where it was meant to be, looking far too maintained for the hundreds of years that it had been abandoned. Magically enchanted rose vines were trailing up its left side, covering it in a bright weave of white, purple, blue, and red.
If Harry squinted his eyes, he could also make out the blueberry and strawberry bushes that served as a back fence for the small home.
It was unplottable Peverell land that he was standing on, a spot in the infested world that he lived in that was completely secluded with nothing but several hundred acres of pure nature separating him from civilisation.
The first time he'd come to this place was when his darling godson, Teddy, had passed away.
Right after Teddy's funeral, Harry had gone back in time to the beginning of the Common Era. He couldn't really recall why he'd chosen that particular time, but once he'd arrived at his destination he'd craved solitude more than anything else.
Death had told him of this piece of land that was magically bound to him, and so he'd made his way through the forest until he found the perfect clearing to build his cottage in.
He'd spent weeks building the cottage with his own bare hands and no magic. Well, almost no magic. The trees he'd felled were large, and he was but one man.
It had been the right kind of therapy he'd needed after Teddy's passing and had helped him get through the worst of his grieving.
Once the cottage had been built, he'd picked the perfect spot in his back garden and conjured a beautiful, white marble monument, onto which he'd inscribed the names of everyone he'd loved and lost so that he would forever remember them and honour their place in his heart.
The cottage had become a place to remember his humble and simple beginnings—his first life—the life he'd had before he finally transitioned into his immortal existence.
He'd spent about thirty years in this cottage, learning everything there was to know about the mind arts and potions. Thirty years of almost absolute solitude, before he'd then set out on his quest to learn everything else there was to learn about the world he lived in and was chosen to protect.
Over the decades, Harry had stopped by the cottage to check on it, and to pay his respects to the people whose name could be found etched into the marble monument. He'd also come here when he felt the need for comfort, and whenever he needed to remind himself who he was.
But he'd always kept his visits short, a week or two at the most. Never wanting to dwell in the past for too long, lest he be sucked back into the black pit of grief.
That, however, had changed that one summer when he'd found himself heartbroken and well beyond devastated. Lovesick fool that he'd been.
The summer of 1945.
After his 'falling out' with Tom, he'd needed the reprieve and solitude this place had offered, the comfort of knowing that time did indeed heal all wounds even if they left scars. So he'd spent the whole summer here, wallowing in self-pity and lost in his mindscape, re-living all his precious moments with Tom.
Or so he thought.
No, so he remembered.
To think that so much could have been different.
To think that he could have avoided so much heartache.
This place had helped him through some of the most agonising periods of his life and had always represented a symbol of hope—the end of something and the beginning of another.
But that had changed now because all it did was remind him of Death's multiple betrayals.
It was hard to process.
He still wasn't completely convinced that it hadn't all been a dream. It just didn't seem like a viable possibility. But short, silky blond curls, crystalline blue eyes, and tangled limbs kept flashing relentlessly in front of his eyes, tormenting him with their vividness.
But those weren't the only memories that taunted him.
There was another memory—one that was perhaps even harder to swallow.
It was the day before the end of the school year.
For most, it was a day of relief and anticipation. Summer was upon them, and studying and homework could finally take a backseat to late mornings lazing about in bed and long days of nothing but leisure.
For the seventh-years, it was slightly different. While they too were looking forward to a few weeks of relaxation after their N.E.W.T.s, this would be their last day as students—their last day to enjoy all that Hogwarts had to offer since most of them would never return.
They would miss it—the castle, their friends, even the professors.
But that wasn't what had Harry in a state of deep melancholy.
Because this was the day Harry had chosen to remove himself from everyone's memories—to make it so that he'd never even been here at all.
And that's why Harry was looking for Tom. He and Tom had been too involved for his spell to work effectively on him, so he had to personally Obliviate Tom and alter his memories in such a way that Harry Stevenson would mean absolutely nothing to him.
Harry had searched the whole castle before he'd wandered to the Astronomy Tower. He hadn't thought it possible for Tom to be at what he'd secretly dubbed as their spot. Not after the way their last conversation had gone. But lo and behold, there Tom was, sitting in his usual spot, taunting Harry with what he had lost.
