Chapter Text
Harry leaned forward in the chair and stared at the newspaper with badly concealed annoyance. It was unbelievable. He exhaled harshly and barely looked up as Hermione slipped inside the smothering office room.
She was carrying another stack of papers. His worst nightmare at this point.
“I really need you to look at these documents,” she said with an exasperated sigh before placing them down in front of Harry.
He flapped the newspaper down onto his desk with a smack—the large pages covering the pile of documents. “I can’t believe they’re still publishing this shit,” he ground out in frustration, leaning back in the plush—probably expensive—chair and gesturing towards the front cover of the newspaper.
Hermione blinked and leaned over to study the picture on the paper.
“It’s a good picture,” she stated with a shrug and then pursed her lips. “The angle could’ve been better, though.”
Harry stared at her in disbelief.
“A good picture? It’s a picture of a man—me—seemingly about to kill someone—hardly appropriate to keep publishing,” he bit out and pushed a hand through his hair.
The Daily Prophet seemingly adored publishing that picture again and again—the one that someone had deemed appropriate to snap at the last moment during the Fall of the Dark Lord.
It displayed Harry standing tall above a kneeling Dark Lord. The picture moved, showing Harry staring directly at the camera before he looked back at the Dark Lord—at his mercy.
Harry supposed his glance at Voldemort could be deciphered as mercy. And luckily not the anxiety he’d felt for the other man in that moment—wondering if the horde of people running towards them would rip him to shreds.
Had he not intervened—that would’ve been the fate of the Dark Lord. Harry was not naïve enough to believe anything else.
He heard Hermione make a disapproving sound. “It is a very good picture—for a variety of reasons, you know this, Harry.”
Yes, Harry was all too aware. However, that did not mean he had to like it.
Taking his lack of response as a need for further explanation, Hermione pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Firstly, it paints you as a benevolent leader—or rather a gracious Minister of Magic—”
“Temporary Minister of Magic—” Harry quipped quietly.
She merely sent him a stony look and continued. “Especially considering the Dark Lord was not executed but imprisoned. It sends the signal that our cause is different from the earlier regime’s.”
Harry wondered if Hermione knew the falsehood behind her statement. He’d read the reports of that day—of the torture and deaths.
“Secondly, it’s free promotion,” she added with a satisfied nod. “The more articles they publish about you or the rebellion, the easier it is for us to win the next election in four months.”
“You’re aware that Voldemort would’ve been executed—or at worst, tortured to death—had I not intervened?” he could not help but ask.
Hermione had the decency to flinch at his words.
“Harry,” she began sadly. “I know this isn’t easy for you… That—” she licked her lips, looking uncomfortable. “That man was more than just an enemy to you—but you did the right thing.”
Harry only wanted to curse her off but knew that no matter how much he tried to explain—she’d never want or be capable of understanding.
“The right thing—” he parroted, voice cool.
“You did,” Hermione stated strongly. “Lifelong imprisonment at a hidden location is a just punishment—perhaps too fair if you ask me—but your decision is to our advantage. This way, you’ll easily win the election for the permanent position as Minister of Magic.”
He could not help but laugh loudly at her statement—it was a cold and bitter laugh, entirely uncharacteristic for him.
Hermione frowned in confusion.
“What do—” she began, but Harry cut her off.
“I am not running for any kind of position within the Ministry, Hermione.”
It felt horrible to see her face crumble, but he knew not to apologise for his declaration.
“But—”
“No,” Harry said and stood from his chair to stare into her eyes. “I’ve allowed the resistance to erase the reality of the past decade and create a sparkly, false lie about my life and motivations. I’ve even agreed to be the Minister of Magic while we set everything ready for the proper—and chosen—minister. After this, I’m done.”
“But you’d be able to change so many lives for the better. And you’re a legend now, Harry. Getting elected would be easy!” Hermione exclaimed and threw her hand out towards the newspaper and the picture of Harry and Voldemort.
Harry stared down at it for a moment, allowing the words to linger in the room. He knew she was right, of course—not about it being the right thing to do, but it would be easy. He could lean into his fame and easily get elected as the permanent Minister of Magic. Guide and attempt to help his world move forward again.
It was, however, entirely wrong.
