Chapter Text
I roam these halls, search the night
In hopes that I may see
A remnant trace, a glimpse of you
I stare into the deep
Saying I know, I know, I know, I know, I know
I know my love can be
The deep stares back, speaks to me
I know my love can be the killing kind
— The Killing Kind, Marianas Trench.
Part I: Summer
Harry Potter loves him.
Tom has never doubted this fact, has never had reason to. Even before those fated words slipped between them—“I love you”—the emotion was palpable, physical.
The feeling is clear in the way Harry’s gorgeous green eyes soften upon seeing him. They ate always eager, always full of joy. Love is visible in the gentle curve of Harry’s beautiful smile, and is audible when the air fills with his laughter, as rich and melodical as the purest of finely-tuned instruments.
Tom could devote hours to poetic descriptions of Harry’s person. From his captivating mind to his alluring physical form, Harry is perfect.
Harry is everything that Tom desires in a companion, in a life partner, and best of all, Harry is his. This is as undisputed as it is certain, much in the way Harry’s love for him is.
Harry loves him in spite of all the differences between them.
Tom is the bastard son of an earl from one kingdom over. He had left his hometown in search of higher accolades, trusting in his talents to deliver him into good fortune. Because Tom has one skill many others do not: he has magic.
This fact he had long since kept to himself, for in the kingdom he was born in, magic was heavily regulated, and children were often indoctrinated into the royal ranks in a wretched form of slavery. Tom had known better, had kept his head down and left the kingdom without trouble.
(No one cared one way or another when another orphanage whelp went missing.)
In the kingdom of Peverell, the royal family are known for kindness and equality. They are a small nation composed of one castle and one main village surrounded by farms and cottages. After making the correct inquiries, Tom found tutelage under the royal sorcerer, Albus Dumbledore. From there, Tom had advanced his way into all areas of the castle and set his eyes upon the only treasure worth having: Prince Harry James Potter.
Harry was friendly, sociable, and well-known for being kind to the staff. It had been laughably easy for Tom to catch him alone.
Tom had introduced himself, leaning heavily on the natural charms that had seen him thus far in life despite his poor social standing.
Harry had been cautious, then surprised, then delighted.
Tom takes pride in his courting of Harry. He had taken great pains to endear himself to Harry’s parents, to reassure them that he was the perfect match for their son. It is a blessing that neither King James nor Queen Lily care for his lack of nobility.
Not that it mattered; by the time of his official introduction to the King and Queen, he and Harry had become inseparable.
Once Harry is of age, Tom plans to propose. Then they will be wed, their glorious union perpetually sealed.
Two weeks before Harry’s eighteenth birthday, King James requests their presence in the throne room.
Tom thinks the summons odd at first, then dismisses them entirely. Perhaps the King and Queen are aware of Tom’s intentions, and this meeting will merely confirm that Harry’s parents approve of the impending marriage.
If not, Tom is not overly concerned, anyhow. Regardless of the King and Queen’s preference, Tom will ask for Harry’s hand, and Harry will say yes.
There have been far too many nobles eyeing Harry as of late. An engagement ring on Harry’s finger will do wonders to dissuade them, and if not, then Tom will find other ways to dispose of these unsavoury suitors.
Harry holds Tom’s hand as they step into the throne room. But when Tom goes to bow, to sink to bended knee, Harry slips an arm around Tom’s waist, holding him in place. There is a gracious smile on Harry’s lips and affection in his eyes.
The intention is obvious: Harry wants them side by side as equals. Tom wants to purr with satisfaction at this, but he refrains from expressing such smugness given their current audience.
How lovely is his Harry, to support him in such a way? How loyal and devoted a man he has chosen for his beloved. Tom wets his lips and turns his eyes to the King and Queen.
“Your majesties,” Tom settles for saying, imbibing the formal address with as much reverence as he can muster.
The King and Queen exchange a glance, their expressions unusually somber. Queen Lily twists her hands in her lap, blinking her lovely green eyes. Eyes inherited by her only son.
Tom feels a dark pit open up in his stomach, disastrous scenarios playing in his mind’s eye. Plans for fleeing the kingdom with Harry rattle around in his head like flighty birds. If he and Harry were to flee, Harry’s parents would come for them, surely. And Tom has nowhere to go, no land or soldiers to offer. No protection other than the magic burning in his blood.
Tom squashes his concerns with ruthlessness, reminding himself of his indifference to the opinions of the King and Queen. Harry may love his parents, but he loves Tom more.
If it comes to a choice, Tom tells himself, then Harry will choose me.
