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Harry splashed water on his face.
Get it together, man. He gripped the sink and sighed. He looked at his watch. Only two hours left; he just had to hang on a bit longer.
Had it really only been thirty minutes since he arrived? Dumbledore had already cornered him twice with his vague platitudes. How he had found the time, Harry didn’t know. Maybe he had a time turner, Harry thought hysterically. In the mirror, his eyes were black holes. God save him from do-gooders; they made him want to vomit.
Tom Riddle was lurking in the far corner of the room, a pillar strategically chosen to block him from Dumbledore’s sight. He should have booked that holiday to Brazil. Instead he was here being watched by a man who had been looking at him like he was a bomb about to explode for twenty years. He dragged a hand over his face. This was probably what hell would be like: an endless party with cheap drinks, tasteless music, and the only guest you got to speak to was Dumbledore.
It was the annual gala for the Hogwarts fund for the needy, the indigent, and the wretched. The name had crystallised in 1800, when Victorian orphans cried in the cold London streets, drunk on gin after being molested by an uncle who was a blacksmith.
And Tom Riddle, now Junior Undersecretary and poster child for the program, was hiding like a child in the corner. Gripping the stem of his glass, he breathed in and out. The glass broke; he repaired it. Repeat.
If he had known the level of interaction he would have to have with Dumbledore when he was setting out in his political career, he would have chosen another.
Harry Potter, the other poster child for unfortunate orphans, walked out of the bathroom slowly, scanning the room before retreating to the corner of the room.
A general air of shabbiness clung to him and made him unnoticeable to most of the people with enough money to be invited to this kind of event. If he could just reach that pillar, he’d be safe for another twenty minutes. He ducked behind it and crashed into Tom Riddle, who clearly had had the same idea as him.
“Potter,” Riddle hissed.
“Be quiet, I think—” but it was too late. The slim and spry Albus Dumbledore appeared behind them and was patting both their hands in greeting. Again.
“My boys,” he beamed in what Tom felt was maybe the most tasteless set of peach robes he’d ever seen. He grimaced, pulling his hand away and tucking it behind his back.
“Headmaster, how wonderful to see you. You’re looking very well—” he paused, waiting for the compliment to land before continuing.
“I see that the fund has received some excellent donations this year. No doubt a testament to your tireless efforts.” He fought to keep a half smile on his face, but he expected it looked more like revulsion. His irritation at having to praise Dumbledore was deepened by the truth contained in his statement. He was an excellent politician, after all.
Potter was gazing into the distance, mouth tight. Would it kill him to contribute? Fucker.
“Potter,” Tom was going to kill everyone in this room.
Slowly and with great relish.
“I’m sure a man of your particular talents has also been invaluable in the good work of the charity.” Also true. Piss.
Potter’s eyes slid back to the conversation.
“Yeah, I try to do what I can.” He looked distinctly unhappy at the situation. Tom sympathised. All of us poor orphans at the mercy of Albus bloody Dumbledore.
“Excellent, excellent, dear boys. It’s a triumph, a real triumph,” he beamed and clapped Harry on the shoulder hard.
“The work of the foundation is instrumental in removing educational barriers to higher education,” he said blithely. Harry stared at him open-mouthed. Did he not know Harry was on the board with him for the foundation?
He shook his head slightly, never quite sure what amounted to mind games or genuine forgetfulness. Dumbledore was getting on in years, but at eighty should still be in the prime of his life.
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“Well said. Well, I really must introduce Potter to Crouch from the Department of International Games and Sport.” He took Potter’s arm, which was quite firm.
Tom’s role involved a lot of reading publications to try to sense the political climate of the wizarding world. This miraculously had led to him knowing an immense number of useless facts about figures like Potter, who seemed to hold the public in his thrall with his inanities. At Home with Harry Potter, the real story. He bet no one had the real story. Potter’s cageyness spoke for itself.
“Enjoy your evening, headmaster,” Harry squeaked as Riddle hustled him through some French doors and onto a balcony.
“Christ.” Riddle pulled out a box of Marlboro Reds and lit it, his eyes feverish as he took quick puffs.
“I’m sorry about that, Riddle. He probably followed me over. He’s been at me since I got here. It’s coming up to my parents’ anniversary. I think he feels sorry for me.” Harry’s shoulders were tight.
“Don’t worry. I’m well aware of the headmaster’s sympathies; in fact I’m often the recipient of them myself.” He looked out at the courtyard below, winking lights illuminating people mingling amongst large floral arrangements.
“A disgusting feeling, isn’t it, being pitied?” He flicked ash onto what he thought might be Ludo Bagman’s head below. He hoped it was. Tosser.
“Do you mind?” Potter gestured towards the packet and Riddle nodded.