Was this some new form of torture that Tom had become partial to?
Had he not hurt Harry enough?
Did he want to personally make sure that Harry was broken to his satisfaction?
Harry knew that Tom had been aware of him since he'd stepped foot onto the roof, but Tom had yet to acknowledge him.
Moments went by, neither saying a word. Instead, they embraced the first time in weeks they'd allowed themselves to be in one another's vicinity.
Just as Harry was about to step forward, a whisper reached his ears, a whisper so venomous that it stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Love seeketh not itself to please," Tom recited with his back still toward Harry. "Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."
Harry had never thought that such sweet words could be spoken so mockingly and with such scorn, but after a moment's thought he understood and picked up where Tom had left off, his tone gentle despite himself.
"So sung a little Clod of Clay, Trodden with the cattle's feet, But a Pebble of the brook Warbled out these metres meet: 'Love seeketh only Self to please, To bind another to its delight, Joys in another's loss of ease, And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.'"
Harry chuckled then. It was a short, cold sound that was devoid of any of his previous gentleness
"It's really touching," Harry ground out, "what you thought of our entire relationship. I'm thoroughly enlightened now."
Tom's whole body tensed for a moment before relaxing again.
"I always agreed with the pebble," Tom mumbled, sounding wary.
Harry snorted. "Yes. You've made that abundantly clear," Harry couldn't help but bite out.
"Pleasure of love lasts but a moment, Pain of love lasts a lifetime," Tom quoted factually, completely ignoring Harry's snide comment.
And what was this exactly?
"Are you going to recite every love and philosophy quote you've ever read about? What is this, Tom?" Harry demanded, not in the mood for games.
"What do you think, Harry?" Tom asked him sarcastically. "Do you believe there is any merit to what Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian had to say? Do you believe that I've sentenced myself to a lifetime of this- this wretched pain?"
Harry's breath caught in his throat, surprised by the boy's words.
Suddenly, Tom started fidgeting agitatedly with his fingers.
"I was so sure that I'd made the right choice, so sure that I didn't need you," Tom went on accusingly as if it was all Harry's fault.
Then, almost unwillingly, Tom's voice softened, tinged with a deep and genuine sadness that tugged at Harry's heart. "Have I been a fool? Will it ever go away?" he asked him, still turned away from him, as if afraid that looking at Harry would make him...attack? Kiss him? Apologise?
Tom didn't wait for a reply.
"Every day, for a brief moment after I wake up, I forget. I forget that you're not mine anymore, and I reach out for you. When my fingers find nothing but cold sheets it dawns on me, the cruel reality that you're gone—that you'll never share my bed again, that you won't be sharing a life with me. It's an agonising feeling, this hollow sadness that consumes me every morning like clockwork. And I wonder if it'll ever go away—if I'll ever stop missing you."
Why was he saying these things?
"Stop." Harry had meant for it to come out firm, but instead, it came out as a gasped plea.
Tom finally turned around and faced him, his handsome face set in an expression Harry had never seen him wear before. He looked tired, lost, and confused—desolate—and his eyes were alight with misery, accented heavily by the dark circles under his eyes.
His hair was in disarray, with his curls falling carelessly into his eyes, and his clothes were rumpled as if they've been slept in.
He looked like a train-wrack and Harry could help the deep, spiteful swell of satisfaction that welled up inside him at the sight. It was petty, but it was so gratifying to see that this hadn't been as easy for Tom as he'd made it seem to be.
"Why? Why should I stop? Is this not what you wanted to hear? Did you not want to see me destroyed?" Tom asked him erratically, waving at himself as if to make a point.
Harry almost choked on his shock.
"Destroyed? You? I'm not the one that broke things off, Riddle," Harry reminded him. "Oh, that's right. You didn't really break things off between us, did you? You're too much of a coward to own up to your choices like a man, so you let the rumour mill do the job for you."
Tom looked as if Harry had punched him in the.
"I couldn't face you," he said, "that's why I did it."
Harry didn't follow and Tom must have seen his confusion because he added somewhat uneasily, ashamedly even, "You know, with uhm- Violet—"
"—Victoria," Harry corrected automatically, his green eyes narrowing angrily at the reminder of that pureblood harlot.
Tom cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable and slightly green.