“This is a difficult subject,” says Queen Lily, “so I shall speak plainly. On the eve of Harry’s first birthday, this kingdom was placed under a wicked curse.” She pauses, then, as her husband lays a large hand over her slender fingers as though to bestow her further courage. “This curse will come to pass on Harry’s eighteenth birthday, when he comes of age.”
“What curse?” Harry demands. “And who cast it?”
The tale, they learn, goes like this:
An evil sorceress named Umbridge was caught luring children into her home and turning them into kittens. Some few lucky ones had escaped the sorceress’s clutches. They described a household of fear and torture. She was spurned and hunted by the kingdom for her wicked crimes, sentenced to death by Queen Lily herself. Upon her capture, the dreadful woman had sought revenge on the royal family, cursing their firstborn before she fled the kingdom.
On the day of his eighteenth birthday, Harry will pierce his finger on some pointed object and fall into a deep sleep, taking the rest of the kingdom with him.
The kingdom would have been destined to sleep for all eternity if not for the quick thinking of Sorcerer Dumbledore. With a wave of powerful magic, Dumbledore had altered the curse to include a sliver of hope.
True love’s kiss will break the enchantment and free them all from slumber.
For Harry, this news must come as a great shock. For Tom, whose mind is awhirl with revelations, everything now fits into place.
Harry has chosen him, and so no one can protest his heritage, his lack of noble status. While Tom holds Harry’s love in his hands, the King and Queen cannot say no, for they need Tom to save them.
“I see,” Tom says. Victory rages wild in his heart, sporadic in contrast to his slow, measured breaths. “Rest assured your kingdom lies safe with us, your majesties. I would never part from Prince Harry’s side regardless, but knowing that his family and his kingdom requires my aid provides me with further reason to ensure we remain securely bonded.”
King James and Queen Lily incline their heads graciously, likely convinced that their lives are no longer in peril. Everything Tom has ever wanted now lies within grasp. His marriage to Harry, an entire kingdom indebted to him, and his eventual ascension to the throne.
“You will remain by his side for a fortnight,” King James commands. “And we will take no risks until this damnable curse is put to rest.”
“I would see myself nowhere else,” Tom says. “None shall come to harm while I draw breath.”
Harry shuffles closer, drawing Tom’s attention. Looking over reveals that Harry is beaming with pride, with love. He gazes upon Tom like one would gaze upon a hero, or a god.
Tom soaks in the worship and offers Harry a dazzling smile in return.
Harry loves him. All the rest will follow from here.
The next two weeks pass in a haze of sweet summer weather. Harry takes to running through the garden maze, laughing as he calls for Tom to chase him. It’s unfair, really, because Harry has the advantage of a childhood spent memorizing each twist and turn of the hedges. Tom is forced to keep pace lest Harry slip from his sight and leave him stranded in the network of worn footpaths.
Aside from the game of the maze, Tom alternates between enjoying the warm sun and fleeing for the cool shadows of the castle walls. His lessons with Sorcerer Dumbledore have been progressing with insufferable slowness; Tom is sure that the old man must be hoarding all the best spells and secrets for himself.
If Tom is to learn all the knowledge that Dumbledore has accumulated over a hundred odd years of living, he’ll have to pry tomes and scrolls out of those old, wrinkled hands. Once the ancient fool dies, then Tom will take his place as the royal sorcerer. That position he will keep until Harry inherits the title of King, and then they will rule together.
On the last day of July, Tom is excused from his lessons so he can stay close by Harry’s side.
Guards follow them wherever they go, much to Harry’s irritation. But Harry cannot order them away as he usually does, for his parents have made clear that Harry is to be watched all day, no exceptions.
Harry clings to Tom’s arm and drags him around the castle, chattering loudly about the most inane subjects. Tom knows this is only for the benefit of the guards, so he hums and nods in response, content to let the familiar sound of Harry’s voice fill his head.
Eventually they end up in the gardens, as Tom suspected they would. Harry must plan to lose the knights assigned to protect him in the mess of hedges.
“You’ll get us into trouble for this,” Tom murmurs.
Harry tilts his head to the side and winks. “You won’t tell on me, will you, Tom? By royal command, I must insist you keep this thought to yourself.”
Tom heaves an exaggerated sigh, but secretly he delights in the impish way Harry’s eyes light up when faced with an opportunity for mischief.
Such beauty in those eyes, more precious than any of the rarest gemstones, brighter than any spark of magic Tom possesses.