He lit up, exhaling noisily.
“It’s not so much the pity for me. Fucker was in love with Grindelwald, you know?” He wrinkled his nose.
“I always think if he’d been just a year quicker, I wouldn’t even have to be at this event,” he laughed, a little bitterly.
“Also—” he leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you reckon he has a time turner? ’Cause I can’t work out how he’s managed to talk to me three times in the last hour with all the hobnobbing he’s doing.” He shook his head, and Riddle laughed sharply.
“Believe me, Potter. If the headmaster had a time turner, none of us would be safe in our beds. I think he thought about eliminating me ten times at least this evening alone. I am, after all—” he looked deep into Harry’s eyes. “A burgeoning dark lord.”
Harry choked on his cigarette.
“Fuck, Riddle, really? Ever the fantasist, our headmaster. Sounds a lot more fun than being undersecretary though, you must admit. What, what—don’t tell me—” he said, laughing like mad. “You’re still running your little schoolboy militia? Sounds like that’s exactly the kind of thing the future Minister for Magic should be getting up to. It’s pretty much in the job description.”
Riddle barked a laugh at that and they both shot rather manic grins at one another.
“I’ve been thinking—or rather I have been thinking for a long time now—that the wizarding world might require perhaps—” and here he paused for effect. “Another hand to guide it. One could argue, and might very well be right, that some hands have overstepped, and I think that I might be in a position to rectify this. Perhaps with your support, we could make some of the changes we so desperately need.” He blew some smoke in Harry’s face, and it occurred to Harry how dangerous Riddle looked in this moment, head tilted, some alien emotion discernible for a second.
“I take your meaning.” Harry thought of those endless summers at Privet Drive. Perhaps this year would be a bit more exciting than last.
“You can count me in.” Riddle looked a bit shocked at how fast he’d agreed.
“Good, good,” he breathed, smoke curling from his mouth. “I’ll owl you.”
Dear Mr. Grindelwald,
I refer to your request for information regarding your crimes in the United Kingdom in 1981 under the Freedom of Information Act, 1984.
Having examined the available evidence, we move to recommend parole to the United Confederation. Witness statement 69832 has been ruled ineligible, and an inquiry has been launched into record keeping for all associated incidents in the years 1979–1982.
We thank you for your interest and hope you are well.
Kind regards,
T. M. Riddle
Junior Undersecretary
Draco Malfoy flipped through the style pages of Witch Weekly underneath his desk outside Junior Undersecretary Riddle’s office. He hummed and dog-eared a page with magenta robes he thought particularly fetching. It was surprisingly quiet being Riddle’s secretary; the man’s aura served as a barrier to the more menial requests.
He heard someone come into the room and stand in front of his desk. He flipped another page without looking up.
“The undersecretary is not receiving any visitors right now.” The patterns on those boots — very sophisticated.
“Hullo, Draco.” It was Harry Potter. What on earth? He felt a headache blooming in his temples. The Malfoys had seer blood, and Draco fancied that his headaches served as vague warnings for things that might prove troublesome.
“Potter, how good to see you. How can I help you today?” He leaned back in his chair and gave an airy smile.
Potter shifted on his feet, his eyes flicking to the space behind Draco’s head as the door behind him opened. The hair stood up on the back of Draco’s neck. The headache was worsening.
“Ah, Harry, yes — do come in.” Riddle beckoned Harry inside with a wave of his graceful hand, and Potter swanned in — of course he did — all careless entitlement.
For about five minutes in Hogwarts, Draco had nursed an infatuation with Riddle, who had been the Platonic form of male youth: all long lines and sharpness. That had ended when he’d interacted with him. He had one of those faces which simply said kneel. And Draco wouldn’t have minded kneeling if asked. But Riddle was more of a tyrant than anything, and so was of no interest to Draco. Except in the way one might admire a very beautiful and cruel statue from very far on the other side of a room.
“Don’t you have work to be doing, Draco?” Riddle said silkily, and slammed the door.
That Harry Potter — nothing but trouble. Draco stood quietly and pressed his ear to the gap in the door.
Low murmuring. Draco leaned in further, squashing his ear.
“— my… dear… —”
Draco sat back down in his chair quickly. Riddle had an almost preternatural gift for sensing things in his environment. A useful skill, but it led to unwarranted levels of paranoia.
Let the thoughts come, that was what Grandmother Malfoy always said. A statue and a swan? There was going to be a wedding.
Riddle and Potter in love.
He could see it, he supposed.
They were both orphans. They were both of uncommonly grim disposition. Not fun at parties, jumpy. They both scowled a lot. It was coming into focus. Their evenings after work where they probably brooded and skulked around that rat trap Grimmauld Place, moody glances becoming passionless sex in dusty beds. There was no accounting for taste.