He chuckled and sent Hermione an unimpressed look. “Don’t deceive yourself, Hermione. This is your dream, not mine.” Picking up the newspaper, he folded it and stared thoughtfully at it before adding, “And I work best in times of war anyway.”
Hermione sighed in defeat, perhaps knowing arguing would not convince him—he had no reason to fight anymore.
“I won’t stand a chance in the election. No one knows of me or my policies, Harry,” she said instead, dejectedly.
“Maybe not—” Harry replied with a shrug. “But really, Hermione, you’re the most stubborn person I know. Just try again in four years if it doesn’t work this time.”
She huffed out a soft chuckle—perhaps feeling more defeated than motivated by his words. No matter, it wasn’t Harry’s task to make her feel better. She’d have to figure it out on her own.
He leaned down to pick up his bag and sent a look at the clock behind them. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” he stated, and at her immediate glance down at the unsigned documents, he added, “Just leave them for tomorrow and leave early today, Hermione.”
Then, he smiled cheekily at her. “Or—begin to plan your election campaign. I know you’re desperate for the information on where Voldemort is imprisoned. And as you know, it’s highly classified and only revealed to the Minister of Magic. If you work hard, you’d know in no less than four months,” he said—not feeling particularly bad about the lie intermingled with his motivational words.
It had the intended response, and Hermione’s eyes twinkled with curiosity.
“I’ll take that as a challenge, Harry,” she replied and straightened her back. “You know how I react to restricted knowledge.”
“I do,” Harry said with a smile and slipped out of the office.
The trip home felt longer than it had any right to be. Through the Ministry and the many—awfully—staring eyes and quiet whispers. They all tried to be polite, of course, but Harry could feel the familiar press of attention from their unfamiliar eyes.
Somehow, freedom and peace felt much more imprisoning than he’d imagined.
Down to the Apparition point and then twisting away to land on the street in front of Grimmauld Place. He felt his body relax in relief at the familiar door—at his home. Stepping hurriedly up the steps, he stepped inside the entrance hall.
The pleasant smell of newly brewed Earl Grey filled the air. Harry closed his eyes and inhaled, enjoying the by-now familiar aroma. Jacket off and on the coat hanger before he slipped further inside.
He made a beeline towards the plush armchair at the end of the room, dumped his bag beside it, and slumped down into it with a welcoming sigh. Its soft fabric caressed his skin as it enveloped him.
“Dreadful day, my dear?” Tom asked.
Harry sent the man a defeated look. The other man was situated pleasantly in the chair opposite him, human-looking and beautiful. A steaming cup of tea at the table beside him and a book open in his lap.
“I don’t want to talk about my work. And technically, you’re a prisoner and not supposed to know about the world outside,” Harry replied and massaged his temples, looking up at the ceiling for a mere moment.
The room was tidy, and the aroma of Tom’s never-ending supply of tea swirled pleasantly around the space. He heard Tom chuckle at his reply.
“How is that going?” the man asked calmly.
Harry sighed and looked back at Tom, who merely took a sip from his cup of tea. Patient and, as always, simply looking forward to Harry’s reply.
Rolling his eyes, Harry managed to bite out a fond:
“Oh, shut up.”
One would think a month of close proximity with the former Head of State would be enough to drive anyone insane. And perhaps, there was some truth to that assumption, because Harry had—madly—come to enjoy it.
Then, remembering his day at work and its many issues, Harry leaned forward and picked up his bag, shuffling through it.
“Also—before I forget,” he said as he looked through its contents. “Could you control your damn wand?” Harry murmured and slipped Tom’s absurd and gnarly wand out of his bag. It hummed pleasantly under his touch—but Harry refused to give it a hint of attention back.
He held it out towards Tom, who merely smiled slowly at the sight of it.
“It followed me to work again. I even made sure it remained at the kitchen table before going to work this morning. But somehow, this stalker of a fucking wand appeared in my bag when I opened it at the Ministry,” Harry ranted with frustration and shook the wand in question.
“Oh—” Tom replied with all the faux surprise the man was capable of. He placed his teacup down on the table and reached forward to receive the wand. “It does seem to have taken a liking to you.”
“Control it,” Harry snapped as he released the wand. It felt gut-wrenching to let go of it—which was more than a little worrying. Nonetheless, he refused to ask Tom about the wand. Perhaps knowing he’d hate the answer, he did the only logical thing—he ignored it.
