Archive of Our Own

“Harry.”

The voice called to him, pulling him up from the depths of sleep. Smooth as melted chocolate, deep with a lingering sweetness that curled around his name. A familiar scent.

“Harry,” it said again when he didn’t stir.

Then, a pause, “Mother.”

At that, Harry’s eyes fluttered open.

His son was staring down at him, eyes so dark they were nearly black. The morning sun lit his handsome face in a gentle glow, revealing skin without a single flaw and lashes so long they cast stark little shadows against his cheeks. Harry recalled the story of Helen, whose beauty launched a thousand ships. And looking at Tom now, he could almost believe history might dare to repeat itself.

Harry smiled. “Oh. Good morning.”

Tom sighed. “It’s nearly noon. Perhaps reserve that line for when it truly applies.”

Harry sat up slowly, the sheets pooling at his waist. A quick glance at the clock told him Tom was correct.

Teaching at Hogwarts had him up with the sun every single day. It was only natural to want a few precious mornings where he could wake as late as he liked, considering that it was the spring holidays and all.

“Tea,” Tom said, offering him a glass of his preferred lemon brew. Harry had only begun drinking it for its ability to stabilize omega hormones. He’d despised the strong, sour taste at first, but somewhere along the way, he’d grown to crave it.

“Thank you,” Harry whispered.

Tom nodded and leaned closer, waiting. Harry couldn’t help but laugh under his breath. He lifted up and brushed a kiss against Tom’s cheek, earning a pleased hum, before leaning against him. With each slow sip of lemon tea, the world sharpened back into focus.

“How long have you been awake?” Harry asked.

“Since seven,” Tom replied.

Harry lifted his gaze and met Tom’s stare. “You do realize we’re not at Hogwarts anymore, right? You’re allowed to relax a little and sleep in.” Not that Tom has ever been the type to do that, but still.

An amused smile tugged at his son’s lips. “And if I did, who would prepare your tea and breakfast for you?”

“I can make my own breakfast,” Harry said defensively.

“I’d rather avoid another stomachache, if it’s all the same to you.”

“That was one time.” 

Tom had never forgotten those early days—Harry, brand new to fatherhood and even newer to him, proudly presenting a homemade breakfast that looked harmless enough… until it ended in a stomachache bad enough to send them to St. Mungo’s.

Oh, how terrified he had been then. He had been entrusted with changing fate itself by giving the future Dark Lord the one thing he’d been denied, not by nearly killing him. Harry had sat beside Tom’s bed for hours, clutching his hand, terrified he’d ruined everything. And Tom, pale and silent, had only looked at him without saying a word.

“One time too many. Now get dressed. I’d rather we reach Diagon Alley before three.”

“Oh, yes—you needed new robes, didn’t you?”

Tom inclined his head. “Unfortunately, my old ones no longer accommodate my height.”

At that, Harry got out of bed and stood up. There was a time he’d been taller than Tom. Then, sometime around Tom’s fourth year at Hogwarts, they were the same height. And now…

He found himself staring up at his son.

“When did this happen?” Harry said, stepping closer until he had to tip his chin up just slightly. That couldn’t be right. Tom wasn’t that much taller… was he?

Tom frowned, not following. Harry exhaled, fingers brushing the hem of Tom’s shirt. “When did you get taller than me?” 

“It’s been a few years. I’m thrilled you’ve finally caught on,” Tom said dryly.

Harry leaned forward, resting his forehead against Tom’s chest. “I remember when you barely came up to my waist,” he whispered. His little Tom, whose head fit perfectly against Harry’s stomach whenever he hugged him.

“Yes,” Tom’s voice…trembled. “I remember that too.”

Tom’s scent—petrichor, parchment, and something unmistakably Tom—turned spicy. Harry didn’t know what other way to describe it. Though it happens quite often, Harry’s never been able to figure out what emotion it’s attached to. When Tom was angry, the scent soured. When he was sad, it turned bitter. When he was happy, it lightened and grew sweet. But this, the way Tom’s scent tickled his noise and made him feel as if he just drank a bottle of alcohol, Harry still didn’t understand. What feeling did it belong to?

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Tom said, closing the door behind him as he left.

Harry remained frozen for a moment, a stray thought sinking its hooks in.

When had Tom’s back grown so broad?

After Voldemort won the war, there was very little anyone could do. But people believed that if anyone could change something—anything at all—it would be Harry, who now bore the mantle of Master of Death

As a last resort, he traveled back in time, determined to fix things before they ever went astray. It didn’t take him long to find Tom Riddle at Wool’s, bring him home, raise him, and, in time, love him.

And love him Harry did. Deeply. So deeply, in fact, that it frightened him sometimes.

“Tom?” Harry peeked into the room to see him packing his suitcase for Hogwarts. They’d be heading back tomorrow, now that the holidays were officially over.

Tom glanced up.

“Did you pack your… er, your rut suppressants?” Harry asked.

He still felt awkward every time the topic came up, but he’d rather endure the embarrassment than risk Tom going back to Hogwarts without them. He’d noticed that, as the years went by, people became increasingly…forthcoming with Tom. Far too forthcoming, in Harry’s opinion.

“Of course I did. Did you?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes. I’m not completely hopeless, you know.”

“Mm.” Tom continued packing. “I set aside your tea, your scent blockers, and your cooling pad. We should be fine.”

Harry’s chest tightened a little. Tom had always been thoughtful, but sometimes it still caught him off guard.

“…Thank you,” he said softly.

He couldn’t help but smile to himself. This is how he knows he succeeded. This is his proof Voldemort would never be. The Dark Lord could never have cared for anyone. Certainly not for an omega like Harry. But Tom, his Tom, cared so easily and earnestly. What more could Harry ask for?