“Your eyes shine even without the sunlight,” Tom comments idly. “I sometimes wonder if you are the one made of magic.”
Harry flushes, his cheeks dark with the pleasure of Tom’s words. “Your flattery makes for an excellent birthday gift, but don’t think that it is all I’m expecting,” he teases.
Tom grins and reaches a careful hand to brush at the bangs covering Harry’s forehead, tucking the wild locks away for the time being. The hair will slip back down soon enough, covering up the faint, bolt-shaped scar leftover from Harry’s childhood. Tom presses a thumb against the raised skin for the briefest of seconds before dropping his hand.
If he could, he would adorn Harry with his own mark; proof that Harry belongs to him and no other. A symbol of affirmation, evidence that the most impactful event of Harry’s life will always be the day they first met.
“You’ll have your gift,” Tom promises, dragging his eyes over Harry’s body, head to toe.
If not for his magical ability, Tom would have worried over presents. What does one gift to a prince, someone who wants for nothing?
However, Tom can craft the fantastical from the mundane, can conjure resplendent flowers, their petals free of flaws, from thin air. He can offer Harry power that few others can boast of. Power that distinguishes Tom from the rest.
But this time, Tom has something much sweeter planned. He has a beautiful ring, and a promise of their infinite bond.
“I look forward to it,” says Harry, struggling to sound indifferent despite the deepness of his blush. He coughs, clears his throat. “Now, I fancy a good race, don’t you? First one to the hedges wins.”
Tom affects concern, placing a hand to his chest. “I don’t suppose I can deter you from this decision?” he asks. “You must be aware that your mother will remove my head for encouraging your self-endangerment.”
Harry waves an errant hand, wry smile in place. “You worry too much, Tom. Whatever strange ills befall me today, I shall have you with me to kiss me back to good health.”
Harry has forever been too curious for his own good. Living in a castle does wonders for one’s sense of security, but it does little to instill the wisdom of caution. The King and Queen have been lenient with their only son, permitting him quirks and frivolities that would be unseemly in the royal heirs of larger kingdoms.
Thus it comes as no surprise to Tom when Harry tackles him in the middle of the maze, his breathless peal of laughter ringing in Tom’s ears as the air is knocked out of them both.
“Caught you,” Harry whispers, his mouth brushing against the shell of Tom’s ear.
Tom wraps both arms securely around Harry’s waist, holding fast. “Have you? Or have I caught you?”
Harry pulls back, his hair in disarray as he gazes down at Tom. His face is full of suppressed mirth. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
With a heave, Tom rolls them over, caging Harry’s hips in with his thighs and pinning Harry’s arms above. “Oh? Is that so, my dear prince?” Tom drags his thumbs delicately over the inner part of Harry’s wrists, where the veins are faintly visible.
Harry laughs again, then pauses as Tom’s dark eyes trail a path towards his lips. Tom can feel Harry’s heartbeat in the center of each wrist, soft and soothing, each pulse just for him.
Tom tilts forward, dipping his head down so that Harry is forced to meet his gaze. It takes an incredible amount of restraint to hold still, to avoid rolling his hips into the warmth pinned beneath him.
“Perhaps I’ll give you an early kiss for your birthday,” Tom whispers. “Would you like that, Harry?”
Harry’s laughter softens out into a weak chuckle, his lovely eyes wide and fixated on the smirk of Tom’s mouth.
They’ve kissed before—fleeting snatches of romantic moments away from the prying eyes of the castle’s many occupants—but today is a new day, a magical day. Today will see the dawn of a new period in their lives: Harry will become his betrothed as well as his beloved.
“Soon,” Harry says eventually, when the racing of his heart has slowed to an unremarkable pace. “I want today’s first kiss to be when you wake me from slumber.”
Tom can understand this. Now that Harry has suggested it, he even sees it as preferable. Yes, their first kiss today shall be the kiss that saves the kingdom. The kiss that saves his precious Harry from a cursed life of eternal sleep.
“As your highness insists,” Tom says.
But he can’t quite restrain himself fully—he nuzzles against Harry’s cheek, allowing himself the luxury of Harry’s soft, sweat-dampened skin against his lips for a quick second.
“Tom,” Harry whines, shoving a weak hand at Tom’s chest. “I said later.”
Tom hums, but withdraws as requested. “Just having a taste, sweet one.”
“The insolence,” Harry retorts. He sits up, one hand placed on Tom’s chest for balance. “I could have you strung up for this. Or imprisoned. They would not let you style your hair in jail, you know.”
