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He runs into a dead end. That is his first mistake. He thinks to flee upwards but already, spells come raining down from above. With a flick of his wand the wall in front of him disintegrates, the bricks flying over his head, shattering as they block the onslaught of attacks and simultaneously making way for Harry to escape. Another flick, and the bricks collide with the chasers behind his back. He dodges a spell from the left, blindly casts a shield to the right and throws himself through the hole in the wall he made, smoke and dust giving him cover from the masked madmen, though also obscuring his sight.
He finds himself in a backyard, footsteps and angry voices closing in from all sides. Breathless, with trembling hands and heart he straightens and spins, thinking of a safe place, anticipating the twisting sensation of being sucked through time and space - but it doesn't come. There's barely a second for him to be confused before he is surrounded by a dozen wands pointed at him. His heart tattoos against his ripcage as his throat tightens around thinning air.
"Can't apparate?" The sneer comes from a woman with wild dark hair peeking through at the seam of the mask. Laughter, taunting and cruel resound all around him. They have him cornered, trapped and alone and for the second time, Harry thinks, they might have the upper hand and his luck is finally running out. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees lines and curves in intricate patterns glowing beneath their feet. Runes, wide in diagram drawn beforehand at this spot, planned for Harry. Deliberately, he moves into a fighting stance, his holly wand lifted and pointed at the witch.
"If I can't apparate, neither can you."
Spells on the tip of a dozen tongues yet before they leave any lips a loud explosion rips them apart, the ground cracking, crumbling, raising dust and smoke, the runes flashing as they're broken. A blur of black catches his attention before he feels a hard grip on his arm and the familiar tug of side along. Then he's gone, a high-pitched furious screech in his ears.
The world spins in a whirl of colours and lights, disorientation pulling at his body, a strong hand holding on to him. When it stops he stumbles out of the man's grip, blinking his eyes open, his heart thudding erratically in his chest. For a split second, for a miniscule moment that he'll never admit aloud, he thinks it's Tom who's saved him. He cannot block the thought and hates his heart for betraying him when all he's doing is living to banish Tom from every fibre of his being.
So he blinks dust and foolish hope out of his eyes and takes in the man in front of him.
The stranger is cloaked in black, immaculately so, with a fashionable three part suit underneath and polished shoes. His gaze is intent on him, framed by strong brows and perfect coiffeur. Concern is edged into the hard lines of his face, his lips – the wizard‘s poise and his every movement imposing. He looks like a man of authority.
He looks like a pureblood, Harry thinks, a pang seizing his chest.
In this moment, everything about this man, from his striking appearance to the simple fact that it's not Tom, reminds Harry of Tom.
He swallows the heartbreak threatening to choke him and casts a look around. They're in some backalley, vacant and quiet. If it's still London, he can't say that he recognizes the street.
The stranger's voice, smooth and heavy coloured with an American accent, pulls him out of his thoughts. "We're in the Muggle part of the city."
He meets the man's eyes, studying the crease of his forehead and the hand sheathing the wand up the sleeve of his coat. At the sight, his legs give in, body concluding before his mind that danger is averted, and they're safe for now, if the stranger were to be trusted. Constant vigilance, he reminds himself, but the exhaustion overwhelms him and his instincts tell him to relax. Groaning, he grabbles for his wand that has fallen out of his trembling hand, too tired and in pain to use wandless magic. Now that the adrenaline recedes, everything fucking hurts so much.
He blinks against the growing headache. "Thank you…for getting me out of there."
"It was a close call."
Harry looks up at the man, his mind slowly catching up and starting to ask all the necessary questions about what and where and most of all, who this man is.
The effortless confidence and power he exudes, the fine cut of hair and clothes, the intensity of his eyes zeroed in on Harry. It's familiar yet different. It could have been Tom, sided with him instead of against. He shuts down his train of thoughts before it can rip his heart open again.
"I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
The wizard offers him his hand to help him up.
"Percival Graves."
Percival Graves, the Director of the DMLE of MACUSA, Harry realizes fast, is a remarkable man. Aside from his impressive career, he works his magic with exquisite speed and competence, with or without a wand. There’s a might in the way he holds his weapon, and himself, an intimidating attractiveness drawing attention and commanding respect even from his enemies despite themselves.
Since the unfortunate demise of a dozen aurors due to an attack by the radicals that left only one survivor of Harry’s team (himself) the aurors of MACUSA answered to the Head Auror Scamander’s call for temporary aid until they’re recovered from the loss. The present is dire with the uprising of pureblood supremacists and growing terror attacks on Muggles.
As it is, Harry and Percival end up partnered on more than one occasion – and they work well together.