His chest ached with pride and happiness.

“Your future omega will be so lucky,” Harry said with a warm smile. “Truly.”

Tom’s hand froze mid motion, fingers curling slightly. A beat passed before he continued packing. “Is that so?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “You’re practically the definition of an ideal alpha.”

Handsome, brilliant, powerful. Honestly, if someone didn’t want him, Harry would assume that they were either blind or mad.

“When I meet my alpha, I hope they’re like you.”

As soon as those words left his mouth, Tom froze. Something slipped from his hands, a book, thudding softly against the floor. He bent to pick it up, dusting the cover before turning toward Harry.

Harry flinched at the look on his face.

Harry told himself Tom and Voldemort were worlds apart, nothing alike but their name. Still, every now and then, in moments so rare he could count them on one hand, he caught echoes of one inside the other. 

When facing Voldemort, Harry sometimes glimpsed the lost child he had been. And when he looked at Tom now, he thought he saw a red shimmer deep within those pitch black eyes.

It unnerved him. 

Tom moved to him at once, the book forgotten, stopping only when he stood close enough for their bodies to touch. Harry forced himself not to step back. This was his Tom, after all. His sweet, perfect Tom,

“Did you have one in mind?” Tom asked.

“What?”

“An alpha,” Tom clarified. “One you want to meet.”

Harry let out a flustered laugh. “What are you even asking? You know me. All I have time for is my classes and you.”

Tom did not reply, and his face did not change, so Harry added, “You’d know if there was an alpha in my life, Tom.”

“There is an alpha in your life,” Tom said. “Me.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry replied gently. “A mate.”

Tom didn’t return the smile. “It is odd, you know. All this time, yet no alpha you’ve chosen.”

He leaned down, just slightly, and reached out. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from Harry’s forehead, gently revealing the lightning shaped scar beneath.

“Beautiful as you are,” Tom said quietly, “I would have expected a hundred offers.”

Harry’s blush rose fast and fierce, spreading in a rush of heat. A flutter curled in his stomach, and he nearly stepped back on instinct; his heartbeat was so loud it felt impossible Tom didn’t hear it.

Tom’s finger traced a line down Harry’s face before hooking beneath his chin, tilting it up so he couldn’t look away. He smells wonderful.

“If I am the ideal alpha, mother.” Harry flinched. Tom doesn’t call him that often. Not at all, despite Harry’s first earlier years of insistence. “Then you would be the ideal omega.”

“I—” Harry spluttered. “That’s not true. I mean—omegas are usually more… delicate. Sweet and soft.”

“That’s not what makes an omega desirable,” Tom said, voice low. “I promise you. I’ve seen what alphas want. And Harry,” his gaze deepened, “they would want you.”

Harry’s reply died in his throat as a heavy thump sounded from somewhere nearby. He jerked away from Tom, much too quickly and guiltily for someone who wasn’t doing anything wrong, and turned toward the sound.

“Helios?” Harry murmured, surprised to find his owl watching him with a letter in its beak. He opened the window and took it gently.

Harry clutched the letter, his heart still fluttering from Tom’s earlier words.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to muster up the courage to say the rest, “For saying those things. No one’s ever… said something like that to me before.”

When Harry was younger, he struggled with being an omega. Hogwarts didn’t make it any easier; omegas rarely had it easy there. People whispered that he couldn’t possibly be the “Chosen One”—after all, what omega could be chosen?

“I’ll tell you as many times as you like,” Tom said. “Those qualities don’t make an omega. And they certainly do not dictate which omegas an alpha chooses.”

A beat passed. Harry turned to face him.

“I would know,” Tom added.

Harry’s body locked up. A chill prickled down his spine, colliding with a strange warmth curling in his stomach. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run or lean closer.

And then it dawned on him what Tom had said.

“I would know.”

Those three words repeated in Harry’s mind whenever he found even a sliver of space to think about anything other than his immediate tasks. Even a week later, with his days swallowed by teaching and paperwork and students needing help, the words still clung to him.

I would know. I would know? Did it mean what Harry suspected it meant?

That Tom had found himself an omega he fancied?

Everything seemed to point in that direction, and it wasn’t unreasonable. Tom had presented early as an alpha. He was well liked, practically adoredhere at Hogwarts, and at an age when instincts took hold and hormones surged. It would make sense that he’d found someone he liked.

But Tom had never breathed a word about liking anyone. And Harry had never seen an omega who seemed… special enough for Tom. They shared everything, Tom would have told him, surely.

He must have.

…Right?

He turned the corner and immediately retreated, pressing himself flat against the stone. The old saying echoed in his head: speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Tom was standing just ahead, speaking with a cluster of Slytherins. Harry recognized a few of them as Tom’s usual companions: Avery and Lestrange, the ones closest to him, along with Rosier, Nott, and Malfoy.

As far as Harry knew, none of them were omegas. Come to think of it, he realized he’d never seen Tom around an omega in any meaningful way.

So who in Merlin’s name had caught his interest?

As Harry watched them closely, half expecting an omega to materialize out of thin air, he was startled by a sudden tap on his shoulder.

“What are you doing, Professor?”

Harry spun around so fast his neck twinged, blinking when he found Orion Black behind him. The boy grinned down at him, sly, looking very much like a fox who’d caught a prey right in its jaw.

“Are you doing something naughty?” Orion drawled as he leaned in, hands tucked behind his back like a boy scouting for trouble.

“No!” Harry said immediately, and flinched when he realized how defensive he sounded. He coughed and corrected himself, “I’m just…watching Tom.”

That wasn’t weird, right? He’s just looking out for his son.

Orion tilted his head, clearly puzzled. “Why not do it from a closer distance, then? I’m sure there’s no world where he would ever deny you.”