He had so much to tell Pansy.
“Glad to have you back in Hogwarts, Tom.” Dumbledore slapped him on the back, and his anger immediately went from simmering to blistering.
He kept his eyes vague, disinterested.
“It’s good to be back, headmaster,” he bit out. Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened for a moment.
“Perhaps you’d like to apply for the Defence position when Moody retires at the end of the year? I’d be happy to write you a personal recommendation.”
Tom sent him a glacial look. He did so love to dig in the knife.
“Perhaps I might find time, headmaster, after I retire from the Ministry.” He lifted a corner of his mouth. Take that. I’ll be here long after you.
“Indeed, I’ve heard lots of things about your work. You must be proud of all you’ve accomplished.” He winked and poured them both Earl Grey from the pot. Tom resolved to vanish it when he wasn’t looking. He shot a dark look at Dumbledore’s bent head, lowered to read some papers on his desk.
Would it kill the man to ask him what kind of tea he’d like?
Dumbledore straightened and passed him a sheaf of papers.
“These are the concerns I’ve been having as the—” This was ruining Tom’s week.
Potter would hear of this.
He rubbed the back of his neck and managed to tune out the majority of the conversation, interjecting every so often with a murmured agreement. His nails bit into the meat of his hands.
He’d make him wish for death.
Dear Albus,
I say dear, for you are as dear to me as mine own heart. I have thought of you often amidst these high stone walls and wish for those happier days of ours. Is our summer cottage crowded amongst violets and clover? These long years I have thought of it standing proudly, looking over our petty kingdom.
I wonder, Albus. Would you permit me to visit you when my parole is granted? I find myself sorely lacking enemies and friends alike. Love may greet us yet with darling buds in the spring. I live in hope.
Yours,
Gellert
They had their heads bent together thick as thieves at the table in the corner of the coffee shop. She’d heard the rumours from Draco, of course, but she’d never thought to lend any credence to the little idiot.
Well, well, well. Not so useless after all, dear Draco.
Still, Potter and Riddle. An odd couple by any account.
By the end of her time in Hogwarts with them, she had thought them so poorly adjusted that they would be bachelors for life. Perhaps with a cat each. Potter had never learned the trick of seeming like he liked anyone he spoke to, a pained smile painting his face with every word, and the less said about Riddle the better. More void than man. She plastered a smile over her face.
Narcissa fluffed up her hair before sauntering over.
“Riddle, I thought that was you.” She opened her eyes wide and gave a small smile. Riddle rarely looked closely at women; it was one of his blind spots. Obsessed as he was with power, masculine brute force, and overt intimidation.
Potter gave her a distrustful look. Well, perhaps they had a whole brain between them. Potter might make a good spouse to the future minister yet — even without his prodigious political clout, which he did absolutely nothing with, the halfwit.
“Narcissa, how good to see you. You’re looking well.” Riddle blinked slowly, seemingly content to let her set the tone of the interaction.
“Black,” Potter nodded at her.
“I hope all is well with you?” She fished for details. True power was gained in the lounges, bathrooms, and bedrooms of the wizarding world, where women sat long after their husbands had retired to the billiards room for port and cigars. She sensed it in the air — a secret worth having.
“We’ve been doing very well, thank you. Harry and I—” here he gestured towards Potter with a lazy hand, “have kindled something of a friendship. We have certain common interests that brought us together. It was fortuitous.”
Nothing. He was giving her nothing. Common interests? Was this how he referred to his homosexuality?
“Oh, do tell, Riddle. You know I love a story.”
His eyes gleamed and he leaned back, crossing his long legs. He’d always been uncommonly good looking, and she was not unaffected by his presence.
“Nothing really to tell. We’re working on a project together, as it happens. Whether it will bear fruit? Who can say.” He shrugged, looking up at her from beneath dark lashes.
He was doing it on purpose. He must be.
“Potter—” she turned and looked at him before leaning in and fixing his collar. Two could play at this game.
“Your collar was crooked.” She smiled, slow and assessing.
Potter blinked, bewildered, and looked at Riddle, whose eyes had narrowed.
“Oh yes, I’m not very good with these things. Tom was planning to take me shopping soon. Apparently my wardrobe does not behoove me.” He looked at Riddle, expression open and fond.
Well, he had it bad at least.
Riddle, however, was giving nothing away; he was looking back at Potter with a veiled expression.
“Well, I really must be off,” Narcissa said brightly, wrapping her violet scarf tightly around her neck.
They murmured goodbyes, and when she stood outside, they had moved closer together, heads bent over again. Severus would be most interested to know of these developments.
