Work Text:
Tom Riddle did not appreciate being interrupted during his evening ritual of brooding over ancient tomes and sipping tea as though he were the world’s most elegant catastrophe.
Especially on a rare day off.
His manor was quiet, too quiet, by ordinary standards, but perfectly peaceful for a man who preferred silence, order, and absolute control.
Which was why, when he heard the faint scrape of a boot outside his study door, he did not panic. He did not even turn his head. Intruders have really gotten bolder as time goes on.
He merely lifted his wand, pointed it lazily at the entrance, and said. “Enter, if you enjoy pain.”
The door exploded inward.
A figure stumbled through, coughing through the cloud of dust. Wild black hair, glasses slipping down his nose, wand raised like he wasn’t sure which end was the dangerous one.
Tom’s eyes narrowed. Almost wanting to roll them. Almost.
Of all people.
“Potter.” He drawled, rising from his chair with predatory grace. “Breaking into my home? Again? How bold. How idiotic.”
Harry Potter did not look intimidated. He looked mildly winded, slightly sweaty, and deeply committed to whatever idiocy had brewed in his mind and brought him here.
“I just need the artefact.” Harry said breathlessly. “Then I’m leaving. Preferably before you monologue.”
Tom’s eyebrow twitched. “I do not monologue.”
Harry coughed pointedly at the two-page speech placed on a table nearby, that Tom had given the last time they’d fought. (...Spontaneously mock-dueled)
Tom’s nostrils flared. “Consider yourself lucky.” He said coldly. “That you won’t survive long enough for one.”
Harry lifted his wand higher.
Tom lifted his.
A beat or silence passed.
One long, thick moment where magic hummed between them, crackling like the air before a storm.
Harry hissed. “Stupefy!”
Tom sneered. “Confringo!”
The spells shot forward-
-and collided.
Light exploded.
The entire study flashed white.
Then gold.
Then green.
Then black.
A roar of magic slammed the walls, rattling the chandeliers, knocking ancient tomes off shelves. Papers flew. Ink splattered. A framed portrait shrieked and fainted.
Tom shielded his face with an arm, wand raised, teeth gritted.
When the smoke finally cleared, he lowered his arm.
His study was… wrecked.
One of his rugs was smoldering.
Books lay scattered like fallen soldiers.
There was a scorch mark on the ceiling shaped suspiciously like a handprint.
But the most startling detail was not the destruction.
It was the silence.
Where Harry Potter had stood seconds before, wand outstretched and expression determined- there was no adult.
No annoying intruder.
Not even a speck of that irritating heroic presence.
But there was something.
A tiny cough.
Tom froze.
Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his gaze to the floor.
There, sitting on his once-lovely carpet, was a small, round, wobbling creature in an overlarge shirt that slid off one shoulder. Chubby fists clutched at the threads. Soft messy hair stuck up like it had conducted electricity.
Bright, unmistakable green eyes blinked up at him.
The baby, who could not have been more than a year old, giggled. A high-pitched squeal that made Tom’s spine stiffen.
Tom’s voice came out flat, hollow, and deeply offended by reality. “…No.”
The baby, apparently moved by divine comedy, clapped.
“No.” Tom repeated, louder.
The baby gurgled, rocked forward, and pitched onto all fours like a curious puppy. He made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a determined grunt.
Tom staggered back half a step. “No, no, no- stay there.”
He pointed his wand sharply at the baby, who paused, blinking owlishly at the tip glowing faint blue.
The baby smiled.
A little drool slipped down his chin.
“Oh, brilliant.” Tom muttered. “You salivate like a waterfall. Fantastic.”
He circled the child cautiously, as though it were a wild animal that might explode.
The baby tracked him with wide eyes. When Tom took another step, the baby squealed again and began to crawl toward him with startling speed.
Tom recoiled. “Do not approach me.”
The baby approached him.
“Stop that.” Tom warned, stepping back again.
The baby advanced like a tiny tank with a mission.
Tom’s composure wavered.