“Well… he’s not exactly supposed to know I’m watching,” 

Orion’s eyes flicked upward, up and over Harry’s shoulder. He took a full step back. “Too late.”

When Harry turned around, he slammed straight into a solid chest. The impact knocked him off balance, but a hand curled around his waist, stopping him from toppling over. Harry recognized him by a scent alone, even if it was more sour than usual.

“Tom!” Harry exclaimed, breathless from the impact. Tom didn’t answer. His hand tightened just slightly on Harry’s waist as his eyes snapped to Orion.

“Orion,” he said, tipping his head slightly, “Liliana was searching for you earlier. You ought to find her. Now.”

Orion didn’t say anything, but he did nod. His smile, carefree just seconds ago, now looked a little strained. He turned on his heel and retreated down the corridor.

“Harry.” Tom tilted his head, catching his gaze with unsettling gentleness. “If you need reminding, I’m happy to oblige.”

He leaned in, shadows shifting across his face, until Harry felt trapped under the weight of his attention.

“It is not appropriate for a professor to stand so close to a student. From afar, the two of you looked… intimate.” His gaze flicked briefly to Harry’s lips. “It can be easily misinterpreted, you see.”

Harry, briefly mesmerized by the sheer lack of pores on Tom’s perfect skin, blinked himself back to reality. “But we’re close right now.”

“That’s different,” Tom replied without missing a beat. “It’s me and you.”

Tom’s hand slipped from Harry’s waist, but he didn’t step back. Not even an inch. He made no effort to create the “appropriate” space a professor and student should have.

“The things you do with me,” Tom said, eyes unwavering, “the things you’ve said to me, those are not things you should share with another student. Or anyone else.”

“Like what?” Harry asked, bewildered. 

Tom’s expression went flat, as though he truly couldn’t fathom needing to say this aloud.

“You cannot lean on other people,” Tom said. “You cannot embrace them like you do me, or stare at them for an extended amount of time. And you cannot tell them they’re handsome, beautiful, sweet, intelligent, or wonderful.”

“Well, that wouldn’t really be a problem,” Harry said. “You’re the only one I feel that way about, anyway.”

Tom seemed to soften instantly, his whole posture easing. He often reminded Harry of a hedgehog, prickly by default, but now it was like someone had gently pressed the spikes flat.

“Good,” Tom said, that familiar gentle smile settling back onto his lips. The one everyone loved. “Do try to keep it that way.”

Harry shook his head, amused. “I can’t control what I think, Tom. If someone’s handsome or remarkable, that’s just… the thought I’ll have.”

“Then tell me when you do.”

Harry raised a brow. “And what would you do with that information?”

“Nothing at all.” Tom said, and he sounds so sincere. Looks it, too. “I would just like to be aware. Don’t I deserve to know who’s important in my parent’s life?”

He does—the same way Harry deserved to know who’s important in Tom’s. A mate, someone Tom loved, would certainly count.

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “And you’d tell me too, wouldn’t you? If you found someone beautiful who was important to you?”

Tom nodded once. “Yes.” Then, he added calmly without missing a beat, “You’re beautiful. And you’re important to me.”

Harry couldn’t help it, he blushed, entirely caught off guard and tried for a glare. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Tom’s laugh rang out, his sharp canines flashing as he tipped his head back.

It’s a rare and exceedingly beautiful thing, for this one sounds genuine. His Tom was an actor, forever staging himself in whatever way he thought was fitting. But moments like this, when the performance fell away to reveal the truth of him, they stole Harry’s breath every time.

Harry’s gaze fell to the floor, a futile attempt to hide the warmth flooding his cheeks. Moments like this made him profoundly grateful, more than ever, that Tom couldn’t read his thoughts.

His back ached, badly. 

Harry arched it in a stretch, groaning as a loud crack echoed through the room. The sound startled him into a laugh, he’d watched Mr. Weasley do that same move countless times.

Though he was thirty-five now, time travel and the mantle of Master of Death had kept him from aging. It was why so many people mistaken him and Tom as brothers, with Tom apparently being the older one, to wound Harry’s pride. Harry was forever frozen at eighteen, the age he’d been when he last saw Voldemort. No new lines, no wrinkles, not a single sign of time touched him.

It was as if his life had stopped the day he left Voldemort behind, only to begin again on the day he found Tom.

Since the beginning, Harry’s life drew only one shape: a circle, and at its center stood one person. 

The sound of the door opening draws his attention. Harry only knew of one person who would do something so shamelessly. 

Harry huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tom. Remind me, what did I say about knocking?”

His son stood in his private chambers, a place students were strictly forbidden from entering. Harry had tried to tell him as much during his first year as a DADA professor, right after Tom had materialized in his room without warning. Tom hadn’t cared then, and he didn’t care now.

That was the thing about him. Tom obeyed rules only if they served him; otherwise, they might as well not exist.

“That you would like me to do it.” 

“And have you?” Harry asked.

“No,” Tom replied without hesitation, “And I do not ever plan to. What could you possibly be doing that makes you feel the need to keep it from me?”

Harry shook his head. Really, what was he supposed to do when all paths seem to lead to him? 

Tom lifted the tea he’d brought and offered it to Harry like a ceremonial gift. “I have your favorite. You should be thanking me instead of reprimanding me.”

“Lemon?” Harry asked, eyes widening. Oh, Merlin, he could really use that right now.

“But of course.” Tom smiled, the expression a touch too caustic to be gentle.

“Thank you, Tom.” Harry smiled and reached up.

Tom dipped his head, and Harry kissed his cheek lightly before taking the fine porcelain cup. He tipped his head back, drinking the lemon tea in one continuous swallow, shoulders loosening as warmth filled him.