Tom flutters his lashes and licks his lips. There's a faint taste lingering in his mouth that is wholly Harry. “But then who would wake you?”
Harry shifts out from under him, kneeling so that they are facing each other. Tom waits, wondering how Harry will answer, and then Harry moves forward with surprising speed, a coiled snake that has only now decided to strike.
Plush lips land against Tom’s cheekbone, a light touch that freezes Tom in place.
And then Harry is scrambling to his feet, running off, laughing once more as he calls for Tom to follow.
Tom adores the chase. He is the hunter, and Harry is his willing prey. It thrills him to catch Harry again and again—a reminder of how he owns this beautiful boy. From head to toe, Harry is his.
Their footsteps crunch on the gravel paths as Tom seeks the source of Harry’s taunts. He is running, pushing his arms and legs as fast as they can go, prepared to crush Harry in his embrace as soon as he can.
Harry’s taunts lead him deeper into the maze, past the odd, misshapen statues that the King insists are endearing rather than grotesque, past the fig tree that sits in one of the maze’s few open spaces.
“Come and find me!”
Tom pauses, for now he can no longer distinguish which direction the shout comes from. “Harry?”
Harry’s laugh burbles through the hedges. “Given up yet?”
“No,” Tom retorts. Never.
“Then come,” Harry shouts, “and seek your prince.”
Tom listens for movement, for the telltale noise of heavy leather shoes stomping across the pebble-strewn paths of the garden maze.
A branch snaps somewhere to his right. Tom makes his choice and runs for the rightmost path, intent on his prize. The hedges blur into a wash of green, so unlike the beautiful green whose gaze he wishes to capture. Tom cracks twigs beneath his feet as he rushes towards the next intersection.
“Harry?” he calls again.
No response. Tom strains his ears, focusing on his most immediate surroundings. Still nothing, not even the thump of footsteps.
Irritation sweeps through him. The game is no longer a game when Harry refuses to play fair. Especially not today, when Tom is keenly aware of each passing second they spend apart.
“Harry!” he repeats, raising his voice. “Where are you? This is no longer amusing.”
Where are those damnable guards? Surely they must have entered the maze by now. Tom pivots in place, turning a slow circle.
It is only then that he notices the shadow cast by towering hedges. The shadow that, mere minutes ago, had been less prominent. Tom tips his head back and casts his eyes to the heavens. The blue skies are being consumed by a swath of grey clouds. Those clouds have reduced the sunlight to a weak glow.
Oh, Tom thinks. It must be time.
Tom finds Harry sprawled in the center of the maze. Rose bushes abound in reds and pinks, outnumbered only by the multitudes of white lily flowers. Tom is decidedly less disturbed than expected upon seeing his darling prince unconscious on the ground, limbs askew, right arm stretched out towards a vibrant red rose.
Were it anyone else, Tom would have cursed the idiocy of such an act. Why bother with roses when they both knew where it would lead? Pierced skin and a droplet of blood welling on the surface of Harry’s forefinger.
Gazing upon the idyllic scene of Harry surrounded by flowers, Tom feels a puzzling sense of contentment. Harry is beautiful, conscious or not. And now he lies asleep, entirely at Tom’s mercy.
The entire kingdom is at Tom’s mercy—everyone is fast asleep save for him, a stranger from another kingdom. (Of course, Tom is not arrogant enough to believe he is the only foreigner in this realm, but he must certainly be the only one in the castle.)
With no great hurry, Tom steps to Harry’s side, drops to his knees, and gently pulls Harry across his lap. Harry’s brow is smoothed by sleep, his eyelids drooped shut and his mouth slack. Such a pretty mouth to match a pretty face. Tom caresses Harry’s cheek, cupping the warmth there. Oddly, there is no rise and fall of Harry’s chest. Tom slips his hand to Harry’s neck, curiosity driving his fingertips to touch upon the pulse point.
No more pounding heartbeat. No more viscous pump of blood through the veins.
No leisurely breathing, no more life.
Tom is surprisingly calm. He adjusts his hold, cradling Harry more securely, the heavy fabric of Harry’s expensive clothing settling like silk against Tom’s work-worn hands. His lovely, trusting prince. Harry must have thought the roses a romantic backdrop. He must have imagined this very scene: his body limp in Tom’s arms while Tom descends upon him with true love’s kiss.
Perhaps it is selfish of Tom to savour this moment. But who will ever know? It is only the two of them in this maze, after all. The rest of the kingdom has either fallen prey to the curse, or been held off by the impenetrable castle walls.