Both of them drive on great instincts and a naturally strong magical core, but where Percival has refined his art through decades of experience and tactical thinking, Harry is a force of chaos and improvisation. When mashed together, they complement each other with direction and creativity, respectively.
It’s a good match, Harry mentally notes, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he has another masked idiot at point-blank, stripped off his wand. Glancing at Percival, he catches a smug glint in his dark eyes, the line of his mouth softening almost unnoticeably at Harry’s stare. It suits him, he thinks, victory adding to the man’s posture and gaze. With an easy wave of his hand, the mask flies into Percival’s hand, revealing,
“Rabastan Lestrange,” Harry says, glaring. He’d feel more satisfaction for catching one of the worst of the pureblood bunch if this face didn’t remind him of some of the most horrible deeds caused by Lestrange’s hands.
“You’re under arrest. Incarcerous.”
Lestrange gasps as the ropes pull at his arms and legs, his visage twisting with fury. “Curse you! You fucking mudblood, you th-“
“Oscausi!” Percival shouts, sealing the man’s lips – but Harry is faster in shutting him up with a hard punch to his face. It sends Lestrange flying to the ground, his cry of pain muffled by the spell and a bruise quickly blooming on his jaw.
Harry shakes out his hand, a bout of rage surging through his body. “Don’t you dare think for a second you’ll get away with this,” he snarls, “don’t think for a fucking second that we won’t make you pay for every single life that you destroyed. Fuck you-!”
“Harry.” Percival stops him with his palm against Harry’s heaving chest, his dark eyes boring into Harry’s. It stings. It stings that it doesn’t matter how many they manage to catch, their numbers keep growing and so does the amount and the cruelty and senselessness of their crimes. He wished the arresting would make him feel gratification and victorious, yet it just leaves him with the realization of the heavy burden of a work that never seems to end and the painful reminder of all who’ve suffered by their hands.
He stares at Lestrange writhing on the floor, considering giving him a piece of his own medicine.
“Harry.”
Fury rips through his limbs, his heart, a hundred curses ready on his lips. It’d be easy.
“Harry!”
He blinks against the sting behind his eyes, returning his gaze back to Percival. Harry’s taut against Percival’s hold, his jaw ticking with tension, with frustration.
“Let it go.” He’s not worth it.
Something cracks in Harry. For a moment, his face twists up in pain, the familiar pressure in his eyes threatening to spill – but he gets a grip of himself, stepping back from Percival to take a deep breath. And another.
Percival moves into his space, slowly lifting a hand to cup the back of Harry’s neck. It’s startling, though not unwelcome. The warmth seeps into his skin, the light caress of his thumb on the back of his head soothing.
He’s close now, his intense eyes filling up Harry’s vision, coloured with deep concern and understanding. “Are you okay?”
Letting out a shuddering breath, he nods at last. “I’m fine. Let’s get back to the headquarter.”
“It’s like they’re singling you out.” Percival contemplates him from his seat by the door, his legs crossed and the point of his polished shoe drawing lazy circles in the air. Harry looks him up and down, wondering if he spells his clothes and hair to stay as immaculate as they are. No one looks so perfect after battling the shit out of his enemies. Heck, compared to him Harry appears like he took a deep-dive in a dumpster.
Flinching at the sizzling spark from the healer’s wand, he huffs. “Why would they?”
It’s been another day of terror and arrests, and as so often it ends with a trip to St. Mungo’s. Unnecessary, really, if you asked Harry. It’s just scratches and a light concussion at most, nothing an afternoon nap couldn’t cure. But in this he has to accept defeat against Percival time and again, the older man insistent, stubborn to a ridiculous degree when it came to post-battle-check-ups, especially Harry’s. He’s made it a habit to accompany him to the hospital, if only to make sure he doesn’t skive off. Resigned, Harry thinks Percival knows him too well for the short time they’ve been acquainted.
Taking care of your health is a priority of your duties as an auror, Percival would say, talking like he’s had this conversation with countless younglings under his supervision before. As if Harry were a rookie. Though he can’t deny he’s looking up to his senior not with a small amount of admiration and respect, regarding him as a mentor, he’d like to believe that they’re equal partners. A small smile tugs at his mouth as he watches Percival casting imaginary lint of his cloak with his wand. On his collar, the scorpion pins scintillate in the light. It suits him, Harry muses, getting lost in the motions of Percival’s hands moving along the seams of his clothes. The fine details to his appearance, the flawlessness.
“I’m asking you that.”
“Hm?” Harry blinks out of his thoughts, stretching his arm as the healer tells him to.
“The Death Eaters.” Percival puts his wand away, folding his arms while he penetrates him with his auror’s gaze. “Do you have history with them? They seem to hold a special grudge against you judging by the way they aim for you.”