Finally, he hissed. “POTTER?!”
The baby froze, then giggled.
Tom stared in dawning horror. “Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me.”
He lowered his wand.
The baby reached him.
Then grabbed onto Tom’s robe.
And tugged.
Tom stood perfectly still, staring down at the tiny hands clinging to the elegant black fabric. The baby looked up, delighted with his accomplishment. His eyes sparkled.
Actually sparkled!
Tom felt an emotion he rarely experienced.
Panic.
“Let go.” He said stiffly.
The baby tugged harder.
Tom tried shaking the robe.
The baby held on. Tiny fingers of iron. A koala with an attitude.
“Unhand me, you miniature menace!”
The baby only giggled harder, leaning forward-
And attempted to climb Tom like he was a very fashionable tree.
Tom swore softly, under his breath, ancient curses in languages forgotten by time.
He was the Dark Lord.
He had commanded legions during the rebellion.
He had mastered death.
He bent magic itself to his will.
And now…
A tiny, drooling, chubby… Potter… was using him as a climbing frame.
Somewhere in the heavens, Tom was sure a certain deity was laughing at his misfortune.
He lifted the baby awkwardly under the arms, holding him out like he’d been handed a cursed pumpkin.
“Yes. Definitely Potter.” He muttered, noting the bright green eyes, the wild hair, the infuriating persistence. “Wonderful. Just what I wanted. A sticky, uncoordinated version of my... nemesis.”
The baby cooed.
Tom stared at him.
The baby drooled.
A big drop fell onto Tom’s wrist.
Tom stiffened. “…This is a nightmare.”
________________________________________________
Baby Harry bonds with Tom in the worst way possible.
Tom Riddle prided himself on two things. Precision and control.
Baby Harry Potter was the antithesis of both.
He had barely finished muttering ancient diagnostic spells when the child, still held at arm’s length like a dripping muddy potato, began squirming.
“Stop that.” Tom snapped.
The baby continued to squirm.
“Stop. That.”
The baby wriggled harder, tiny hands flapping until one connected with Tom’s cheek in a soft but utterly disrespectful smack.
Tom froze mid-breath. “…Did you just strike me?”
The baby beamed.
Tom closed his eyes, inhaled slowly through his nose, and decided incarceration might be the only appropriate punishment for Potter once he returned to adulthood. Perhaps solitary confinement. In a magically reinforced cage. With no objects left to turn into experimental spells.
He adjusted his grip, ignoring the fact that the baby’s feet were kicking him in the ribs.
“Enough.” Tom growled. “You will cease- ”
He was cut off by a surprised wail.
The baby had twisted himself backward in Tom’s grasp in order to face him fully. Harry’s face scrunched up like a squeezed red tomato, lower lip wobbling dangerously.
Tom’s expression blanked.
“No-” he said. “No crying. You will not- ”
The baby inhaled deeply.
Tom panicked.
“No, no, no. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Merlin’s curse, fine, here- “
He clutched Harry to his chest.
Instant blissful silence.
The baby snuggled in with a happy sigh, one tiny hand grabbing Tom’s robe collar for stability while his head rested against Tom’s sternum.
Tom blinked.
This was… suspicious.
He attempted to pull the baby away.
The baby’s fingers tightened with shocking strength and he made an indignant squeak.
Tom froze again.
“…Did you just imprint on me?” He whispered, horrified.
The baby didn’t answer. Just burrowed deeper, one cheek pressed against Tom’s robes, mouth open slightly, drool imminent.
Tom made a distressed choking sound.
“No. No. I refuse. I am not- I am not suitable for… caretaking.” He shuddered at the very word.
But trying to set the child down resulted in instant, ear-splitting wails again.
Picking him up resulted in immediate bliss.
Tom tested the theory three more times, each attempt escalating in volume and fury until the wails were echoing through the manor halls with the acoustics of an opera house.
Finally, utterly defeated by infancy, Tom held Harry against his chest again.
Silence.
Blissful, warm, sticky silence.