Potter sighed as they watched Narcissa walk out of the shop.
“They’ll be talking, I suppose.” He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. Cold. He cast a wandless warming charm on it. It never tasted right afterwards, but it was better than nothing.
Riddle tapped the menu beside them with his wand.
“I’ve ordered us two flat whites.” His eyes were moving over the other people in the coffee shop before he turned his attention back to the papers before him.
Paranoid. But perhaps it was not unwarranted.
“Let’s think a little about our approach to this. It’s best, I feel, to try and get at it from multiple angles. I’ve taken the liberty of expediting Grindelwald’s release at least as much as I can from the British side of things. I know you’re not a huge fan of this part of the plan, Harry, but it is one of his weak spots, and he has so few of those. Do you have any suggestions?” He raised his brows quizzically.
Harry rested his chin in his hand.
“He likes to insinuate himself into things. I wonder if we couldn’t take advantage of that in some way. It would have to be the right sort of thing, though.” He tapped the side of his cup with a spoon, thinking.
“He’s at every event where he would have legitimate reason to be, so I suppose we might leverage that in some way. Neither of us has much reason to be in close proximity to him otherwise.” Two cups materialised in front of them.
Riddle brightened and leaned in.
“Perhaps you should visit Hogwarts to ask him about your parents. It should be sufficiently disarming, I imagine, distracted as he will be no doubt by guilt.” Harry shot him a sharp look.
Riddle held his hands up.
“If you don’t want to, there are other avenues we could take.”
Harry didn’t like the sound of that.
“What were you thinking?” He was beginning to think he was a spectator of Riddle’s master plan. He was very good at it, though. He supposed politicians would have to be. Leave it to the expert, then, and Harry would play his part and enjoy the ride.
“I’m thinking we invite him to a memorial service that we will dedicate to the victims of the last wizarding war. It’ll be good optics with Grindelwald’s release being front-page news.” He hummed.
“I have a particularly concentrated form of veritaserum, which erases the memory of its usage afterwards. It could be valuable to gather some additional intel.” He pitched his voice low. It wouldn’t do to be caught speaking about anything illegal, Harry thought hysterically.
“Right,” he said.
“So you’ll go to Hogwarts then and invite him?” Riddle ran his hand through his hair.
“Sure.” Harry was going mad.
“And do play the orphan card, Harry. We have to get him to attend the service.”
“Good plan,” Harry said inanely.
“I am a master strategist.” Riddle flashed him a charming smile.
Had he really thrown his lot in with this guy? Lunacy. He wasn’t James Bond.
“Now, Harry, we’ll have to get you some new clothes. You’ll have to look your best at the memorial—” and he was off again, plotting.
Harry looked at him and listened, the soft rain coming down outside, the glow of the lamps on Riddle’s hair golden.
Riddle had seemed much more evil from afar. Up close, he was just unusually petty. Although he had come up with the veritaserum plan awfully quickly. Harry shrugged. He would play his part.
Albus,
I implore you. Please respond to my missives. I long to speak to you and my heart grows heavier by the day. At least allow me the chance to speak of the ways I have wronged you, dear heart. Does my wand work well for you still? You have always been my match in all things. Terrible and glorious we were in those early days. I hope to hear from you.
Gellert
Minerva McGonagall intercepted Harry Potter as he was walking up to the castle.
“Harry, how have you been?” She pressed his hand warmly. He’d always been one of her favourites. Small and tired-looking as he had been in first year, he’d blossomed. A credit in part to her oversight, no doubt.
“Professor McGonagall,” Harry beamed. They’d always had an uncomplicated relationship — one of the only adults in the castle who wasn’t personally connected to one of Harry’s parents.
“I’ve been doing very well. I’m just on my way to visit the headmaster. He said he’d found a few photos of my parents when he was cleaning out his spare room. I thought I’d come and take a look at them.” His expression tightened at the mention of his parents.
She smiled kindly.
“That sounds nice. Have you been up to anything interesting lately? I know you’re on the board of the fund. You raised a lot of money this year. It’s admirable. There are students of all years here who walk around in new robes every year because of your work.”
He gave a half smile and rubbed his arm awkwardly.
“Actually, I’ve been arranging a memorial service for the casualties of the last war with Tom Riddle. He’s been really good with the details. Planning of this sort really isn’t my forte. I’m there to add a veneer of respectability, he says.” He shrugged.
Riddle — she remembered him. A few years above Harry. Timid and always watching everything in his first year before he froze over, becoming cold and removed. An excellent student. Slytherin House. A few incidents of bullying in his early years, she recalled. Horace had dealt with them passively, content to let the half-bloods and Muggleborns in his house languish. By the end of his time, he’d had his house eating out of the palm of his hand. She did so love to see it when the cream rose to the top. Even if she didn’t agree with his politics. It was proof that merit could indeed get you places. What had seemed like a distant dream in her youth, with its rampant blood supremacy, had become something of a reality. She was glad to have lived to see it.
