Chapter Text
Despite years of living a life where every minute was planned for him, a life of discipline and following authority in the form of a conductor’s baton, Harry still was embarrassingly hopeless at managing his own schedule.
As a consequence, he was late.
Not for the first time in his life, and almost certainly not the last. But tonight - tonight was a bit important.
It was his first concert in Britain after years of living abroad, touring magical capitals - first as a soloist, later as part of an orchestra. Now he was back, playing for the British wizarding elite. This night could mean more concert invitations, maybe even some tutoring jobs. Or, if it went badly, it could confirm that he’d made a terrible mistake and should beg the Vienna Magical Philharmonic Orchestra to take him back.
At the moment, he was dangerously close to the second option.
The venue was an imposing neo-Gothic structure perched on a side street off Diagon Alley. Stained-glass windows, pointed arches, the whole gloomy aesthetic. But inside, it held a grand enchanted hall with chandeliers and impeccable acoustics.
Unfortunately, the side door Harry had used all week during rehearsals was firmly locked. Probably because he was so bloody late.
At least he was already dressed. Full concert attire, violin case slung over one shoulder like it was an accessory and not his entire career. He crept toward the front, clinging to the wall of the building and hoping to slip in unnoticed, past the gathering crowd of Ministry officials, Wizengamot members and their guests.
He made it halfway up the steps before he was intercepted by a very unimpressed security wizard - burly, short, and clearly not paid enough to deal with scatterbrained artists.
“Invitation?” the man grunted.
“I, umm… don’t have one,” Harry realized. “I mean, I was hired to perform tonight, so I figured…”
The man’s expression didn’t shift an inch.
“What makes you think I’ll let you in?”
“Well, the fact that I’m listed in the programme?” Harry said, with just a hint of haughtiness. He pointed toward a nearby stand. Sure enough, there he was:
~~~~~
Harry Potter
Virtuoso Violinist
The Enchanter of Strings
In his long-awaited return to Britain
~~~~~
Harry winced. Enchanter of Strings? Really? Who had come up with that?
The security wizard raised one bushy eyebrow. “Do you have any ID to prove you’re Harry Potter?”
…Of course he didn’t.
Panic flickered in his chest. Was he seriously about to be barred from his own damn concert?
He glanced around, scanning the crowd for someone - anyone - who might recognize him. His eyes caught on a tall, dark-haired man a few steps away, watching the entire scene unfold with open amusement.
The man stepped forward, smooth as a snake gliding across water.
“That’s alright, Greg,” he said, voice like warm honey. “I’m fairly confident that this is Harry Potter himself - not some imposter with excellent bone structure.”
For a moment, Harry averted his eyes. The man was absurdly attractive. And he was helping Harry. The least he could do was offer some gratitude back to the man, but right now all he wanted to do was to swoon.
“Thank you. For what it’s worth - I am Harry Potter. Violinist, a music enthusiast, and apparently… The Enchanter of Strings,” he said dryly, extending a hand.
The man took it with a slight smirk. “You’re far too humble.”
He let Harry’s hand go, but not before adding casually, “The talk of your return has been echoing through the Ministry halls for weeks, Mr. Potter.”
Then he smiled - sharp, amused. “I’m the Minister of Magic, by the way. Tom Riddle.”
Harry’s brain blanked for a moment.
Oh. Oh Merlin.
It was his event. The whole concert was in the Minister’s honor. And Harry hadn’t even recognized him.
Swallowing hard, Harry gave a stiff nod and gestured vaguely toward the doors. “Right. I should… go tune.”
And with as much dignity as he could muster, he hurried inside, feeling utterly, completely flustered.
_____
It was much better backstage.
The rear chamber of the concert hall was pleasantly lit, tastefully arranged, and even stocked with refreshments - water, tea, fruits, biscuits. Several sets of magical instrument tuners floated in midair, humming as they waited for use.
Harry met the other performers: a string quartet made up entirely of sisters (all blonde, all terrifyingly in sync in mannerisms and voices), a married couple - she played cello, he played accordion, which was a truly rare musical duet, and a gifted young boy with a clarinet nearly as tall as he was.
They all greeted Harry warmly, despite him being the headliner and the last to perform. It helped that he wasn’t the prima donna type. Or so he hoped.
He was tuning his violin, coaxing it into readiness, when the door opened.
A woman stepped in, clipboard in hand.
“Mr. Potter,” she said. “I’m Millicent Bulstrode. I assist Minister Riddle.”
I know your name. We were in Hogwarts in the same year, Harry thought. What’s with the formal introduction?
“Nice to meet you,” he said, setting the violin down gently.