“This is manipulation.” Tom declared. “You are emotionally blackmailing me.”
The baby cooed.
It was the softest, sweetest sound. A little bubbling chirp of contentment.
Tom scowled at the wall behind the baby’s head because looking down at him felt like surrender.
“You are a parasite.” Tom said stiffly. “A tiny, clingy parasite.”
The baby let out a delighted little sigh and patted Tom’s chest with the gentlest slap.
Tom stiffened like he’d been electrocuted.
He tried walking, hoping movement might calm the anxious flutter in his stomach that he refused to call an emotion.
It didn’t matter where he walked.
Bedroom? Baby clung.
Kitchen? Baby clung.
Library? Baby clung harder, as though some instinct told him books were dangerous in Tom’s hands.
Tom attempted logic.
“Potter.” He said, in his calmest, most reasonable tyranny-voice, “There is no benefit to you staying attached to me. I do not offer comfort. I offer doom.”
The baby sucked on the collar of Tom’s robe.
“S- stop that!”
A trail of drool soaked into the expensive fabric.
Tom looked genuinely scandalized.
“You are ruining my clothing. Do you understand? This is tailored wool. Hand-stitched. Do you- are you biting it?!”
Harry, satisfied with the taste of villainous chic fashion, gave the fabric one more enthusiastic nip before resting his face on Tom’s chest again.
Tom exhaled through gritted teeth.
He tried placing Harry in an armchair padded with cushions.
The moment Harry’s little butt touched the upholstery-
Wail.
Tom lifted him again.
Silence.
“This cannot be reality.” Tom muttered. “I am being punished. This is karmic retribution for every single time I laughed at others’ misfortunes.”
With Harry fully latched onto him, Tom attempted to sit at his desk to begin researching reversal spells and potions.
Keyword, attempted.
Every time he lowered Harry even slightly, the baby’s breath hitched into tiny, warning noises- like a bomb preparing to detonate.
Tom stiffened.
“You are not unstable magical material.” He informed him sharply. “You do not need- oh for- FINE. I will hold you.”
He shifted Harry to one arm, picked up a book with the other, and began leafing through pages with visible resignation.
Harry, utterly content, hummed softly.
Tom glanced down.
A soft, bright green-eyed baby was draped across his chest like a warm, heavy scarf. His tiny hand clutched Tom’s robes. His little chubby cheek was pressed against Tom’s sternum. His breathing was slow, calm, trusting.
Trusting.
Tom’s chest tightened in a way he did not appreciate.
“This is unacceptable.” He muttered.
Then Harry reached up with a tiny, clumsy hand and brushed Tom’s jaw.
Tom froze.
His breath hitched.
Harry giggled and gently patted Tom’s chin like he was petting a very confused, dangerous alley cat.
Tom’s face went pink.
Just faintly.
Barely noticeable.
Infuriatingly real.
He cleared his throat violently, trying to banish the heat of... indignation, crawling up his neck.
“This means nothing.” Tom said, to the air, to himself, to the universe watching and mocking him. “Absolutely nothing. I am not- “ He gestured vaguely, “ -bondable.”
Harry made a soft puff of air against Tom’s collarbone.
And in spite of himself, Tom held Harry just a little closer.
Just to keep him from falling, he told himself.
Just for practicality.
Nothing more.
Absolutely nothing more.
________________________________________________
Tom Riddle quickly discovered that researching while holding a baby was not merely difficult. It was physically impossible, mentally degrading, and spiritually corrosive.
He tried everything.
He propped books on stands.
He conjured floating spectacles to read aloud.
He attempted to levitate the baby.
The baby shrieked like he was being abducted by aliens.
“No floating.” Tom muttered, lowering him. “Understood.”
He tried placing Harry in a basket padded with blankets.
Harry screamed.
He tried placing Harry on a premium silk cushion.
Harry shrieked.
He tried setting Harry on his lap while reading-
Harry attempted to eat the pages.
“NO.”
He snatched the book away. Meanwhile Harry became deeply offended.