As the flavor spread across his tongue, Harry wrinkled his nose. “That’s a little sourer than usual, did you do something different?”

“Yes,” Tom said with a nod. “It’s a new brand. Very popular in Scotland, from what I’ve heard. I had Lestrange bring it back for me. It should regulate your hormones more effectively than the previous blend.”

“How thoughtful.”

Harry set the cup aside and lifted his hand, brushing his fingers along Tom’s cheek. Tom leaned into the touch at once, like a cat seeking warmth.

His lashes lowered, then lifted again in a flutter.

“Do I get a reward for my effort?” Tom murmured, tilting his face further into Harry’s palm.

“I already gave you your kiss,” Harry said.

Tom leaned down, breath warm against the side of Harry’s throat. His nose brushed against Harry’s scent gland, which remained unmarked even after all these years. 

“And one is all I’m allowed?” he whispered. “That tea was troublesome to secure. Scotland’s best is not cheap.”

“I thought you said Lestrange got it for you.”

“Something he would’ve never done had I not put him up for the task.” Tom’s hand brushed down Harry’s arm. “Now, a reward, please.”

Harry swallowed. Tom’s please never sounded genuine, yet Harry liked hearing it anyway.

“Fine,” he said softly. “What do you want, then?”

Tom lifted his face, that unmistakable glint flashing in his eyes.

“To sleep with you.”

Harry’s mind fizzled out like a wand with a broken core. Tom went on, oblivious, “It’s been ages since we shared a bed. You used to hold me every night, do you remember?”

Oh. Oh—he meant—right. Yes, of course. How mortifying that Harry’s mind had leapt somewhere so inappropriate. How dare he twist Tom’s words into something so… naughty?

“That was when you had nightmares.” 

Tom frowned. “I do not have nightmares.”

A lie, of course. In their first year together, Tom had been tormented by nightmares, violent, relentless things that tore him awake screaming in the dark. The only way he’d fall asleep again was with his face tucked against Harry’s throat, his small arms clinging to him for dear life.

But Tom would never confess to something he viewed as weakness.

“Unless that’s what gets you to hold me again, then yes, I’m petrified with them.”

A joke on the surface, but Harry saw through it. It was a deflection that might’ve fooled someone who hadn’t witnessed how frightened he’d once been.

“You know you’re not permitted in my living quarters,” Harry said. “And staying the night is… it isn’t possible,” 

Tom nodded, gaze slipping to the floor. “I understand.”

“Darling, don’t pout.”

Harry cupped Tom’s face in both hands, gently lifting it so their eyes met again. “I said it won’t be possible in my headquarters. But perhaps… when we go home for summer break…”

He let the sentence trail off, giving Tom room to piece the rest together.

Tom’s eyes lit up instantly. “Do you promise?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “That is… if you even still fit in my bed anymore.”

Tom’s smile flashed, wicked and pleased. “I’ll fit just fine.”

Then Tom stooped and folded Harry into a quick but firm embrace, giving him a gentle squeeze before withdrawing.

“I’ll excuse myself. Sleep well, Harry.”

“Goodnight.” Harry bit back the instinct to warn him about late-night rounds. It would be pointless now. Tom was a Prefect, and now a Head Boy. He had the freedom to roam wherever he pleased, whenever he pleased. 

Tom left, the door clicking softly behind him, and Harry was alone in his room once more. He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before straightening himself. As much as he wanted to collapse into bed, a stack of ungraded papers still waited for him.

He dragged himself to his desk, pulled out his quill, and began sorting the papers into a neat pile before getting to work.

As he neared the end of the pile, a thin sheen of sweat began to form along his skin, which was strange, to say the least. It wasn’t as though his room was warm, or at least Harry didn’t think so. The heat felt internal, creeping through his veins, as if his very blood had begun to boil.

Harry rose to his feet and the world tilted. A dizzy spell crashed over him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut before blinking rapidly, trying to steady himself. What was happening to him?

As Harry’s mind scrambled to make sense of everything, a scent, pleasant but distracting, kept pulling at his attention. He turned toward it, eyes drifting to his bed, and knew exactly what it was.

He staggered toward the bed, pulling the blanket aside with shaking fingers. Tom’s shirt lay beneath it, the one Harry had stolen before the start of term. The scent was practically nonexistent now, and how could it not be when it was clutched within Harry’s hands every night?

He snatched it up, pressed it hard against his nose, and inhaled with all his might. Tom. Tom. Tom tom tom.

It smelled absolutely divine, even more so than usual. Though that was to be expected, it was Tom’s afterall. Everything about Tom was as close to perfection as it could get. 

Harry had to find him. 

He threw the shirt in the closet and rushed out of his room, legs unsteady beneath him, though not quite trembling the way they had moments ago. Please, let Tom still be patrolling the halls. The idea of dragging him out of the Slytherin common room was not ideal, but Harry would do it if he had to. He needed Tom. Desperately. It felt like he couldn’t breathe without him.

Harry walked through multiple corridors and up more than a few staircases before he finally found Tom—talking to Noelle Mulciber.

Mulciber’s brother he expected. His sister on the other hand, no. And worst of all, she was an omega.

Frozen in place, Harry could only stare. They were standing far too close. Tom was leaning down to hear her better while Noelle tugged lightly at his sleeve, balancing on her toes to reach him.

Harry told himself it made sense. Their height difference probably made conversation a little difficult. But did they really need to stand so close? Why did she have to touch him like that?

Something strong cracked through Harry’s body. It felt like a swarm of needles sinking into him, each carrying a thread of poison. His vision swam while nausea twisted his gut. 

“Tom.”

The name escaped before Harry realized he’d spoken, and the moment it broke the air, both figures turned toward him. Tom’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. 