"Yes, her. I knew that if I spoke to you—if I even so much as looked into your eyes, I wouldn't have been able to go through with it. So I propositioned her and led her to that cupboard knowing that we'd be caught."
Harry still didn't hear an apology. He heard excuses of what Tom probably thought were of the romantic variety, but still no apologies.
"And is that meant to mean something to me, Riddle?" he asked him stonily.
Because it didn't change anything. Tom's small confession meant little compared to the betrayal and the choices he'd made.
Tom looked frustrated and rubbed his hand over his face, then proceeded to tangle his fingers into his hair and gave his clutched locks a rough tug. As if realising what he was doing, he swiftly dropped his hand. Tom blinked a few times and shook his head as if to gather his bearings, his face contorted in confusion and indecision.
It was a shocking display of agitation and complete loss of control, and it was honestly slightly discomfiting to witness.
"We're leaving tomorrow," Tom stated with such heaviness that it threw Harry off balance.
"Astute observation," Harry managed to say, trying and failing to sound unaffected.
Tom's lips twitched for a moment before he bit his bottom lip and frowned. "Once we leave these walls I'll have no idea where you are, and I probably won't even be able to contact you even if I did somehow build enough courage to try and write to you."
Facts. Tom was stating facts.
"I won't be the person you tell about your new spells. I won't be the one to make you tea in the morning. I won't be the one to keep away your nightmares. You'll move on. At some point, you'll move on to- to someone else," he said, sounding as if he abhorred even the thought of that outcome.
More Facts. Although Harry didn't know that he'd be moving on anytime soon.
"You'll share your inventions and spells with them. You'll ask them for their opinions and advice. You'll travel the world and find new magics with them, and..." Tom trailed off as if unable to bring himself to finish his thought.
Tom clenched his jaw and turned away from Harry, his gaze locked onto the dark horizon in front of them
For an agonising moment, Harry thought that Tom would stop talking, that he would go back to ignoring him.
Maybe it would have been better if he had.
"I never said it. Never really saw the need for it until you stopped saying it to me every day," Tom murmured, his tone apologetic.
What was he talking about?
Then, in one graceful movement, Tom got up and turned to look Harry directly in the eye, his intense grey eyes shining with determination.
"I'm yours, Harry. As awfully cliche as it sounds, it took me losing you to realise that."
No.
He wasn't allowed to do this. Not now. Not when the memory charm was waiting at the tip of Harry's tongue.
"Don't," Harry growled harshly, but his heart was beating wildly in his chest, entertaining the thought.... "You don't have the right to—"
"It's the truth," Tom interjected softly. "You might not feel the same way anymore. You might not want to hear it. But it's the truth, Harry. I'm yours, have been yours since the moment we've exchanged glares. And I believe that I shall be yours forevermore."
He couldn't mean it, Harry desperately reminded himself, despite hope taking root. Tom was just trying to manipulate him.
"If you'll have me- if all it takes is for me to- to abandon my plan to make more Horcruxes than I'll do it. If it means that you'll be mine, that it will secure your affections for me—if it means that you'll be my family—then I'll do it."
He didn't just say that to him. He couldn't possibly mean it.
But the honesty he saw in Tom's eyes couldn't be faked.
"He's lying, Harry," came Death's voice whispered urgently into his ears.
He'd been so lost in Tom that he hadn't even noticed Death arrive.
"Don't let him do this to you," Death begged him as he felt Harry slipping further under Tom's thrall.
But Harry didn't want to listen to Death.
"Do you mean it? Will you stop?" Harry asked Tom, his eyes never leaving him.
There was no hesitation in Tom's reply.
"Yes. Salazar, Yes," Tom whispered, hastily scrambling forward to get closer to him.
"Merlin. Harry, don't you fucking dare fall for this bullshit trap," Death warned him.
Harry brushed him off and stepped towards Tom, millions of butterflies fluttering in his stomach.
"Then vow to me, Tom. Take a vow that you'll never make another Horcrux."
Would he do it? Was he really choosing Harry?
But before he could hear Tom's reply, he heard Death whisper in his mind, "I'm sorry, Harry," he said, sounding genuinely upset and remorseful. "But I can't let you do this."