With a swallow, Harry averts his eyes and shrugs. Inside, his heart cracks and splinters, plummeting to his stomach. Hurt is so easy to dig out. Just a hint, a comment in passing and his heart trembles with emotions. Don’t think about him. Till now, he’s never detected him in any of the attacks, but that means nothing. His ex has always played the high games instead of swimming with the small fish. For all he knows – and he knows so little, doesn’t know him at all even though they used to be each other’s worlds – Tom is running their sick organisation by now. The idea makes his guts turn. Don’t think about him.
“I don’t know.”
Percival doesn’t push, though Harry can feel his scrutinizing gaze on him for the rest of the examination.
This time, it’s a political attack. Like a snake’s tongue, the fire whipped through Minister Crouch’s mansion, pressing against every crack and window, crushing stone, setting everything alight. It raged like a living thing, ravenous and consuming. Fiendfyre is unforgiving. By the time they manage to put it out nothing is left. Smoke rises up the remains of the Crouch’s mansion, the trees scorched and the lane blackened. The aurors are gathered around, their eyes set on something above the ruins, struck silent.
High in the sky, a large skull glares down at them in an eerie green, a serpent coming out of its mouth. It glows in the dark, taunting and foreboding. A shudder runs through their ranks, chill settling deep in their bones.
“What in Merlin’s name-“
“What’s the meaning of this?” Someone asks.
Harry stares at the mark, the hollow eyesocks of the skull burning into his mind, the gaping mouth and vulgar snake all but sneering at him. The attack on a high ranking minister, the gall of it, the lack of remorse as seen in every one of their actions. Harry clenches his jaw.
“They’re getting bolder. Something’s changed.”
“They’re past hiding and working in the shadows.” A grim look crosses Percival’s face. He points his wand at the skull, white light gathering at its tip. Wordlessly, Harry copies his motion. For a second, bright light accumulates at their hands. Then, as one, they let the shimmering balls free, bouts of shooting stars punching holes into poison green until the Dark Mark dissolves.
When all light vanishes from the night sky, all that’s left is the taste of smoke and ash. The cold seeps into his heart, making a bed for itself and darkness creeps up his vision. Harry blinks against the exhaustion, tightening his trembling grip around his wand. They were late this time, arriving at the scene when the deed was done already and there was nothing left to save and no one left to arrest. And yet… Harry casts his eyes around. A showcase such as this. Surely they wouldn’t want to miss the reaction to the Dark Mark? Still blinded by the lights prior, Harry moves away from the group of aurors, wandering to the edge of the burned down estate and squints into the dark. Mist has risen, mingling with the smoke. The noises from the others become distant and his joints ache as he starts down the hill. In the back of his mind, something tells him to get back to his team and not be reckless all on his own, in his tired state. The voice sounds awfully a lot like Percival’s. Brushing it off, he moves onward.
For a while, nothing.
Then – a gust of wind swoops past him, parting the wall of mist and smoke in front of him. It pulls him back to alertness, pulls him out of his thoughts – and takes his breath away. There he stands, tall and dark and silent as death. He's wearing one of those stupid masks, but Harry knows it's him without seeing his face. He’d recognize him anywhere. He knows it’s him. Merlin, he knew it was Tom, before he set out to search around in the depths of the night. He just knew, that’s why he went to look. Because he can’t believe it until he sees it for himself, he can’t believe how he could have ever erred in a friend like this. Now he has proof right in front of him that it was Tom who cast the mark, Tom and his like-minded murdering madmen who cause this hell, and it breaks his heart all over again.
As they stare at each other, Harry waits for the familiar rage to rise up in him, to raise his hackles and spit fire. It’d be better than this, the silence broken only by the sound of their aching heartbeat. The quiet looks that are further away from hate and scorn than he’d like to admit. The unspoken that is so loud between them it hurts worse than any curse they could throw at each other. Even through the mask and the abyss of disagreements dividing them, he sees his Tom and misses him. The truth is that in this moment, Harry hates himself more than he could ever hate Tom, for not having been able to stop him going down this path.
His voice breaks as he chokes out a whisper, “This isn’t you.”
“Harry.” Harry startles. It’s not Tom calling out for him, but Percival. Tom’s gaze shifts to the person approaching them behind Harry, turning hard. Percival is coming fast, his wand lifted readily. Wide-eyed, Harry whips around to stop him. Yet before Harry can say anything, a loud crack resounds and when he looks back Tom is gone.
With a thud The Prophet lands on Harry’s desk, effectively burying the report Harry was writing on. Surprised, he glances up to find Percival stopping in front of him with flying coat and flashing eyes. There’s thunder in his gaze, his voice, the tip of his wand that is pointed not at Harry – never at Harry – but at the papers.
“Is this him?”
With a glance Harry reads the headline.