“Harry?” 

But Harry barely heard him. His vision tunneled on the hand still clinging to Tom’s arm.

Trying for a smile he hoped concealed the tumult beneath his skin, Harry lifted a hand and beckoned Tom closer. “If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.

Tom began walking toward Harry at once, only to stop short when he felt the pull of Noelle’s grip. She hadn’t released him. He glanced at her hand, then at her face, a flicker of impatience showing through the calm veneer he usually wore.

“Tom, wait. What about—”

“Not now.” He yanked his sleeve back, causing her hand to drop.

Her face flushed a deep red, and she let out an irritated huff before turning on her heel and marching down the hall. Her departure barely registered. Tom’s proximity eclipsed everything, and his scent washed over Harry in a slow, consuming wave. Bloody hell, he smelled so—

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Tom’s voice dipped low with concern.

“How do you know something is wrong?”

“I can smell you,” Tom murmured with a slight scrunch of his nose. “Merlin, tell me you didn’t walk through the corridors in this state. Your blockers aren’t masking anything.”

“I did not walk through the halls like this,” Harry said with a teasing lilt in his voice. Tom didn’t bite; his jaw tightened instead.

“You, of all people, should understand how dangerous it is for an omega to wander around without medication or blockers in pre-heat.” Tom said, his hand settling on Harry’s shoulder and steadying him when his balance faltered.

Harry blinked slowly, his head tilting as if the motion drifted of its own accord.

Tom’s eyes widened. “Are you—Harry, do you really not realize you’re in pre-heat?”

“That’s impossible,” Harry said, “My heat isn’t supposed to come until late September.”

“Well, it’s here,” Tom replied with absolute certainty.

“How are you so sure?” Harry asked. A faint edge crept into his tone. He couldn’t understand what gave Tom the confidence to claim he knew Harry’s body better than Harry himself did.

“Like I said,” Tom murmured, and his stare held Harry still. “I can smell you.”

The tone suggested something buried beneath the words, something Tom expected Harry to uncover. Harry’s brain, far too scrambled and hazy at the current moment, drifted too far to seize it.

Tom leaned in until his breath reached Harry’s ear.

“Mother,” he whispered, “you’re wet.”

Harry recoiled at the words, his palm pressing against Tom’s shoulder in a startled attempt to create distance. A wave of embarrassment washed through him as the truth followed. Tom’s assessment had been accurate.

How did Harry miss it before? Slick traced a warm line down his inner thigh. The realization left him shaken, and he wondered how long it must have been happening without his awareness.

“Do you understand now?” Tom asked. Harry gave no reply, so Tom caught him by the arm and began to lead him away. “Come. Your headquart—”

Harry’s feet locked against the stone floor. The abrupt resistance halted Tom mid-step. He turned back, his expression twisting as he took in Harry’s stance.

“How do you know?” Harry’s voice wavered as he kept his face down. A painful curiosity gnawed at him, one he wished he didn’t possess. “Tell me how you can identify the scent of slick.”

Silence crept between them, stretching long enough to make Harry believe Tom had chosen not to respond. The uncertainty twisted in his stomach. He couldn’t tell which thought frightened him more: the absence of an answer or the confirmation that Tom had gained that knowledge in the most intimate way possible.

A firm grip caught his chin and tilted it upward, leaving Harry with no choice but to meet Tom’s stare. His eyes were burning. And his scent surged with startling force, filling the narrow hall.

“Your scent floods the house during every heat,” Tom said. “I would recognize it anywhere.”

The relief that floods through Harry is horrifying.

“Enough,” Tom said, his tone firm but controlled. “We are not having this conversation here.”

He resumed his hold on Harry’s arm and guided him back toward his room. Harry followed without resistance, his eyes drawn to the width of Tom’s back, broad and unmistakably a man’s frame rather than a boy’s.

The heat in his gut surged again, a climb that twisted his insides, and Harry hates it. Hates it. Hates it.

Thinking grew difficult, as if a slow hand pressed against the inside of his skull and dimmed every coherent thought. Tom kept rising to the surface of his mind, occupying every possible space. Tom with his cold, slender hands. Tom who’s now so tall he towers over most of everyone. Tom whose voice is as deep as it is melodic. His Tom—

Their progress through the corridors came in slow, halting motions, Harry’s weight pressed against Tom whenever the floor seemed to tilt. The cool draft that always swept through this part of Hogwarts did little to steady him as heat gathered under his skin in a crescendo.

Tom adjusted his grip each time Harry swayed, one hand bracing the small of his back, the other wrapped around his arm. The scent rising off Harry clung to the air between them, and Tom’s jaw tightened with each spike of it. The door to Harry’s room finally appeared at the end of the hall. Tom quickly steered him inside. 

Once they reached the bed, Tom guided him down until he sat. The sheets rustled beneath him, soft against his palms.

“How do you feel?” Tom asked as he knelt in front of him and touched his forehead with a cool palm.

Harry shakes his head and leaned into Tom’s palm. It was perhaps the only thing that didn’t feel unbearably hot. He wanted to speak, but his throat felt so dry. 

“Alright, where are your heat suppressants?” Tom asked.

“Second drawer…”

Tom crossed the room and opened the dresser, sliding the second drawer out until the bottle came into view. He checked the label, twisted the cap off, and shook two pills into his hand. Then he returned to Harry, lowered himself to his knees again, and lifted the medication toward him.

“Open your mouth.”

Harry opens it weakly.

“You can go wider than that.”

Harry’s attention drifted, too caught up in everything Tom to notice the movement of his hand until it happened. Tom’s thumb pressed against his lower lip and tugged it downward, then traced to the edge of his teeth, prying gently to force his mouth open. Once the space was there, Tom placed the pill inside.

