Chapter Text
"It's a good thing you have me to cling to then," Harry says, looking out at the destruction before them, watching Godric's Hollow burn. "If this is how—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "You were so..." Unable to continue, Harry wraps himself in Tom's arms. He can't imagine what Tom would do if he ever truly let go of control.
The depth of Tom's fury had been unfathomable—Harry had felt it—and yet, he had been so, so controlled. The grip Tom had held on his own emotions... It was as if the man had taken a raging storm and forged it into a sharp, steely weapon. It had brought to mind the books Harry had sneakily read as a child about the Greek Gods; Tom is Zeus, his wrath: a mighty thunderbolt.
And he had killed so many of them.
Tom's voice is dry as he draws Harry closer. "I hardly cling."
Harry laughs into his chest. "As someone who has slept in a bed with you before, Tom, I can assure you that you do."
"Can you blame me?" Tom asks softly. "I let go of you for one second and—"
"Hey, none of that!" Pulling back, Harry fixes him with a stern glare. "You can't act like—Look. This was just a fluke, okay, love?" He knows, just looking at him, that Tom is going to be absolutely smothering these next coming weeks. A hovering mess. The idea sends a little thrill down his spine.
"A fluke?" Tom repeats incredulously.
"Yes, it was just bad luck."
"They abducted you. Again!"
"And that's no reason to act as if I could be snatched away at any moment, Tom," Harry chastises, looking pointedly at the hands clutching his shoulders. "It's not like it happens all the time. I've only been abducted like, what, three times? And that first time? That was you," he accuses. "Don't forget that."
"You simply have to know three is above average," Tom says, voice emphatic. "You have to."
"Look—"
"Save it. I just burned down a decidedly prominent Wizarding community to find and save you, darling." Tom's hands move from his shoulders to cup Harry's face; warmth pools in his chest. "The fact I had to do that is not normal."
"You did not have to do that."
"I disagree." The hands holding his face tighten. " Vehemently."
"Oh, I know you do," Harry says, shaking his head free fondly and stepping back. "But you —" he pokes him in the chest for emphasis —"know that I would've escaped eventually."
"I did not know that," Tom says stiffly. "For all I knew, you could've been—"
"What, killed?" he interrupts, crossing his arms. "We both know that can't happen."
"You could've been hurt," Tom sniffs.
"You would've felt it."
"Or put into a coma."
"You would've felt that too!"
"They could've tampered with your mind, modified your memories of me!"
"I—" Harry cuts himself off as he thinks. "Yes, I suppose that could be true." Tom just gives him a look . "You just wanted an excuse to murder the Order."
"Is it so hard to accept that I want to protect the man I love?" Tom asks softly, tilting his head to the side.
Something in Harry melts a little, but it's not enough to derail him. "Did you have to kill them all?"
"You spoke of clinging, before." Tom stares out over Harry's head at the burning village. "I decided to help the Order with that. The fools have been clinging to a dying ideal for far too long."
"And what?" Harry asks. "They needed to be 'let go?'"
"In a manner of speaking yes," Tom says, meeting his eyes, and there's that simmering rage again. "They needed to die."
Harry looks down at where the corpse has crumbled away.
"For their political dissidence, or for touching me?"
There's a right answer here.
Tom provides neither. He waits to speak until Harry once again meets his eyes. "What do you think?"
"I think I should be horrified by what you've done."
"I think you should not limit yourself to 'should be-s.'"
Harry laughs. "Oh, I'm long past those days."
"Good," Tom purrs.
"I think," Harry says, drawing closer, "that ridding the world of these political dissidents was just a happy side-effect to you."
"And I think," he says, reaching forward to run his fingers through Harry's hair, "that you didn't just happen to be in the wrong place and the wrong time."
"Are you accusing me," Harry asks, sounding scandalized even as he leans into the touch, "of arranging my own kidnapping?"
"'Arranging it?'" Tom repeats. "No. Facilitating, assisting, helping... Well, I wouldn't want to assume."
"And yet here you are. Assuming. How rude."
"Would you like to put me in my place?"
Harry laughs delightedly. "Oh, we're playing this game, are we?"
The hand in his hair clenches and pulls his head back. "If you'd like to play," Tom whispers, his breath hot against Harry's lips.
"I would."
The world warps around Harry in the familiar sensation of side-along apparition before they arrive in their bedroom in Riddle Manor. They're on each other then without a word. It's rough and fevered at first, the initial clash of lips and tearing of clothes, but by the time they've made it to the bed, they're both savoring the experience. There, they take their time dismantling the other with precision and care, indulging in the other as if they were a scrumptious meal until they're both panting and moaning and breaking into pieces together.
After, they cling to each other.