Undersecretary saves the life of the Minister of Magic. Below, familiar eyes stare right back at him, framed by his obnoxiously handsome face. For a second, Tom’s look lingers as if he can see Harry right through the papers. In the next instant, the fake smile reaches his eyes to fool the rest of the world while he shakes the hand of the Minister of Magic with an air of appropriate respect and subservience.
“The part of Death Eaters you’re supposedly not having history with? The masked man at Crouch’s estate?”
Harry scowls at Percival. Seeing Tom’s visage everywhere this morning has turned his mood sour enough. He doesn’t need Percival to get on his case, too. It doesn’t surprise him that Percival has caught on to Tom – there are few things that escape this auror’s observation. Instead of answering, Harry draws his wand.
“Incendio.” The fire crackles satisfyingly as it eats up the headline and Tom’s stupid face. Harry smiles darkly staring into the flames – then he panics, hastily pulling his report out from under The Prophet to put the flames out before they can destroy the hours of written work. Raising his palm, Percival slowly closes his hand into a fist and the fire follows, simmering down until it’s gone. A beat passes, in which Harry can’t help marvelling at Percival’s easy display of wandless magic. It comes to him like breathing. And the fact that he uses it out of convenience and not because he wants to show off, makes it all the more admirable and cool. There’s attractiveness to maturity that certain individuals lack.
“Harry.”
“So what? It’s history. It doesn’t matter.” He doesn’t matter. But the words ring false in his own ears, his chest constricting as the truth protests in his bone and marrow and soul. It does matter, it does hurt, and Harry hates that he can’t simply hate him and forget him and turn Tom Riddle into a meaningless name that is not tattooed on his very heart permanently.
Percival regards him, reading him like a book torn open at the mere mention of Tom.
“Come on. Let’s go for a drink.”
“It’s barely noon.”
“You look like you need it,” Percival counters with the sternness he always carries when dragging Harry to the hospital. Sighing, Harry acquiesces.
"Two firewhiskey." Percival flags down the waiter.
"I know what you're trying to do," Harry says, eying him warily.
A handsome smirk spreads over Percival's face as he leans forward, tilting his head. "And what would that be?"
"Filling me up to get me talking."
"Is it so hard to believe that I just want to have a drink with my handsome partner?"
Though Harry knows Percival's just joking he can't help blushing at his words. He cocks an eyebrow, smiling. "Whose company you enjoy so very much?"
"Immensely." His gaze lingers on Harry, soft and warm. It's so different from the usual look of exasperation, concern and scorn. It suits him. Harry could get used to it.
Whether this is a date under the pretence of an interrogation about Tom or the other way round, Harry isn’t sure. He indulges Percival either way, maybe because he’s needed to talk about Tom with someone anyway. Or maybe because it feels good, having Percival’s undivided attention on him, with firewhiskey burning under his skin, and his partner’s dark eyes riveted on him.
Harry stifles a yawn when the elevator opens, cursing, when he sees who enters. He should have known this would happen. They do work for the ministry after all. Immediately he makes to leave, tiredness giving way for tension and ire, his gaze fixed somewhere past Tom's shoulder. But Tom blocks his way with his arm, forcing Harry's eyes on him while the door dings shut again. Fantastic. They're alone in the elevator and there's nothing except for a few inches of thickening air keeping them from murdering each other. Already, he can feel his blood pressure rising and his face heating.
"What the fuck are you doing.”
His glower is met with a glare, Tom's piercing eyes scanning him up and down. Harry refuses to budge when Tom takes a step forward, crowding in on him.
"We need to talk."
"You think a closed confinement of one square meter is a good place to talk? I'm leaving."
"Harry-"
Harry whips his wand out, pushing it against Tom's jaw.
"I'm leaving. There's nothing to talk about."
They're close now, huffing their annoyance into each other's space. For a split second, he thinks to drop his wand to punch Tom out of his way - but his ex, instead of answering, pushes a button and the elevator lunges sideways. At the sudden motion, Harry stumbles right into Tom's arms. A curse catching in his throat, he hurries to shove him off to no avail. Already, Tom has his wrists tight in his hold pulling him closer until their chests are almost touching.
"Tom- let go!" Harry gasps as Tom leans in, his breath fanning over his warm cheek, tickling the lobe of his ear when he speaks.
"You're right. This isn't the place to talk." He can’t help the shiver running down his spine at the proximity, the goosebumps awakening following the tease of Tom’s lips grazing his skin, his voice dark with warning – and something else he refuses to acknowledge.
Again, Harry loses balance as the elevator comes to a halt and he's dragged outside by Tom. As they walk down the unfamiliar corridor, Tom sadly dodges his stunning spell, easily directing his hand the other way while keeping his steely grip on Harry.