Tom buried his face in his hands.
“You.” He said in a low, dire whisper. “Are the most high-maintenance magical anomaly I have ever encountered.”
Harry babbled, clearly insulted in toddler-language.
Tom stared at him and pointed an authoritarian finger at Harry. “Do not take that tone with me.”
Harry blew a spit bubble.
Tom cringed. “Disgusting.”
________________________________________________
It got worse.
After an hour of failing to make progress on the reversal spell, Tom stood, setting Harry carefully on the carpeted floor of his study.
“Stay.” He commanded.
Harry blinked up at him. Wide-eyed, cherubic, and deceptively innocent.
Tom turned away, only for perhaps three seconds, reaching for a tome on a high shelf.
Three seconds was too long.
Tom heard the patter of tiny hands and knees.
The soft rustle of clothes.
The determined grunt of an unstoppable baby force.
By the time he turned around-
Harry was halfway across the room, making a beeline directly for Tom’s chair like a guided missile.
“What- no- NO- stop crawling!”
Harry accelerated.
A tiny, chubby blur of determination.
Tom lunged, but Harry swerved like a seasoned Quidditch Seeker and disappeared beneath the desk.
“POTTER.” Tom snapped, dropping to his knees. “Do not go under- ”
CHOMP.
Tom froze.
CHOMP.
Not metaphorical freezing.
Literal.
Bone-deep.
Mind-blank shock.
Baby Harry’s mouth, warm, gummy and drooly, was clamped firmly on the toe of his clean, polished, hand-crafted, dragonhide shoe.
He gnawed contentedly, tiny fingers gripping Tom’s ankle for leverage. Drool poured down in slow, tragic rivulets, soaking into the expensive material and forming a small puddle on the wooden floor.
Tom stared straight ahead. “…No.”
He looked down.
Harry grinned around the shoe, chewing with blissful enthusiasm.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
He tried to shake his foot gently.
Harry chomped harder, eyes shining with the unholy joy of destruction.
Tom made a sound of sheer betrayal.
“Potter, release my footwear at once!”
Harry shriek-laughed and drooled even more, biting with renewed vigor.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am being eaten alive by a toddler.” He murmured to no one. “This is how my legacy ends.”
Finally, he reached down, hooked his hands under the baby’s armpits, and lifted him away from the crime scene.
Harry dangled in the air, still making a chewing motion, mouth open, drool dribbling freely.
The whole front of his shoe glistened.
Tom’s eye twitched. “I am incinerating these.”
Harry giggled and kicked his tiny legs.
Tom held him carefully away from his body, like one might hold a wet, dirty cat.
“You are a danger to personal property. And floors. And, oh Merlin, stop wriggling, you’re going to- ”
Harry wriggled harder, and Tom almost dropped him.
“ -fall.” Tom hissed, clutching him closer on instinct. “Fine. Fine. Come here.”
Harry immediately latched onto Tom’s collar and shoved his face into Tom’s neck.
Tom’s entire spine went rigid.
“No. Not there. That is- no. That is a sensitive- POTTER.”
Harry burrowed happily, breath warm against Tom’s skin.
Tom made a strangled, undignified sound.
He marched over to the nearest armchair with the stiff posture of a man trying very hard not to feel anything. Sitting down, he adjusted Harry awkwardly until the baby was on his lap.
Harry promptly seized two fistfuls of Tom’s robe and attempted to climb upward.
“Stop ascending.” Tom commanded.
The baby ignored him and latched onto the top lapel of Tom’s garment, pulling himself closer until he was chest-to-chest again.
And then-
He sighed.
A soft, content, tiny puff of air against Tom’s sternum.
Tom’s heart did something alarming.
Unapproved.
Unwarranted.
Unwanted.
Warm.
He scowled at the wall to reassert dominance.
“You are horrible.” He told the baby.
Harry cooed.
“You are soggy.”
Harry burbled.
“...And you smell faintly of mashed fruit.”
Harry giggled into Tom’s collar.
Tom’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack.