“I’ll be expecting my invitation then,” she smiled warmly.
“We’ll be sending them out next week. Myself and Riddle look forward to seeing you. He’s convinced me to give a speech.” He seemed pained by the thought.
“But just between you and me, Professor — he’s a bit mad. Very detail-oriented, a bit scary really, but I’ve enjoyed working with him.” His face had gone a little pink. Interesting. Maybe poor Harry had needed a challenge. After all, the world had never come easily to him.
“Tom was always very exacting—” she emphasised the word. “With his Transfiguration work. A very hard worker, but he put too much pressure on himself. Sounds like he hasn’t changed in that respect. Perhaps he could do with finding a hobby or some other method of relaxation before he has a heart attack at fifty.” She looked at him a bit meaningfully, but bless him, he had that deer-in-the-headlights look he got when the conversation was too far above his head.
“Indeed. I’ll mention it to him. He had been saying something about going to Brazil.” He frowned.
“I’ve never been myself, Professor. Perhaps I should take a holiday too after this.”
“Do, Harry. You could do with a break.” She smiled at him, eyes crinkling. He still seemed so young for all that he was a man of thirty.
“Let me walk you up to the headmaster’s office and I’ll tell you all. I saw Severus sneaking out of Pomona’s rooms the other day. The school year does get very boring, you know.” She gave a short laugh.
“We have to find fun where we can.”
Albus,
Please respond to me. I’m begging you. I know it was my fault, but we both played our roles in the whole sorry mess. Please come and let me see you for old time’s sake. I’m not expecting anything. We can have Earl Grey tea and lemon shortbread. I await your owl.
Gellert
The only dignified form of transport was apparition Tom thought morosely as he brushed dust off his navy winter cloak.
“Riddle, come in,” Potter clucked.
”Let me take that for you,” he hovered and within five minutes, he had made up a plate of leftovers for him and a hot cup of tea. He had gotten to choose too! If Potter replaced Dumbledore in the future, at least he wouldn’t be subjected to earl grey ever again. Small mercies.
Somewhat bemused he sat there taking careful bites while Potter lit a fire and settled down opposite him. Grimmauld place was dreary but Potter kept a good larder at least. The consummate host. For someone so unsociable he was surprisingly good company.
“You may as well call me Tom,” he said, setting his plate to the side and dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
“We are, after all, conspiring together.” He winked.
Harry flushed.
“Well, you can call me Harry, I suppose, then. All this cloak-and-dagger business—it calls for first names, at least.” He stared into the fire determinedly.
“At least,” Tom echoed.
Harry gave him a suspicious look.
“I don’t like that look. What are you plotting now?”
“Nothing at all. I’m just enjoying this excellent dinner and a warm fireside”—and good company, he added silently.
They sat there in silence for a few minutes, sipping their tea.
“All set for next week, then?” Harry ventured.
“I think I’ve got it all worked out. I’ve left a list with Draco for the catering, etc. His spoiled high-society upbringing makes him the perfect secretary for these sorts of things. Goodness knows he’s not good for much else.” He barked a laugh, teeth glinting in the low light.
Harry laughed. Malfoy had always been a dedicated follower of fashion.
“He’s got his work cut out for him, then, with you as a boss. No offence intended. You do have a thing about competence.”
Tom sniffed.
“I’ll have you know it’s very hard to find good help these days.”
“He’d better not fuck it up.”
Harry laughed delightedly. He’d always liked to see Malfoy humiliated, the annoying little twerp.
“Dumbledore has deigned to greet us with his presence, I suppose?”
“He has—and most magnanimous he was about it. I did have to endure a long conversation about my parents and their school days, though. Thanks for that. You owe me one.” He kicked Tom’s foot half-heartedly.
“Bored to tears, I was. He was clutching my hand tight as anything, too. He was asking after you—seemed very interested in what you’d been up to.”
Tom exhaled through his nostrils.
“He knows very well what I’ve been up to,” he bit out.
“I was in the castle a few weeks ago, and he needled away at me for information. It’s like I’m some personal failure of his that needs to be contained,” he said, stressing the last word.
Harry smiled sympathetically at him and kicked at him again with his socked foot.
”Chin up, Riddle. You’re not the only victim here,” he laughed self deprecatingly.
”He does like his grand narratives. It’s probably easier I expect after that business with Grindelwald. He’s the wronged one who could have changed it all if he’d had more foresight. We all have our parts to play. I’m the poor orphan hero,” he gestured to himself.