A door opens at a wave of Tom's wand. He’s barely registering that it’s an office – probably Tom’s – when he is already pulled inside and pressed against the closed door. Pulse racing and breathless at the manhandling, Harry can't help being reminded of all the times they snuck through Hogwarts past curfew, hiding in empty classrooms and closets for some privacy.
Tom used to press him against the door – or any flat surface, to be honest – in the same way, his grip always a bit too tight, too possessive, and Harry used to love it.
Now, however, there’s no hint of the mirthful anticipation, no silent laughter and breathless kissing that used to be their companions. Tom’s hands are scorching against his bruised skin, the heat building between their bodies holding no trace of their past affection. His look is searing and Harry hopes his own glare is just as burning, just as soul-branding.
The room is silent except for the sound of their heavy breathing, his heartbeat loud in his own ears. He’s stopped struggling, trying to find footing and a clear head amidst the tumult of Tom invading his space.
He wants him gone, out of his sight. His heart squeezes. He wants these feelings for Tom silenced forever. He swallows as Tom’s thumb rubs over his fluttering pulse, holds his breath when slowly Tom let’s go to cup Harry’s face, his gaze falling to his lips.
Harry’s wrong – this encounter is not so different from those back in the days after all. The caress, the heat of their bodies and his intense stare. The striking beauty of Tom, despite the growing coldness in his eyes and the lines of his face.
It hasn’t extinguished.
It’s unbearable.
With a gasp, Harry drops his wand from his freed hand to form a fist, punching Tom like he’s been wanting to for ages.
Groaning, Tom stumbles back, cradling his cheek.
Shaking out his hand, Harry takes a deep breath. “You’re right. We needed to talk. With my fist in your face.”
Tom scowls at him. “Only you would abandon your wand to fight like a damn Muggle.”
“Don’t worry. I do that on special occasions only.”
With satisfaction he watches a bruise blooming on Tom’s face. He really should have done this sooner. Tom clenches his jaw, exasperation evident in his eyes.
“You’re always so reckless, Harry. You need to be more careful!”
“Did you drag me here to tell me this?”
Incensed, Tom pushes into his space.
“You keep running around, throwing yourself into trouble for a lost cause-“
Always harping on the same string. Harry bristles. “If you say lost cause one more time-“
“What else should I call it when it’s true?” Tom throws his arms up. “Aurors keep dying left and right. Your numbers are dwindling. When are you going to wake up, Harry, and see the futility of your organization? Minister Fudge is losing. Don’t throw your life away so foolishly.”
“I’m not-!” They glare at each other, chests heaving, almost touching.
Not another step. Not another second in the presence of this man. He doesn’t need to justify himself, doesn’t need to hear the pureblood bullshit from Tom again.
“I don’t have to listen to this.” Harry calls for his wand, feeling it flying into his hand. With the other hand, he turns the doorknob behind his back. But as he pulls the door open, Tom slams it shut again.
“I’m not done yet!”
“What? What’s left to say? We’ve talked about this a million times before! Frankly, I’m fucking tired of this!”
“You don’t get it!”
“What don’t I get?” Harry shouts into his face, his blood boiling. “What do you want?!”
“I want you by my side!”
Harry’s heart plummets. At a loss of what to say – he’s done with Tom, he’s done he’s done he’s done – Harry shoves him hard, but Tom takes a hold of his arms, shaking him, so close now that their noses are almost touching. Harry’s breath hitches.
“You don’t understand,” Tom presses on, his grip tightening painfully, “the ministry is falling. The reform of the Wizarding World is near.” A manic smile forms on his mouth, his breathing picking up. Pupils blown, Tom’s eyes drops to his lips. For a moment, Harry thinks he’s going to kiss him. But he doesn’t, and his gaze softens, losing the mad glint as he lifts it to meet Harry’s. “You’d do better by my side.”
Harry swallows, blinking at Tom. Sweat pools at his temple and under his arms. He feels hot all over. From the proximity, from Tom’s words. From all the pent up emotions threatening to boil over. His heart beats painfully against his ribcage as he hurtles the next comeback at Tom, the truth of it ringing bitterly in his ears.
“Which side? The one where your fiancée Bellatrix Black is plastered to you?” He shrugs Tom’s hands off. “Or the other where you’re sucking up to the Minister of Magic, literally the guy whose downfall you’re instigating? ‘Undersecretary saving his life’ my arse…”
Tom’s eyes narrow. “You know very well they are just means to an end-“
“Oh, does Black know that? I bet she’d be delighted to hear.”
Tom clicks his tongue in annoyance, starting to pace up and down in front of Harry.
“She knows it’s an arrangement, nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” Harry scoffs. “It’s a bond for life, old as time, arrangement or not.”