“You don’t even have dignity.” Tom muttered. “Or coordination. Or- why are you petting my face?”
Harry’s hand, tiny and warm, patted Tom’s cheek in a slow, affectionate rhythm.
Tom stopped breathing for a full second.
Harry patted again.
Tom felt himself heating from the inside out.
“I- stop- this is emotional warfare.”
Harry, the accomplished general of the baby army, shoved his forehead against Tom’s jaw in a sticky, drooly attempt at a cuddle.
Tom’s glare burned the wall.
“I am not susceptible.” He muttered. “I am not soft. I am- WHY ARE YOU LICKING MY ROBE.”
Because yes- Harry had leaned forward and very slowly, thoughtfully put his tongue on Tom’s robe.
Licking as if test-tasting the most exotic fruit on the market.
Tom nearly levitated from horror.
“No. Cease. Everything. Immediately.”
He wiped the drool with his sleeve, then immediately regretted touching it.
Harry, undone by his own excitement, squeaked and kicked his legs rapidly like a hyperactive frog.
Tom ran a hand down his face. “I need that reversal remedy. Now.”
But Harry, safely plastered to him like a clingy koala with the saliva content of a slug, clearly had other plans.
________________________________________________
Tom Riddle had faced Aurors, assassins, ancient curses, and eldritch horrors.
None of them prepared him for bathing a baby.
He stood in front of the marble bathtub in his private washroom, sleeves rolled up, wand in hand, baby Potter squirming in his other arm like an eel that had recently discovered chaos.
Harry was currently fascinated with Tom’s hair, grabbing fistfuls every time Tom tried to lower him.
“Release me.” Tom ordered, prying a tiny fist open. “I need both hands. You are- Stop that. Stop TOUCHING my EAR.”
Harry giggled.
Tom shivered.
He had no idea what to do with something that found ear-grabbing entertaining.
The bathwater steamed gently. Perfect temperature. Lavender-scented. Tom had standards, even for temporary gremlins.
He knelt with Harry balanced against his chest.
“Right.” Tom muttered. “In you go. Behave.”
He lowered Harry.
Harry made the most delighted squeal Tom had ever heard.
Then-
SPLASH.
The splash went straight into Tom’s face.
He sputtered, fell backward slightly, and wiped water off his cheeks with the dignity of someone trying very hard to pretend that had not just happened.
...Clearly the menace of a baby loved water.
Harry slapped the water, sending another geyser upward.
“STOP. SPLASHING.” Tom snapped.
Harry splashed harder.
Tom stared at the ceiling in exasperation. “This is punishment for every moral failing I’ve ever committed.”
He reached in to wash Harry’s hair, but the baby kept grabbing his wet fingers, chewing them, or wiggling so fiercely Tom almost toppled into the tub.
At one point Harry seized a handful of Tom’s robe sleeve and used it as a sponge.
Tom froze mid-motion.
“You are going to die as soon as you are an adult again.” He said calmly.
Harry smacked the water one more time.
Tom sighed so deeply it could power a windmill.
Eventually. After many splashes, several near-drownings (Tom’s, not Harry’s), and one moment where Harry attempted to drink the bathwater. Tom got him clean, bundled him in a towel, and picked him up.
Harry immediately wrapped his wet arms around Tom’s neck and pressed his dripping face to Tom’s shoulder.
Now Tom was almost completely soaked.
The towel wasn’t covering Harry half as much as his cuddle was soaking Tom.
Tom stood stiffly, water dripping off his collar. Down his shirt.
“…I loathe you.” He whispered.
Harry made a tiny, content “Mmph.” and snuggled closer.
Tom’s throat made an involuntary, alarming swallow.
He exited the bathroom like a defeated soldier returning from war.
________________________________________________
Food, Tom assumed, would be simpler.
Tom was wrong.
After conjuring a highchair (which Harry looked at with deep betrayal), Tom prepared mashed carrots and oatmeal, the least offensive baby-safe options he could think of.
Harry stared at the spoon Tom held.