“The Minister has a small request for this evening, if that’s alright with you.”
“Of course.”
“After your programme, he intends to give a short speech. Following that, he would greatly appreciate it if you performed one more piece. Something romantic. Suitable for a slow dance.”
Harry frowned.
A slow dance? Now that was unexpected.
Still, he felt a spark of curiosity and nerves. He hadn’t rehearsed anything like that. But a melody was already forming in his mind. It could work.
He smiled. “I’d be delighted.”
_____
The concert started shortly afterwards.
Harry loved listening to the other musicians even if it was from the back of the curtain.
The truth was, the magical music scene in Britain was small. He had received his education in the Muggle world - rigorous, structured, disciplined. There were only two professional magical orchestras that could make a living from performing, and the wizarding music professionals all knew each other, far and wide.
Harry didn’t know the performers tonight. They weren’t formally trained, but they were captivating in their own right. Their music held a kind of raw magic - something many trained magical musicians, often lost. While in the orchestra, he was frequently asked to hold his magic back, to let the technique shine, not the power.
But these musicians played differently. Their magic wasn’t something restrained. It bled into every note. It was refreshing.
Finally, it was his turn.
The long wait had settled into a tight knot in his stomach. That was always the case - but he had learned to live with the nerves. They were part of the process. He took a few deep breaths and stepped out of the curtain, into the light, onto the stage, where the audience waited in shadow.
He bowed - curt, practiced, precise.
Then, he raised the violin to his chin.
And paused.
One of his early teachers had once told him: “The greater the artist, the greater the pause.”
He didn’t use it often. But tonight, it felt right. Tonight, he wanted every breath held, every thought suspended.
So he let The Pause linger just a bit longer.
Then he began.
As opener, he had chosen Ysaÿe’s Sonata No. 2, “Obsession.” A raw, unpredictable, and charged piece. And into it, he poured everything - his magic, his passion, his command of the instrument. He let the music burn through him, untethered. The violin wasn’t something he played; it was something he wielded.
For a few moments, he felt invincible. The music surged like power - almost equal to magic itself.
When it ended, there was silence.
He had closed his eyes during the final notes. When he opened them, the stage lights still blinded him for a moment, and the audience was nothing but darkness. Then the applause began - sudden and violent, erupting from the void.
He didn’t let it drag out and humble himself too much.
With a sharp flick of his bow he silenced them like a conductor. Then, he moved straight into Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin I Tempo. A complex and dissonant piece. It had taken him time to understand it, even longer to love it. But now he knew it for what it really was: something unforgettable. Something brutal and brilliant.
The following pieces were more melodic, more familiar. He didn’t particularly favour the earlier centuries himself, but he knew what pleased a crowd. These pieces were beautiful and elegant, and served one purpose: to please.
But he couldn’t end there. Not with something forgettable.
So he’d chosen Paganini’s Caprice No. 24.
A storm of precision and speed. The kind of piece that didn’t ask for permission - just took the room by force and will.
It wasn’t easy to play. He’d already broken into a sweat - now he felt it trickling down his back. During the left-hand pizzicato section, he made two mistakes - subtle ones, thank Merlin - but the relief when it ended was immense.
Then came the eruption. Louder than before. A standing ovation, applause rolling like thunder. Someone brought flowers, then even more - four bouquets in total - and he had to awkwardly cradle them under one arm, violin and bow still in the other.
But before the moment could fully crest, Minister Riddle stood and flicked his wand. A quiet burst of sparks arched into the air, and the hall fell silent, as under a spell.
Then he spoke. His voice filled the space, probably charmed to carry.
“What a beautiful ending to a beautiful night,” he said. “I’d like to thank each of you for coming - first to the reception, and now here, to witness this moment of magic and music.
“As some of you may know, tonight marks a few milestones. Twenty years ago, I began working for the Ministry. Ten years ago, I became the Minister. And - though I try to keep it quiet - I turned forty on the last day of last year. So yes, a year of celebrations.”
A polite round of applause.
“But most of all, I want to thank someone very special.”
The lights turned toward a seat near the front. A tall, elegant woman sat there, startled but smiling.
“Morgana has been by my side for the past two years,” Tom continued. “Much of what I’ve achieved - I owe to her.”
What? That didn't make any sense. Had Harry misheard? Or the Minister had trouble understanding how years worked.
But then the Minister dropped to one knee.
“Morgana, you are the spark of my life. Will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”
Gasps followed soft cheers were heard from the crowd. Morgana clutched her chest. “Yes!” she said, almost breathless. She extended her hand into his and they linked fingers.