”And you, my friend got the best part of all. The next villain. He probably feels compelled to stop you and your nefarious deeds. And to be fair you are a bit of a dark horse. Illegal potions, back room deals,” Tom looked outraged and opened his mouth to dispute. Harry wagged his fingers.
”Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you,” he gave him a flinty look before laughing.
”No judgment here. I’ve heard a lot of whispers about you and your career. Charities are surprisingly good places for secrets. Lots of wealthy people with little to do. There’s a lot of wine at lunch,” he snorted.
“The secrets flow with it.” Riddle was staring at him, mouth open.
“Well, I am actually a rich little orphan. They underestimate me.” Harry opened his eyes wide, looking young and innocent.
“I might keep you around after all, Harry.” He slouched, feigning disinterest.
“Oh, I think I’ll be the one keeping you around, Riddle.” He shot him a smirk.
“Is that so? I look forward to seeing you try.” And he laughed; the tension that had been building broke.
Draco had fucked it up. He’d been out earlier in the week—gin and tonics on Pansy’s yacht. His core group of friends: Greengrass, Parkinson, Nott, and Zabini.
Greengrass was a perfect English rose, demure with a biting wit and a complexion like winter cream. He sighed. He’d always been a bit in love with her. Alas, her heart was with the dark and dashing Zabini. He sighed again.
Zabini’s shoulders were a thing of beauty—his doe eyes, the innocent waiting for corruption. He’d be waiting a long time. For all his beauty, he was unaware of the subtleties of those around him. Incapable. So he lounged, and Draco stared at his taut abs above his shorts as they sat in a circle on the yacht, burning with desire for the unattainable.
He had felt extremely sorry for himself, and he’d drunk his gin and tonic fast, and then another, and another, until he was barely conscious, lying on the deck, the stars winking down at him. Desire drowned by self-annihilation.
He dragged himself to work the next morning, half drunk still and bitter. Riddle appeared, talked at him for a while; he tried to keep his eyes from closing. He’d shoved a list at him before marching into his office and slamming the door.
When he sobered up, he panicked so completely he got sick in a wastepaper basket and vanished it. Pathetic.
What was the event he was meant to plan? The list was unhelpful. It said things like catering, guest list, and other things typical for event planning. It was no help. He despaired. He wrote the word occasion? on his calendar.
Riddle sent him an owl an hour later, asking him to book the event space. It was an enormous rose garden in Kent, with gazebos and all the trimmings. It held a thousand guests easily.
Then he did what he always did when he panicked.
He called Narcissa.
It was a wedding venue. He tuned out when she said it was sometimes used for other things. He really couldn’t fuck this up. He’d get the best of the best for Riddle and Potter. And if he thought of it as practice for his own far-off wedding, well, nobody had to know.
He hummed happily and got to work.
Albus,
I received an invitation to Kent. Will you be there? A silly question. You do love an occasion. I am coming; I hope you will talk with me.
Love always,
Gellert
The first clue that things weren’t going according to plan was when Tom apparated to the venue and saw floral arrangements that would be more appropriate at a wedding than a funeral. Staff were running around, putting tablecloths on, setting out the silverware, opening the bar.
Draco was nowhere to be found. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Everything else looked approximately right, and he apparated back to his apartment to dress himself. There was a schedule to be kept.
Harry was running late. He’d woken with a slight sniffle, realized he was out of pepper, ran out to get some with a bagel jammed in his mouth, legged it to get his haircut, and was now back at Grimmauld trying to get his tie to cooperate. There was a knock at the front door, and Harry must have made quite a miserable sight—for Tom immediately took pity on him and did a Windsor knot without saying a word. Misery fought with some fraught feeling which overtook him as Tom leaned in, and he wanted to back away.
“How long have we got?”
“About ten minutes or so.” Tom ran a critical eye over him.
“Where are your cuff links? Also, give your hair a quick brush. It won’t do to be untidy today. It’s key to our dastardly plan. We have to be dressed for it.” He gave a wolfish smile, and Harry felt something cold trickle down his spine.
“Rightio. What was it like being born as an eighty-year-old?” Harry ducked as Riddle gave him a gentle cuff.
“Now, now. I wouldn’t spoil my good work. Stay still and all will be well.”
Finally he was ready, and they gave each other a quick once-over and apparated to the venue.
They were ready.
Guests were milling about the open bar holding champagne glasses dressed to the nines. Making the most banal of conversation Tom scoffed. He pasted a smile on his face when Minister Fudge approached the two of them.
”What a fine occasion, Tom,” he always said Tom as if the name was distasteful to him in some way. He’d take being a Tom over a Cornelius any day. Cornelius was a name that came with expectations.