“It’s not her,” suddenly, Tom rounds on Harry, his eyes livid, “that I want, Harry.”
It’s you, rings loud and clear in the following silence, unspoken, and yet. His words are meaningless at this point. They were the moment Tom got engaged to Black and went on to find a place amongst the pureblood radicals. They were the moment he chose his ambitions over Harry, the moment he chose murder and hate over reason.
His words are meaningless to Harry. He steels his heart once more, brushing off his voice, his eyes, his touch. There’s no give and take between them anymore. Only spitting fire and the taste of ash left in the wake of their awful break-up.
“I don’t care what you want, Tom. You don’t care about what I want, either.”
“I’m offering you a chance for a place in our new society, by my side. Incidentally, it would also help keeping you alive.” Leaning back, Tom looks him up and down, sneering.
“But no, you’d rather run around as a living target, is that it? Is that what you want?”
Baring his teeth, Harry pushes away from the door, pointing at Tom. “If that’s what it takes to save innocent people from you mindless zealots.”
Tom bores his eyes into him, his nose flaring. Despite himself, Harry wished Tom would at least try to deny the terror attacks, showing some form of shame and remorse. It would hurt less than this apathy and the digress that follows.
“Is it that American?”
“What?” Harry frowns. Percival? What does he have to do with anything?
“Does he incite you? That Percival Graves.” Once more Tom closes the distance between them, gaze intent on Harry. “Director of the DMLE, MACUSA’s Head Auror, the nation’s hero.” He recites his titles with obvious disdain. “He was supposed to return back to New York a while ago, and yet he stayed. I wonder why? What is he planning? What is he telling you?
“What- he-“
“What are you up to?”
“We aren’t up to anything!”
“I find that hard to believe, seeing as you two spend an awful lot of time together. Fighting crime, patching each other up after battle,” Tom cocks his eyebrow, “going out for drinks.”
“That’s not –“ Harry gapes at him. “Are you spying on me?”
“That’s hardly necessary since it’s obvious for everyone to see.”
“What is obvious?”
A beat passes while Tom lets his gaze roam over Harry.
“It’s obvious you two are fucking.”
For a second, Harry is rendered speechless, his face heating up.
“So this is what it’s all about. All that ‘I want you by my side’ bullshit.” He shakes his head, his indignation growing, frustration flooding him in waves. “You’re just a jealous prick sniffing around the life of your ex, not standing seeing someone else entering my life,” Harry bites out, glaring at Tom. “Percival Graves is none of your business.”
Tom remains unfazed, pausing. Then-
“Are you going to leave with him?”
“Merlin, you’re so blind, Tom. So fucking blind.”
“Answer the question, Harry!”
“Fuck you, Tom. I don’t have to tell you anything. Leave me alone.”
“Leaving you alone will get you killed!”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
They’re going in circles.
Simultaneously, they both take a deep breath. Tom closes his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is calm, almost pleading.
“Harry, I need you to come with me. Just this once, this once. Listen to me.”
“No, you listen. I’m saying this for the last time. You’re not a pureblood, Tom. You aren’t one of them. Neither am I. If you want to keep lying to yourself, do it alone.”
Tom doesn’t stop him this time when he turns to the leave the room. A few paces into the corridor, Harry comes to a halt and leans against the wall, short of air, his heart hammering wildly in his chest and his eyes welling up.
They get separated. It happens so fast. One instant, they’re back to back, fighting the Death Eaters off while Macmillian evacuates the Muggle house. The next moment the earth quakes and splits right between them, making them lose their balance. All of a sudden Harry is faced with Tom. A cry makes Harry whip around, horror filling him as he watches Percival falling, his right arm blasted off and blood flying everywhere. So much blood.
“Percival!”
He casts a slow-motion spell at his partner, then a protection charm stopping the onslaught of curses, neglecting his own. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a flash of red light, about to hit him. But a shield stops the spell. Astonished, he looks at Tom. Though masked, Harry can see his scowl, tension and fury rolling off him in waves, cresting at the tip of his wand. Yet he saved Harry from further attacks, for all the world to see. For all of his pureblood friends to witness. Before Harry can make to stand up, Tom has him at point-blank, the protective shield gone, shaking his head in warning. Move and he’ll strike.
“My Lord- aah!” In the blink of an eye, Tom has struck down another Death Eater. Silence falls upon them as Tom steps towards Harry.
Though his voice isn’t raised, the warning is unmistakable, leaving a chill in its wake and stopping the Death Eaters in their tracks.
“I said he’s mine.”
Harry stares wide-eyed at him, trying to process what’s happening. Tom, putting a claim on him, keeping everyone else from killing him – commanding them. Tom, so obviously, undeniably angry at him, his every movement spelling danger. Yet Harry is frozen to the spot, his heart in his throat and his magic waning while he tries to keep Percival protected from further harm.