Tom stared back.
“Open your mouth.” Tom said firmly.
Harry pressed his lips together like a tiny defiant dictator.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “You cannot win this.”
Harry’s eyebrows lifted in silent challenge.
Tom, refusing to be outmaneuvered by a toddler, guided the spoon toward the baby’s mouth.
Harry turned his head.
The spoon smeared carrot puree across his cheek.
Tom inhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. We will attempt again.”
Spoon.
Approach.
Turn.
Splat.
Carrot on the other cheek.
Tom gripped the edge of the highchair so hard a crack formed in the wood. “Open. Your. Mouth.”
Harry frowned suspiciously at Tom’s tone, then- unexpectedly- opened his mouth.
Tom blinked in triumph and delivered the spoonful.
Harry accepted it.
Then spit it directly onto Tom’s robes.
Tom froze.
“That.” He said. “Was intentional.”
Harry squealed.
Tom felt his soul leaving his body.
By attempt four, Tom was wearing more food than Harry had consumed. His wet, yet elegant black robes were streaked with orange, his sleeves smeared, and a glob of oatmeal clung to his hair.
The baby, meanwhile, was delighted.
At one point Harry grabbed the spoon himself, shouted something baby-ish like “DUH!” and swung it with reckless abandon.
Splat.
Carrot puree hit Tom square on the nose.
Tom blinked.
Slowly.
Mechanically.
“Potter.” He said in a low, shaking voice. “This is not war.”
Harry reached toward Tom’s nose with sticky fingers.
“No. Don’t- ”
Squish.
Harry patted Tom’s face, leaving a warm, slimy carrot handprint on his cheek.
Tom stared into the middle distance.
He had never known defeat like this.
After an eternity, Harry’s energy waned. He rubbed his eyes. Head drooping. Little fists opening and closing.
Tom softened imperceptibly. “…Tired?”
Harry made a small, whiny noise of agreement.
Tom picked him up. Harry immediately molded to him like a sleepy koala, sticking his warm face into Tom’s chest.
The carrots smeared against Tom’s robes. Again.
Tom’s eye twitched.
He lifted Harry more securely, despite everything.
“It would be easier.” Tom muttered. “If you were a basilisk.”
Harry made a drowsy sound that suspiciously resembled “Mmm.”
Tom did not think too hard about the odd fond warmth blooming in his chest.
________________________________________________
Tom took Harry to the guest room farthest from his study, conjured a crib, and changed him into conjured clean pajamas.
The pajamas were soft. Ridiculously soft. Mint green with little golden snitches embroidered on them.
Harry looked unfairly adorable.
Tom felt personally attacked by how cute this tiny menace could look.
He placed Harry gently in the crib.
Harry blinked up at him.
Tom nodded, dignified. “There. Sleep.”
He turned to leave.
Harry made a sound.
Not a scream. Not a cry.
A tiny, wobbling whimper.
Tom froze.
He turned slightly.
Harry’s face had crumpled. Eyes glassy. Hands reaching. Lip trembling.
Tom felt something stab him in the heart.
“No.” He whispered. “Do not… do that.”
Harry whined again, soft and pleading.
Tom closed his eyes.
He should leave.
He should ignore it.
He should maintain emotional boundaries.
He did none of those.
He sighed, a long, quiet exhale, and lifted the baby out of the crib.
Harry immediately tucked his head under Tom’s chin, cheek pressed to his throat, warm breath tickling Tom’s skin.
Tom sat in the large armchair by the window, cradling him awkwardly at first.
But Harry shifted.
Moved.
Settled.
His little hands found the lapel of Tom’s robe and held tight.
His body melted against Tom’s chest.
His cheek rested right over Tom’s heartbeat.
A tiny sigh escaped him. So content it hurt.
Tom stared at the opposite wall, expression stunned, muscles rigid.
Then...
Very slowly.
Painfully.
Carefully.
Tom’s hand came up and rested on Harry’s back.
Just to hold him steady.
Just to keep him safe.
Just...