”Minister, we’re delighted to see you. I see you’re enjoying the champagne. I know how much you-“ he gave Fudge a piercing look and loomed over him.
”Enjoy the finer things,” Tom had been blackmailing Fudge for over a year. He had quite a bit of evidence stashed away as collateral. Everyone had their weak spots. When he ran for minister in two years, he would have no real competition.
”Yes the champagne is quite good, my compliments,” his voice was even but his hand betrayed him shaking as it held the stem of the glass.
”Well I must be off, I see Umbridge wants a word with me. Congratulations to you both,” he hurried off, stumbling a little in his haste to get away.
Harry was staring after him in bewilderment.
“Wow, he really didn’t want to talk to you. What do you have on him? Do tell. I won’t believe you if you deny it. You looked way too menacing.” He took a sip of his own drink, winced, and put it down on a nearby table.
“Bit shit really, isn’t it? Or maybe I don’t really like champagne.”
“I couldn’t say, I don’t drink. I pretend to sometimes and vanish it from my glass. Useful skill,” he said dispassionately.
Harry snorted.
“Figures. You know, McGonagall was right. You really do need to go on holiday or you’ll end up in hospital or something. Here lies Tom Riddle, dead from overwork.” He crossed his arms over his chest, miming being a corpse.
“Stop that at once,” Tom hissed.
“My point exactly.” Harry grinned and smoothed Tom’s lapel, who batted his hands away.
“So how are we going to do this? I haven’t seen Dumbledore yet, but I reckon we’ll have a few windows where we can spike his drink. Then we can just hustle him into a corner, and you can proceed with your questions.”
They both looked around the room, but there was no sign of the headmaster.
“Perhaps you can bump into him when he’s coming out of the bathroom. Or you can say you’re going to get a drink and offer to get him one. That’d probably be easier. The simpler, the better.”
“I’ll say.” And they began to circulate, greeting guests briefly until the room was bursting with people. The pianist in the corner was playing softly.
And then Hermione Granger came up to them.
“Harry Potter,” she smiled widely and leaned in close before looking very put out.
“Why did I have to hear about your marriage from an invitation?”
“My marriage?” he said dumbly, the world sliding slightly off its axis.
“Yes, and to the future Minister of Magic no less. You’ll make an excellent trophy wife.” She crushed him to her chest, and he wheezed, breath coming short.
“Did you know, Undersecretary, that Harry is an excellent cook and housekeeper? He’s on the board of several charities and is excellently positioned to support you in your campaign for Minister in the next election cycle.”
Tom looked as if something was dawning on him slowly, his mind doing complex calculations. He looked slightly constipated, Harry thought hysterically.
When Hermione released him, he found himself held in a vise grip, Tom’s hand like a brand on his waist.
“I am very appreciative of Harry’s many charms, his cooking notwithstanding. Personally, and I know Harry would agree, it was ultimately our values that brought us together. We are of a similar mind on many matters and hope that we can work together to improve the wizarding world.”
“Granger, we’re so delighted that you could be here for us. Truly a happy day.” He patted her on the shoulder. She turned a bit pink. Tom had that effect on everyone, he suspected. Perhaps someone in the Department of Mysteries should study it—the Riddle Effect. He stifled a giggle. He was losing his mind. He would pull it together.
“Hermione. It was a whirlwind romance. We talked at the gala for the orphans, and one thing led to another and—” He gestured at Tom.
“This happened. I couldn’t be happier, really.” Tom leaned in close, ostensibly to kiss his head.
“Keep going. You’re really selling it.”
Harry beamed up at him, the very image of a man in love.
“After all, who wouldn’t love this guy?” He wound his arm around his waist and leaned his head against his chest. With a pang, he realized his words weren’t untrue.
“Who indeed,” Hermione said faintly, trying to comprehend what was going on in front of her.
“Why wait? Life is so short,” Harry continued blithely.
“Enjoy the party, Granger. Come and visit us soon. Please excuse us; we have so many guests to greet.” He steered Harry away.
Where was Albus? There was no way he would miss the wedding of the wizarding world’s darling. He did love a show, did Albus.
Gellert Grindelwald was standing in a darkened corner of the room, scanning the crowd. He’d had two glasses of champagne, eaten a few strawberries, and was enjoying his freedom.
He slurped from his glass. It was quite nice to be unrecognisable in a crowd. His hot blood had been cooled in Nurmengard, and he’d emerged as an ordinary man. He had to wear a monitoring device on his ankle, but this whole freedom thing was shaping up quite nicely. He was picking at a few canapés when a blond young man with blue eyes that were quite lovely barrelled into him. His face was scarlet, and he seemed to be having a lot of trouble breathing.