Tom traces the jut of Harry’s lower lip with the tip of his finger, inhales the mix of smells that is composed of Harry’s scent (intensified by exertion), the overpowering fragrance of roses, and the raw, gravelly earth beneath their bodies.
They could lay like this for hours; Tom would map out each of Harry’s fine features with his fingertips, learning the shape of Harry’s jaw, the strong line of his angular nose, the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest. Tom could lift the eyelids and memorize the colour of those enchanting green eyes.
Every piece of Harry that exists is his to peruse. The information in Tom’s hands is more intimate than the largest library in the world, and the knowledge is simultaneously the heaviest and the lightest burden he has ever known.
“Harry, Harry, Harry,” chants Tom, tasting each syllable on his tongue, rolling the sound of it in his mouth. “Shall I wake you now? My sleeping prince.”
Harry says nothing, but his body is the perfect weight against Tom’s thighs and arms.
Tom exhales a long breath. He strokes a free hand down the delicate embroidery of Harry’s vest, tracing the pattern of the lion stitched on the left side.
No matter how fascinating Harry is in this nebulous form, mind and body trapped between life and death, his consciousness is much more preferable.
Without life, without the animation of Harry’s personality, the physical form is merely a static work of art. Lovely to view, no doubt, and able to occupy Tom’s attention for an extended period of time, certainly—but it lacks the definitive spark that fuels Tom’s earnest obsession.
Harry is the subject of his impassioned infatuation, the cause of his all-consuming need to claim that which has drawn him in. When Tom thinks of Harry, dreams of him, he is struck by a desire more powerful than any magic.
These thoughts in mind, Tom lowers his head and applies a delicate kiss to Harry’s slackened lips.
Then he caresses Harry’s cheek, waiting.
“Harry, darling,” Tom whispers. “It is time for you to return to me.”
The sleeping prince does not wake.
Harry does not respond to the calls of his beloved. His eyes remain shut, his expression empty and lifeless. The heart within his chest remains silent.
Tom kisses him again.
And again.
And again.
And—
A slow tide of horror rises within Tom at each repeated failure. The promised solution is slipping away from him. Harry is supposed to wake with true love’s kiss. Harry must wake up.
The sun, high above, is barely visible through the blanket of heavy clouds; the shadows around Tom are darkening and lengthening with every passing moment. Tom clenches his jaw and curses the day Dumbledore was born, for this failure must lie at his doorstep. Nevertheless, this will not stand.
If not Dumbledore’s magic, then another’s.
If not Tom’s kiss, then his magic.
Determined, Tom draws upon his core, the center of himself that contains his power, and pulls the energy into his hands. He knows no incantation for this, but his will is strong and his intent is infallible.
Life. I will give this body life.
Magic flows like a river, chest to shoulder to elbow to palm. Tom can feel the threads; his awareness of them is the same as his awareness of his own physical form. Magic is a part of him. It lives in his blood and hugs every fibre of his being.
The desire to bestow life becomes a chant in his mind. Create life, give life. Tom will sacrifice years of his own lifespan if it means reuniting himself with Harry.
Life, animation, creation. Awaken.
Tom forces the concepts to manifest, pours his magic out and into Harry’s unresponsive body. Harry cannot remain like this. He cannot. Tom will not allow the most valuable part of his entire existence to become lifeless. His most treasured. The boy who loves him.
Grass begins to sprout from the ground, pushing through the lumpy gravel. Flowers are twisting up around them, blooming, each blossom composed of the most pristine petals, flawless representations of nature’s presence. Vines burst forth, curling inwards, fondling Harry’s arms and legs.
Tom feels his body tremble with strain. The agitation feels unnatural, a creeping itch beneath his skin that he wants to claw out with bloody hands. He wants to claw up all these flowers with his bare hands, to tear the life force out of them and push it into Harry’s frozen heart.
Desperate, Tom kisses Harry again, strokes Harry’s forehead with as much care as he can muster. Why does it not work? Does Harry not love him? Distraught, Tom examines Harry’s peaceful face, wondering if everything he has done has been for naught. Wondering if the very fact he had been so assured of is nothing but a lie.
No, that cannot be.
Besides, he has no time. There is no time to think on that.
Tom must save Harry first, then think on the ramifications later.
Tom scoops Harry into his arms—bridal style—and weaves a careful sling of magic to support the weight. The sling diminishes Harry’s weight to the point where it is comparable to a small child’s. Manageable, given Tom’s weakened state. Tom tightens his arms and looks to the various openings in the hedges.
Now to get out of this damnable maze.