Harry snuggled deeper.
Tom exhaled, quiet and defeated.
“Well.” He whispered, barely audible. “This is… somewhat tolerable.”
Harry breathed a sleepy puff against his collar.
Tom closed his eyes.
Maybe…
Maybe just for a moment.
He stayed there, still as stone, holding the tiny, warm, sticky creature who had somehow conquered him more thoroughly than any battle.
________________________________________________
By the time the moon rose high over the manor, Tom Riddle felt like he had aged several decades.
Baby Potter slept in Tom’s arms, drooling gently onto his robe- again- and Tom sat utterly motionless in the armchair, afraid that any movement might wake the tiny tyrant.
This was not his life.
This was not his destiny.
He had not clawed his way to the apex of magical power to become a... he swallowed, a caretaker.
And yet here he was.
He glared down at the sleeping child.
“You will never hear this.” He whispered darkly. “But I truly hope the adult version of you appreciates the hell you have put me through.”
Harry, being unconscious, blew a small spit bubble.
Tom sighed with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had fought fate and lost.
Across the room, the cauldron holding the completed reversal potion gave a soft chime.
Tom hesitated.
He could leave the baby sleeping for a bit longer.
He could take twenty minutes of silence.
He could-
Harry stirred.
Tiny fingers latched onto Tom’s robe again.
Tom froze, heart lurching in pure panic.
“No. No. No, no. Sleep. Go back to sleep.” He bounced the baby lightly, awkwardly.
Harry snorted and went limp again.
Tom exhaled in relief.
…All right. He’d brew five more of these potions if it meant not waking the gremlin.
But he forced himself to stand, cradling the baby, and walked to the cauldron.
The finished potion glowed gold.
Tom muttered. “If this doesn’t work, I’m throwing you in the nearest orphanage.”
Harry drooled on Tom’s shoulder.
“Stop doing that.” Tom hissed.
He dipped a small ladle into the potion, let it cool, and then, carefully, held the spoon to Harry’s lips.
“Drink.” He instructed.
Harry didn’t drink.
Harry licked the spoon.
Tom’s face twisted. “Not- no- ingest it, don’t lick it like a goat. Open your mouth. NO, NOT THE SPOON- ”
Harry tried to bite and swallow the miniature sized dessert spoon.
Tom nearly lost all sanity.
After an embarrassing amount of effort, Tom managed to tilt the potion into Harry’s mouth.
Golden light flared.
Harry levitated to fifty centimeters in the air. Tom stumbled back in alarm.
The baby’s form shimmered, stretched, expanded, like an eldritch horror.
And in the next moment, Tom was staring at an adult Harry Potter sitting on the floor in oversized baby themed pajamas, blinking like he’d been hit by a flying cauldron.
Harry rubbed his eyes. “…What the hell just- Tom?”
Tom glared. “You are banned from magic forever.”
Harry blinked again. “…Are those carrots on your face?”
Tom stiffened. “…No.”
Harry leaned forward, squinting. “They’re absolutely carrots. And...” He pointed accusingly. “Your robes are wet.”
Tom’s entire posture went rigid. “Silence.”
Harry, still very much in baby themed pajamas, looked around the room. “Where are my clothes? Why am I dressed like a cheerful cupcake? Why does everything smell like lavender? And, oh Merlin, what happened to your shoe?!”
Tom looked down.
His shoe was still soggy and badly gnawed.
A tragedy.
His face went blank with trauma.
Harry burst out laughing.
It was loud.
It was wheezing.
It was uncontrollable.
Tom’s eye twitched. “Stop.”
Harry got worse.
“STOP.”
Harry clutched his stomach. “Y- you b- ” He gasped, sliding to the floor in hysterics. “You saved me. You BATHED me. You FED me. You held me. Oh this is- Tom Riddle, the babysitter!”
Tom’s voice dropped to a level of threat Harry had rarely heard. “Potter. If you do not stop laughing, I will reverse the potion and leave you as an infant until you are twenty-five.”