There was no ring to seal the deal. A bit weird for a proposal this public, Harry thought.
Tom rose and led her gently to the center of the hall, just in front of the stage.
Right. That was Harry’s cue. Luckily he already had someone to take the flowers from him.
He lifted his bow and began Massenet’s Méditation. A piece he often turned to when he felt somber, when the world felt too quiet or too full. Tonight, it sounded different - more fragile somehow. Perhaps because he was used to a piano to accompany him for this piece.
The Minister and his now-fiancee started to slow-dance.
They made a beautiful couple, Harry had to admit. Morgana was tall - taller than Harry, certainly, even without the heels she wore tonight. Her dress was a dark, silvery hue that looked like vowen mercury. She had a classically beautiful face: eyes framed by thick lashes, heart-shaped mouth, dark hair swept into a sleek knot.
But most of the beauty still came from… the Minister.
Harry found himself thinking that Tom had the kind of face that could stop people in their tracks on the street. Every feature was flawless - sharp cheekbones, big and dark eyes, expressive brows, full lips, perfectly sculpted nose. Even the curl of hair that partially covered his forehead was unfair.
It was a face that made Harry’s heart ache just a little, simply because he knew it would never be his to behold.
And yes - he could admit it. He felt a stab of jealousy for the couple. Or maybe, just maybe, the jealousy was directed more at Morgana.
Then they kissed. Harry wasn’t playing from a sheet, so he could continue watching the couple. It made him feel strange. Like he was witnessing something too intimate - but he’d seen people kiss before. No, that couldn’t be it.
No, it felt… wrong, for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint.
And just when he started to wonder if something was wrong with him, if he was the problem for finding such a tender moment so unsettling - that was when, amidst the kiss, Riddle’s eyes flew open - and locked with Harry’s.
_____
After another round of applause and a flurry of congratulatory, but anonymous handshakes, the distinguished crowd had started to disperse. Soon Harry was in the backstage room again.
He gave his bouquets to the sisters of the string quartet and behind a partition quietly began tucking away his violin when he heard them whispering.
“Do you believe it?”
“What?”
“The proposal.”
“No? I nearly cackled. He totally checked out my ex-boyfriend at a Ministry event last summer where he was playing the cello.”
“Maybe he’s bi? Still, I always thought their relationship was some kind of stunt. They got together like a week after she moved to Britain to work at the embassy.”
“Also, the way he proposed - could he have worded it any cheesier?”
“‘The spark of my life.’ What spark?”
“Exactly. They don’t even touch each other.”
Harry winced. He disliked gossip. But now, they were talking about a subject that he couldn’t help but be interested in. However, it shouldn’t matter. The man was engaged now. Whatever the reason, it was done. And Harry, of all people, had no right to dwell on it.
He slipped out to the backstage bathroom to splash cold water on his face, hoping it would bring down his pulse. His heart always raced after intense solos, but this felt different. This time, he was also strangely aroused. After a few deep breaths, he steadied himself and returned to collect his things. The other artists had already left. He put on his robe and was ready to slip out quietly through the side entrance, when a knock broke the silence.
“Come in,” he called, clearing his throat. His voice came out taut.
The door opened to reveal the towering form of Tom Riddle, Minister of Magic, and newly engaged man. He stepped inside, glanced around, and upon finding Harry alone, smiled.
He closed the door behind him.
“You played beautifully,” he said, approaching Harry. “I still can’t believe that security nearly turned you away.”
Harry inhaled. Riddle was standing now very close to him - in Harry’s personal space, really - and the air between them was subtly shifting. “Thank you, Minister.”
“Please - call me Tom.”
He took Harry’s hands in both of his. The touch was warm and nice. Too nice. “So much skill,” he said softly. “So much power. That was music at its highest form.”
His thumbs moved over the backs of Harry’s hands, a slow, lingering caress - then he let go.
Harry was too caught off guard to move, to speak. Riddle continued without pause.
“For once, I wish I’d brought flowers, or a gift of some kind. But all I have is this.”
From his robe, he unfastened the enchanted boutonnière: a single white calla lily, elegant and delicate, framed by a loop of glossy green leaf and tied with a satin ribbon. While holding it, he changed its color to purple without a wand, leaned forward and pinned it to Harry’s robe.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire it. “Looks perfect on you.”
His eyes took in Harry’s frame, a heated, slow gaze that almost made Harry shiver. It stopped at his eyes.
Riddle’s smile turned slightly predatory.
Then, his gaze dipped - for a heartbeat too long - to Harry’s lips. And without another word, he turned and left, leaving Harry alone in the room, hands slack at his sides, pulse in his throat, and completely puzzled.