Percival.
With a gasp he turns to assess the state of his partner, motionless and pale as death, the flow of blood slowed down, so that red floats rather than sprays out of him. His heart drops at the sight. He’s dying.
“Percival!”
“You can’t save him.”
“No-“ Suddenly, phantom hands close around his neck, choking him slowly. Panic seizes him as he can’t see a way out. If he raises his wand against Tom now, the protection around Percival will be lifted and he’ll be hit by the flying curses. If he doesn’t move, though, Percival will bleed out and Harry himself will be killed.
“You can’t save him. He’s as good as dead. Protecting him is futile.” Helplessly, he watches Tom approaching, his black cloak whipping about his form. He’s changed. The way he holds himself, the way the other Death Eaters cower and subtly bend their heads when he walks past them.
He’s two steps away, then one, then none. The tip of Tom’s wand pokes Harry’s jaw, forcing his head upwards, the pressure around his throat rising. He blinks at Tom, his vision beginning to blur as it becomes harder to keep upright.
“So why,” Tom digs his wand further into his skin until it leaves a mark, “are you still trying to save him instead of yourself?”
“Why,” Harry chokes out, “haven’t you killed me already? Agh!”
It’s painful. The constriction around his throat, his knees digging into the broken asphalt, his trembling hands white-knuckled, bleeding around his holly wand. Tom’s eyes, dark and cold as he stares down at Harry. Phantom hands may squeeze the life out of him eventually, but what kills him is the look he’s given, the utter heartbreak of seeing Tom like this – like he’s not his Tom anymore, unrecognizable, from his looks to his actions. It hurts, the hole Tom tears into his heart time and again, in moments such as these, when Harry is unguarded, breathless and lost, a friend dying a few feet away.
Feeling his energy dwindling, he closes his eyes, a tear escaping his lashes.
For a second, he believes it’s over. But a touch, feather-light against his cheek, startles him back into awareness. Confused, he blinks up at Tom, panting yet still drawing breath. Something shifts in Tom’s gaze. And for an instant, he sees a flash of red in his eyes. It could be exhaustion, a play of light, Harry cannot tell for sure. But something shifts and Tom’s touch is warm despite everything – and Harry is still alive.
“Please,” he gasps, “please-“
Tilting his head, Tom crouches down, his wand still boring into his jaw while his other hand creeps to the back of his head, his fingers running through Harry’s hair.
“Please what?” He whispers. His eyes gleam through the mask. Tom has always loved it when Harry begged.
“Please don’t kill Percival. Kill me, but let him go. Please.”
Suddenly, the phantom grip and the wand are gone. Instead, Tom has his own hand wrapped around Harry’s throat. The protection shield around Percival wavers.
“I ask you again, why you’d give your life for that man.” He leans into his space, his voice dripping acid. “What is he to you?”
“A- friend-“ Harry chokes out, “Tom. Please, you can kill me, but let him go.”
Tom scoffs, shoving him as he releases Harry and straightens, leaving him coughing. “You never listen, Harry.” Taking a step back, Tom looks down on Harry and heaves a deep breath. “It’s not your death that I want.”
It’s not your death that I want.
He stares at Tom, letting his words sink in. Not your death that I want. For a moment, he takes in the whole scene. The street split open. Harry and Percival on the ground, surrounded by Death Eaters who all seem to be waiting for Tom’s order. He sees the protection globe above Percival shaking with the force of the curses hitting it, with Harry’s own exhaustion as he can barely keep it up anymore. And amidst it all, Tom stands before him, waiting, waiting for Harry against all odds. What does he want from Harry?
He despairs, watching the protection around Percival slowly disintegrating while the Death Eaters keep on attacking his unconscious friend. He despairs, glancing between Percival’s dying form and Tom’s cold demeanour while he trembles, on the verge of unconsciousness himself. One word from Tom and this could end.
What does he want from him?
Not your death.
Harry’s gaze mists over. “Please!” he gasps out with a shudder.
“I’m yours.” He beseeches Tom with his eyes. “I’m yours. Let him go and I’m yours.”
At that, Tom raises his hand and the onslaught of curses on Percival cease. Harry collapses, darkness creeping into his vision. He grasps Tom’s cloak when he looms over him, trying to catch his eyes. But it’s all a blur. “Please, Tom, he needs to get to St. Mungo’s…” he pleads one last time, before losing consciousness.
The birds are flying low. Waves break against the dock, water splashing high as the wind picks up. Above, the clouds are grey, heavy with rain and thunder. It smells like a storm.