Grindelwald watched him struggle for a while. He might not be a Dark Lord any longer, but he did love to watch a bit of suffering.
“Are you okay, young man?”
The young man’s face, although still blotchy, was approaching a normal colour.
“The Undersecretary is going to kill me.” He ran his hands through his hair.
“Oh, did you do something you shouldn’t have?” Grindelwald was looking through the crowd again. Where the devil was Albus? Although he did love to be fashionably late.
The young man was muttering.
“Speak up, my hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
“I said the Undersecretary asked me to arrange this event, and I fucked it up completely. I’ll be fired, and I’ll have to sit at home every day and go for luncheons and sit on boards with Potter.” He screwed up his face at the thought.
“I can’t offer you any advice on that. In the old days, perhaps I could have imperio’d him for you, but sadly for me, I am suitably diminished in my old age. Too much killing will do that to you.” He gave a sharp smile.
The young man was looking at him like he was mad. Maybe he was.
“All I wish for today is to be reunited with the love of my life. How one’s priorities can change with age.” He chuckled, shaking his head at the thought.
“The love of your life?”
“We’ve spent more years apart than together, but I can’t look at the ocean without seeing him beside me. I am hoping that it is the same for him, but I do not know.” He looked all of his age then.
“I wish you luck, then.” The young man put a warm hand on his shoulder and held it there.
“Ah, I think I see him. Please excuse me. I hope you will not be killed.”
The string quartet began to play. The guests took their seats, and there was Dumbledore at the podium. Harry and Tom found themselves at the very back, all of them playing their parts. Although Riddle thought he wasn’t the would-be villain anymore, but the symbol of peace, love, and unity in the wizarding world—he and Harry both. The villain redeemed and the almost-hero. A love story for the ages.
“Welcome, my friends, to the happiest of occasions. It is a special day when we come together to celebrate love—the love that these two young men have nurtured in one another. I was delighted to be asked to officiate this wedding. A Headmaster is not supposed to have favourites, but I confess, from their early years at Hogwarts, I have watched them be more than the world wanted them to be: two brilliant men who have changed the shape of the wizarding world for the better. It is not surprising to me that they have found love, companionship, and support in one another. I ask you now to join me in celebrating the union of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle.” Dumbledore clapped his hands.
“Late to their own wedding? No matter. Can someone fetch them? After all, love can’t wait.” Dumbledore’s smile dimmed a little.
Harry and Tom were staring speechlessly at one another at the back of the room.
“Would you like to make a run for it?” Harry kept his voice low.
“Think of the headlines,” Tom hissed.
“I will not be seen to scorn the Boy Who Lived. It would be a death sentence for my career.” He clenched his fists.
“Well then.” Harry looked at him calmly. “Shall we get married, then?” And Tom really looked at him—standing a little rumpled, resolute.
Wouldn’t it be nice to come home to a hot dinner and a warm bed? A steady supply of secrets, a pleasant face, a conspirator. A companion.
“Yes.” He felt a little dizzy, and Harry propped him up, rubbing his back.
“I think they’re waiting for us.” He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Tom’s hair. The hysteria threatened to rise again.
“Let’s go.” Lightheaded, he leaned his forehead against Harry’s for a moment before tugging him down the aisle.
Harry hummed as he kissed his new husband to rapturous applause. He felt him smile as they kissed, and he wondered at the surprises that were to be found in life. He felt quite lucky, really. He’d always liked a bit of danger and intrigue, and well, if that came in the form of a scarily attractive man who seemed to like him—all the better, really.
You really could have it all.
The ceremony was over, and Grindelwald was sitting at one of the empty tables as the staff cleaned up around him.
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to approach Albus in the end. They’d already failed, and he didn’t know whether he could do it again. The whole thing had been folly. His head kept falling forwards into his coffee, and he jerked it back each time.
What did life hold for him now?
Never had he beheld such emptiness, and he wanted to weep for the young man he had been. Hunched over, his head in his hands, he felt a thin hand come down to rest on his shoulder.
He looked up, and they examined one another. The years had been unkind to them, and they’d been unkind to themselves.
“Gellert,” he said, and all he could do was clutch that thin, papery hand in his own.
Dear Undersecretary Riddle,
I hope you and your husband enjoyed your honeymoon in Brazil. I haven’t met you, but I heard that you are responsible for my early parole. You can’t know the gift you have given me. The world seems so much larger to me now than when I was a younger man. Albus asked me to pass along his regards to the two of you. He wishes you every happiness and hopes that Fawkes isn’t making a nuisance of himself. Our tour of the world continues, and we hope to see you both on our return.
Wishing you every happiness,
Gellert Grindelwald