Tom stood to his full height and drew his wand, pressing the tip against Harry’s tongue. The abrupt contact nearly made Harry gag, but he forced the reflex down, aware that any reaction would earn Tom’s displeasure.

“Aguamenti.”

A rush of cool water filled Harry’s mouth at once, fresh and startling against the heat burning through him. He swallowed quickly, one gulp after another, but the spell poured more than he could keep up with. Instinct made him try to pull back, yet Tom caught his face with his hand and held him still, forcing him to take the stream without retreat.

Only when water spilled from the corners of Harry’s mouth and traced down his chin did Tom lift his wand and end the spell.

Harry coughed, struggling to pull in the breath he had lost. When the fit subsided, he blinked up at Tom, disoriented and flushed. Tom reached out and brushed a thumb along the corner of Harry’s mouth, wiping away the last trace of water.

“There we go, Harry,” he murmured. “I knew you could do it. Good job.”

Harry felt the heat the water cooled off return the moment Tom praised him. He told Tom every day how remarkable he was, yet praise from Tom came sparingly, and only when he deemed it deserved. Hearing it now left Harry with a startling sense of accomplishment.

Yes, if their roles were reversed, Tom would ask for a reward without hesitation. Harry should allow himself the same indulgence.

He leaned forward and circled his arms around Tom’s neck. If he could just breathe Tom in a little more deeply, he thinks he’d feel better. And if anyone walked in and assumed he was coaxing Tom onto the bed, that would be a misunderstanding rather than intention.

“Tom…”

The name left his lips softly, and still Tom didn’t pull away. He held completely still while Harry drew him closer, settling Tom between his legs and burying his face against his neck, right where his scent gland was. Tom’s scent rose around him, and the heat in his body arched toward it helplessly.

“You smell so nice…” Harry murmured, inhaling again.

Harry felt his heartbeat thundering through his entire body, the rhythm deep enough to echo from the tips of his fingers to the arches of his feet. Heat threaded through his veins. Even the slightest motion set off little bursts of sensation, especially when his shirt tugged across his chest as Tom adjusted his stance. The friction felt electric.

“Tom… it aches.”

Tom froze completely, not even a shift of breath. It seemed he knew exactly what part of Harry was aching. “I know.”

“I’m so empty.”

“I know.”

By now, Harry had pieced together exactly what the wetness in his trousers meant. The realization struck hard enough to bring tears to his eyes; every thought of Tom only made the slick gather faster, the need twisting deeper. Without meaning to, he began to grind against Tom’s thigh, searching for friction he could no longer deny.

“The medication will work soon,” Tom said, voice tight. “Can you wait?”

This is more than just about his heat. Something older sat beneath it, something that had been brewing for Merlin knew how long. A sick twist of longing and fear tangled together in his chest. He should’ve known when he grew too obsessed with the omega Tom might’ve been seeing. He should’ve separated himself from his son once he was unable to tear his eyes away from his body. As early as when he started taking Tom’s clothes. What was wrong with him? Why must he be so—

“Push me away, Tom.” Harry sobs, his voice buried in Tom’s neck. “Please push me away. Go hide yourself somewhere. Don’t let me find you no matter what.”

Though Harry says that, he’s still grinding against Tom’s leg with desperation. And when he slides down enough, he feels something hard press against him.

That’s when a thought struck him suddenly: he hadn’t looked at Tom’s face once.

Harry’s hands slipped from around Tom’s neck, shaking as he eased himself back just enough to look up. His vision bended around the edges from the fever and the tears gathering in his eyes. He needed to see Tom, needed to know what expression he wore while Harry ruined their relationship and everything they—

Oh.

Tom’s face burned with color, a deep flush rising high across his cheekbones and creeping up the sides of his neck. His eyes had gone glassy, almost black in the low light. Harry had been so certain he was repulsing Tom, but Tom’s lips curved upward in a smile that didn’t belong to any expression Harry recognized.

It radiated happiness, yes, but there was something else with it too, a sharper thing, almost hunting in nature. A look of ecstasy that borders on insanity. 

“Do you want me to help you, Harry?”

Harry sobbed. His body screams yes, but his soul knows better.

“Because I can. You know I can.” Tom answered, his thumb sweeping across Harry’s cheekbone, catching a tear before it could fall any farther. “It hurts me to see you like this, poor thing…”

Tom’s thumb traced the tear’s path to his mouth and hooked gently on his lower lip. He tugged it down like earlier, dark eyes never moving from his.

“But I can make it all better. So long as you say the word.”

“B-But…we’re—“ The rest didn’t come out. Tom’s thumb pressed into his mouth so suddenly that Harry stopped mid-breath.

“I know, but I can’t just leave you alone in this state. This ache runs stronger than your ordinary cycle, doesn’t it?” Tom asked, cocking his head.

It does. Harry’s dealt with heats all his life, but never once have they’ve been this bad. Merlin, he could barely think. It felt like if he didn’t have Tom, he’d die.

Harry nodded, unable to trust his voice. Tom’s face softened into a small, sympathetic frown. The sort of look grown-ups used when a child cried about something they couldn’t articulate, patient and almost indulgent.

“See? What kind of son would I be if I left my mother to deal with this all by himself?”

Harry found himself caught in Tom's gaze, the intensity of it drawing him in until he realized with a start that what he'd always thought were black eyes weren't black at all. A thin ring of brown encircled the edges, barely visible against pupils so dilated they had consumed nearly the entire iris, creating merely an impression of darkness rather than the reality of it.

“Beg," Tom whispered. "Beg me to help you, and I'll do it."

Harry felt more tears threatening to spill as he opened his mouth, simultaneously waiting for the words to emerge while hoping they would remain trapped behind his teeth.