Harry continued laughing, now nearly crying.
Tom pressed his lips together in a thin line, trying not to throw a hex out of sheer embarrassment.
Finally, Harry calmed enough to sit up.
He glanced at Tom.
Really looked at him.
Tom was tired.
Like, visibly tired.
Hair mussed.
Robes wet.
Carrot stain on his cheek.
One shoe ruined.
Sleeves wrinkled.
Expression slightly wild.
Harry’s laughter softened into a grin. “…You took care of me.”
Tom folded his arms. “I kept you alive. That is not the same thing.”
Harry’s grin widened. “Still counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
“You carried me.”
“I transported you.”
“You cuddled me.”
Tom made a strangled sound. “We are NOT using that word!”
Harry sat back, smirking. “I think this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me.”
Tom shot him a glare. “Do not mistake necessity for fondness.”
Harry raised both eyebrows. “Fondness. Wow. Didn’t know that word was even in your vocabulary.”
Tom pointed at him like an offended cat. “Enough.”
Harry laughed again, softer this time.
Then he pushed himself to his feet, brushed off the ridiculous pajamas, and looked around the room.
“So… what now? You going to Obliviate me, so I forget this and your reputation stays intact?”
Tom scoffed. “You would enjoy that too much.”
Harry shrugged. “Maybe over tea we can negotiate. I bet this is worth at least a week of immunity.”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “You think you can blackmail me.”
Harry grinned. “I know I can. I have drool-based evidence.”
Tom went silent.
Deep, still, calculating silence.
Then-
He stepped closer, leaned in just enough to feel threatening, and murmured. “If you ever bring this up in front of anyone… you will wake up transfigured into a decorative garden gnome.”
Harry nodded solemnly. “Yeah, okay, fair.”
A beat.
Then Harry smirked again. “…So. Which part was worse? The bath? The carrots? Or the shoe?”
Tom’s face contorted like he was reliving war trauma. “GET. OUT.”
Harry laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’m going.”
He walked to the door, still wearing baby themed pajamas with tiny snitches on them.
Tom watched him go, expression torn between murderous and exhausted.
Just before Harry stepped out, he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, Tom?”
Tom glared. “What.”
Harry’s smile was infuriatingly warm. “…Thanks. For… you know. Not letting me die accidentally.”
Tom froze.
Harry winked and vanished down the hall.
Tom stared after him.
Then he muttered. “I regret every moment of my life.”
________________________________________________
Harry padded halfway down the hall in the oversized, mint-green baby pajamas, still grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary (and then blamed Tom for it). The snitch embroidery shimmered every time he moved.
Tom, probably still in shambles, stood frozen in the study. A monument to disbelief, carrot stains, and suppressed violence.
Harry paused his walking.
A flash of mischievous genius came to his mind.
He turned back around.
And leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed.
His grin widened, wicked and bright.
“Oh- one last thing.”
Tom narrowed his eyes with the sharp, slow dread of a man who had suffered enough for three lifetimes.
“…What.” He hissed.
Harry’s eyes glinted.
“Let’s do this again! Next time…” He tapped a finger to his chin in faux contemplation. “…you’re the one getting magically shrunk down.”
There was a moment of pure silence.
A moment for processing the absolutely ridiculous words spouted.
A moment in which Tom’s soul visibly left his body.
Then-
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Tom snapped, voice cracking. “POTTER, IF YOU CAST- POTTER- COME BACK HERE!”
But Harry had already turned away, laughing boomingly as he jogged down the hall.
His voice echoed back, cheerful and merciless. “Better start practicing your baby talk, Tom!”
Tom inhaled sharply in horror. “POTTER! I WILL END YOU!”
His shout reverberated through the manor halls-
-but Harry’s laughter remained louder.
Tom stood alone in the still somewhat ruined study, looking like a villain who had just seen his own nightmare flash before his eyes.
“…Never again.” He whispered to the empty room.
But deep, deep down, in a place he would never admit existed.
He wasn’t entirely sure if he believed himself.