Harry finds Percival standing at the edge of the water, peering down into the dark blue. Wind whips about his form, tousling his hair, his coat flapping behind him. On his right side, the sleeve is tucked up neatly. Harry feels a pang in his chest at the sight. As he nears, he sees the tiredness written on his partner’s face, the dark rings beneath his eyes and hollowed cheeks though he stands as tall and strong as ever. When he looks up a smiles pulls at his lips, melting his face into something soft and warm he’s scarcely witnessed on Percival. It suits him, Harry thinks wistfully, if only he had more reasons and occasions to smile.
Drawing the collar of his cloak up against the harsh breeze, Harry stops in front of him.
“Harry.”
“Percival.” He pushes his fringe back as he drinks him in. All the details that make this man – the shiny scorpion pins at his neck, the tailored three part suit and polished shoes, the grey streaks of his undercut. His handsome face, lined with fatigue, though his eyes remain alert and sharp. And his right arm, missing. His gaze lingers on the tucked up sleeve, regret gnawing at him.
“I’m so sorry. I should have-“ He swallows, guilt overriding his thoughts. Gently, Percival nudges his chin up, meeting his gaze.
“It’s not your fault.” He shakes his head, feeling the familiar pressure behind his eyes building.
“Still, I should have…”
“What? You did your best. They outnumbered us. Things happen. I’m alive and that’s thanks to you.” Harry drops his gaze, his heart sinking.
“Hey, I’m fine, Harry, trust me.” Percival’s hand travels up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “But what about you?”
Harry takes a moment to answer, his mouth opening and closing silently, looking over Percival’s shoulder at nothing particular. It’s all grey today. The sky, the waters, the workers bustling around.
“I told you about Tom.”
“Your friend from school? The Undersecretary.”
Harry nods grimly. “He’s the new leader of the Death Eaters.”
Percival draws in a sharp breath. “What?”
“Yeah.” Harry huffs. “I told you…I told you we were close. So close that it hurt so much when we parted.” His forehead creases as his heart remembers the pain, his chest tightening.
“He chose his ambitions over me…and I chose myself over him.” He looks at Percival, his face twisting with anger and grief, the most common emotions he bears for Tom these days. “I wished I could have saved him from those pureblood idiots, planting those sick ideas in him. I wished I could have saved Tom from himself.”
His frown deepens. “I saved myself instead. And then I became an auror, trying to save the rest of the world.”
“You can’t save everyone, Harry.” Percival says softly.
“I know. I know.” He sniffs. “But if I had to choose now. I’d rather try saving Tom.” Percival cradles his face, tenderly brushing the stray tear away.
“You love him still.”
“It’s not just that.” His heart squeezes. “Percival, he made a Horcrux.”
“What? How?! Are you sure?”
Harry continues, “If it was just his life that he threw away…but this, he’s destroying his soul.” He shakes his head. “I can’t let that happen. I have to stop him.”
Percival frowns, worry written all over his face. “Horcruxes are vile, Harry. They’re dangerous-“
“There has to be a way to destroy it, to return the piece of soul back to the original soul.”
“Do you know a way?”
“No, but I’ll find it.” Determination settles in him. “This time, I’m saving him.”
A sad smile plays around Percival’s mouth.
“I think, by saving him you’ll save everyone else, too, after all.” He strokes the side of Harry’s face. “I only hope you don’t forget about yourself.”
But if he could save everyone else. Harry wouldn’t be such a heavy price to pay, would he? “I won’t, don’t worry.”
“I wished I could help you.” Harry shakes his head, returning his smile.
“You’ve done more than enough. You need to heal. To rest.” He swallows. “You need to go home.”
The corners of Percival’s mouth turn down. “I was glad to help. Unfortunately, you’re right. MACUSA needs me. I can’t delay any longer.” He takes a step forward, regarding him tenderly. “But you must know that I stayed for you.”
“I know.”
“…Come with me, Harry.”
It’s a sweet thought. Running off with Percival, leaving all of his troubles behind. He gazes up at Percival, looking his fill. He’d be good for Harry. Yet it is only a dream of could-haves because he can’t run away from this. Terror on the streets of London, the British Wizarding World on the brink of war. And Harry’s realization that he’s bound to Tom, maybe not as his lover, nor as his friend, anymore. But he told Tom he’s his, because it’s a truth he cannot deny. They’re soulmates, connected on the deepest level. Harry cannot hate Tom without hating himself, cannot love him without heartbreak. And he’ll never forgive himself, if he just stands by while Tom tears his own soul into shreds.
“I can’t,” he whispers. Percival nods, ducking his head with a self-deprecating smile.
“At least I tried.”
Gently he cradles Harry’s face, his thumb running over his cheek. He leans in brushing their lips together. Harry screws his eyes shut, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss, for a moment imagining what could have been between him and Percival.