“There is nothing I would deny you.”

The tears fell. 

“Help m—“

The taste of something sweet hits Harry’s mouth the instant Tom’s lips crashes into his. His lips were full and warm, soft against Harry’s slack mouth. Tom’s tongue drags across the seam of his lips and Harry aches to part for him even as confusion holds him still. The moment breaks when Tom pushes harder, tongue curling into his mouth and striking against his own in a heated, messy clash that reminds Harry exactly what to do.

Harry can feel every glide of Tom’s tongue inside his mouth. The kiss stretches on and on until Harry’s lungs begin to burn. When the need for air finally forces him to pull back, he barely manages a single breath before Tom’s hand closes around the back of his neck and draws him forward again, sealing their mouths together once more.

Again, Harry reached the point where his lungs refused to take in another breath. He pushed Tom away with much effort, hands trembling against Tom’s chest. 

“W-Wait,” he gasped, the words catching in his throat. “Tom, I can’t breathe—”

But Tom doesn’t listen. The moment their mouths separate, he lowers his head and noses at Harry’s scent gland. His tongue then drags a long, slow stripe over the spot, the sensation hitting like lightning. It races through every inch of Harry’s skin. Harry wants to ask Tom to slow down, to be careful, to not let his tongue pierce his skin because they both know what would happen if it does. 

But then Tom sucks.

Pleasure crashes through Harry's body like a thunderclap, surging downward and pooling between his legs. The intensity makes his vision go dark at the edges. His thighs clamp together, trembling, as numbness spreads through his limbs, leaving only the pulsing center of bliss.

Tom leans back and stares at him. “Did you just…?”

Harry turns red. He’s never—that has never—

A laugh slips out of Tom, and the sound only furthers Harry’s embarrassment. Harry shoves him away once more, a desperate attempt to preserve whatever dignity he had left, but his hand hasn’t even fully extended before Tom catches his wrist again. 

A moment later, Harry is on his back, pressed into the bed by the weight of Tom’s grip and the force of him.

“There’s no need to be shy. I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“Yes you were,” Harry muttered, the words weak. No part of him could hold firm when Tom’s scent had wrapped itself through the entire room. It’s spicy again, Harry realizes. Very, very spicy. It’s tickling Harry’s nose.

“It was amusing, I’ll admit.” Tom murmurs against Harry's skin, his lips tracing a path down the column of his throat as his fingers wander lower.

Inhaling sharply, Harry catches Tom's wrist just as it reaches into the waistband of his pants, halting any further exploration.

Once Tom touches there, their relationship would—

“Though largely because it was…adorable.”

Adorable. Tom had called him adorable. 

Harry lets his wrist go. 

A gasp escapes Harry as Tom's calloused fingers meet his exposed skin, cool against his warmth. His underwear clings, unbelievably, humiliatingly wet as Tom eases the fabric away. When Tom's thumb finds that sensitive bundle of nerves and begins circling his clit, Harry's body responds with waves of pleasure that leave him writhing, teeth sinking into his lower lip to trap any sound that might escape.

Harry is no stranger to this kind of touch, having experienced it countless times before, sometimes by his own hand and sometimes by another's. But never has it felt quite like this.

The thought that it’s his own son unraveling him sends him tipping between fear and something dangerously close to excitement.

“How is that? Is it good?”

It is good. Too good. Harry's eyes clench shut as his chest heaves with uneven breaths. His hips betray him, moving of their own accord against Tom's fingers. The wetness between them grows, and with it, the slick glide of skin against skin.

Some instinct within Harry wanted to draw back, yet another feeling, one he had avoided for so long he barely recognized it, drew him closer instead. And now he drifts into a place he had never dared to enter.

Harry's moans intensify as Tom explores his dripping cunt, gathering slick evidence of his arousal. Tom alternates between mapping every sensitive inch of Harry's cunt and teasing his swollen clit with pressure. A squeeze here, a flick there.

“Tom—hold on.”

Harry's fingers curl around Tom's forearm, leaving crescent marks in the skin. Even he can't tell if he's trying to push away or anchor himself to reality. 

“Hold on?” Tom parroted. He made no effort to stop what he was doing. “Why would I? You need this, don’t you?”

As he said this, Tom's free hand finds its way under the cotton of his shirt, Harry's breath catches. A thumb circles, teases, until Harry's nipple hardens beneath the touch. The voice doesn't even sound like his own, Harry thinks. Never in his life had those pathetic, needy sounds escaped his throat: like a wanton white begging for it rather than a battle-hardened war survivor. A fucking professor, for Merlin’s sake. Tom’s mother.

“Remember who’s helping whom,” Tom whispered. The smile on his face is both affectionate and unnerving. Their noses brushed as he leaned in, crowding Harry’s breath.

“You asked me for this. I’m only doing what a good son would. I’m doing it for you, Harry.”

A sob slipped out of Harry at the truth. Tom was right. Harry had leaned on his son in a way no parent should, and instead of turning from him, Tom had chosen to stay and help. Harry tried to feel grateful, though the feeling tangled with guilt until he could barely tell them apart.

Then he feels Tom's finger pressing against his hole. Harry squeezes his thighs together, but Tom doesn't stop, just keeps pushing that thick digit into Harry's slick cunt. Harry lets out a pathetic, drawn out whimper as Tom forces his way past the resistance, not stopping until his finger is buried knuckle deep into his heat.

Tom then forced a second finger in alongside the first. Harry gasped, his eyes widening in shock as Tom stretched him open one digit at a time. The pressure intensified, a coiling heat that made Harry's clit throb, and he instinctively grinds back against Tom's hand. It felt so good. So good. Tom was so good. 