Or at least for a couple of weeks—or months more.
Tom leaned back in his chair and sent Harry a soft look, as though forgiving his obvious stupidity.
“Harry, my dear, I may be a powerful wizard, but even I cannot predict or control this wand,” he said quietly, holding the odd—annoying—wand gently between his fingers. Almost reverently.
“Try,” Harry stated and forced himself to look away from the wand.
Tom chuckled and placed it on the small table beside him. “I see no reason why I should,” he replied. “It is as you said, I am a prisoner. Technically, I shouldn’t have access to a wand at all.”
“Yeah, sure,” he sent the older man the most unimpressed look he could muster. “We both know that’s bogus.”
A slow and eerie smile stretched across his perfect face.
Harry slipped the bag off his lap and leaned back in his own chair, relaxing as he studied his supposed prisoner. Outside the window, the daylight had begun to disappear, leaving only a couple of stray sun rays lingering along the edge of the glass. He felt no fear and no uncertainty.
“I might have adjusted the wards to keep you here, but I’m sure that if you really wanted to—then you’d just break the wards and walk out,” he stated with a shrug. Knowing it to be true and not at all worried—he had no need to be.
Tom mirrored his pose, eyes dark as they slid over Harry’s relaxed body. It left him feeling warm and cold at the same time—and he could not help but swallow harshly.
A satisfied look fell upon the older man’s face. Probably all too aware of Harry’s response—the Horcrux keeping them softly but intimately connected.
After a moment, Tom asked, “And how are your allies handling the fact that only you know where I am—” he halted and appeared to consider his words. “—imprisoned?”
Harry had to give it to the man. He had expected Tom to ask that very question weeks earlier. Tom Marvolo Riddle was, above everything, a patient man—or at least most of the time.
Licking his lips, he looked away from the man, considering his reply. However, seeing no reason to twist the truth—not with Tom—he answered honestly. “They’ve yet to realise that only I know.” Harry’s face twisted in a mixture of guilt and amusement. “Which is a surprise, to be honest. I was sure they’d realise it by now—but it’s been kind of chaotic after the regime change, and I just think everyone else assumes someone else is in charge of it.”
Which was the truth of it. He had pushed for imprisonment, and in the chaos that followed the regime’s fall, no one had questioned it. Everyone assumed someone else had overseen the matter, and by the time the dust settled, Harry simply informed them that it was already done—and classified for security reasons.
Harry was certain they’d begin asking questions sooner or later, but it was already too late. They’d never be informed of where the Dark Lord was kept. And Harry knew no one would come close to guessing right. How could they? It was too absurd to imagine.
That their temporary Minister of Magic kept the Dark Lord in his home.
“How delightful,” Tom replied with a satisfied nod. “And very good, my dear.”
Harry rolled his eyes at the man’s words.
“Of course, you’d enjoy me manipulating others.”
“I have high expectations for you,” Tom retorted and gracefully stood from his chair. “Now—tea? Mine has grown cold.”
The thought of Tom’s perfectly brewed tea made Harry’s face light up.
“Yes, please,” he answered with a nod as Tom walked past him, the man’s hand slipping softly and only momentarily through his hair—familiar and comfortable at this point.
Harry allowed himself to relax once again and simply stare out the windows. The last ray clutched the edge of the glass as the sun sank below the horizon. The sound of Tom in the kitchen and the silence of Grimmauld Place. Soon enough, a new scent of some expensive tea wafted into the room and the last ray of sun disappeared.
He closed his eyes.
Then, the sound of feet over the carpet—calm and steady. Harry opened his eyes and looked up at Tom, who offered him a cup of something particularly good-smelling. He accepted the cup but kept his face tilted up—towards the other man.
Tom chuckled and leaned down to place a soft kiss on his lips. It was merely a second—but, as always, their magical cores trembled, and the shard of Tom’s soul inside Harry sang in contentment.
“Enjoy,” he said as he withdrew.
“Thanks,” Harry replied and inhaled the aroma of the tea. Tom settled back in his own chair and flipped his book open again, relaxing into the quietness that was the two of them together. Contradictory and opposite in many ways, but so alike nonetheless.
Perhaps it was madness, but Harry didn’t mind.
Not in the slightest.
The End