A raw moan escaped him, muffled against Tom's shoulder. The bed frame creaked beneath them as Tom's fingers pumped into him without mercy.

"There we go, Harry. Tell me how good it feels. I won’t know if you don’t.” Tom’s voice lands right against Harry’s ear, which only heightens every sensation running through him.

And Harry does. Something loosens inside Harry and he confesses, "Yes, Tom," he gasps, his voice barely above a whisper. "It feels so good."

As soon as the admission leaves his mouth, Harry feels the faint curve of Tom’s smile against his ear.

“Good boy.”

The pace of Tom's fingers became punishing, a relentless, brutal rhythm that drove Harry to the edge. His body seized, inner muscles clamping down hard as the climax tore through him. His cunt convulsed around Tom's fingers, a gush of wetness coating his hand and soaking through the front of his pants. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever screamed so loud. It’s raw and animal-like, vibrating through the fabric as wave after wave empties out of him. There was a point where his vision whites out completely.

When he comes down, Harry felt the immediate warmth spread against his skin, the undeniable evidence of his mess, but any thought of embarrassment was drowned in the tidal wave of pleasure. Harry folded into Tom’s chest, breath hitching in uneven pulls. His limbs trembled so violently they no longer obeyed him.

"Ah….hah…," Since when were orgasms that strong? What was that? It’s nothing Harry’s ever felt before.

“Look at this mess,” he hears Tom say. “You squirted everywhere and got us dirty.” 

Harry forces his head up, blinking until the glassiness leaves his eyes. Tom’s gaze is fixed downward to the soaked fabric of their clothes. Shame and embarrassment hits him.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers, his voice barely holding together. He reaches for Tom’s sleeve, fingers trembling, and repeats it again, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t cry,” Tom said, leaning in to place the lightest kiss against Harry’s eyelid. The tenderness of it startled him. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Harry closed his eyes, letting the kiss ground him while the ache inside his body softened just enough for him to breathe again. The heat very much still moved beneath his skin, but the relief was real, faint as it was.

As the haze of heat pheromones faded from a roaring fire to a glowing ember that warmed Harry’s stomach, the reality of what he’d done settled over him. He had just spent, and was still currently spending his heat with Tom, his son. The one who he was sent back into the past to help, not corrupt. 

Panic set in. Harry could hardly believe it. What had he done? What would—

His thoughts are interrupted by Tom withdrawing his fingers abruptly, leaving Harry gasping at the sudden emptiness. Before Harry can recover his breath, Tom's hands are at his waistband, then his buttons, peeling away layers one after the other.

Bare and vulnerable, Harry instinctively closes his thighs. Tom catches hold of one thigh and pushes it open again.

“There’s no point in trying to hide now.” Tom said.

“I know!” Harry shot back, his face flushing hot. “But…”

How could Harry even tell him that it’s now less about being embarrassed and more of being worried about Tom laying eyes on his body? Tom would see a body shaped by war rather than by any of the things omegas were praised for. Scars ran along his skin, and his hips offered no curve to soften them. Certain angles of his frame had stayed boney and pointy rather than filling out, and the idea of Tom noticing all of that made his stomach twist.

He checks Tom’s face, nervous for his reaction. But Tom isn’t looking at him, his gaze is anchored between Harry’s thighs, pupils blown wide, eyes so dark and still that Harry doubts he’s blinked in half a minute.

“Don’t stare like that!”

Tom leaned in, ignoring Harry and pressing a soft kiss just below Harry's navel before trailing his lips downward. When Tom reached the tender skin of his inner thighs, he bit down harshly, leaving a mark. Leaving multiple.

“No, don’t…” Harry’s voice came out shaky as he slapped his hands over his face. The thought of Tom doing that made his stomach flip, especially when he hadn’t bathed at all today.

Without warning, a slow lick traveled the length of Harry's folds, collecting the slick arousal there. A shared groan echoed in the room. Tom's hand clamped down on Harry's hip, pinning him to the mattress as his tongue began to toy and flick at the pulsing clit.

Harry was grateful his headquarters sat high on the castle’s left side; even with a hand clamped over his mouth, his moan was still loud enough to wake the dead—or anyone else sleeping in Hogwarts. A fleeting thought about casting Muffliato crossed his mind, but the idea was like sand slipping through his fingers, utterly forgotten with the next flick of Tom’s tongue.

“Merlin," Tom rasped, his voice muffled against Harry's flesh, not looking up from his work. "You're dripping."

"Oh! Pleas-!" Every flick, every suck, every slurp of his tongue had Harry gasping, eyes squeezing out the pleasurable tears. He knew he was about to come again. His legs were locked tight, his stomach was hollowed, and his grip on the pillows was almost painfully hard. The tell-tale signs were all there.

“Yes, let’s hear you. Scream a little louder.”

“N-No—ah!” Harry shakes as Tom sticks a finger in, pumping his long finger in and out. 

Suddenly the tip of Tom’s finger glances across a spot that feels like pure lightning. Harry’s eyes snap wide; pleasure slams through him so fiercely it made him dizzy.

“That must be it,” Tom breathes, seemingly more to himself than to Harry, barely audible above the wet sounds filling the room.

Harry barely registers them. He can’t. Tom’s fingers continue to stroke that swollen spot while his other hand eases back the slick hood shielding Harry’s clit. Cool air kisses the exposed bundle of nerves for one heartbeat, just long enough for Harry to feel the throb of it, before Tom’s mouth descends.

Harry screams.

Tom seals his lips around the bud and sucks hard, the pull sharp enough to border on pain and then blooming into blinding pleasure. Harry’s hips jerk violently; a guttural sound tearing out of him as the dual assault crashes together: the thick drag across his g-spot, and the fierce, rhythmic suction on his clit.

Tom never falters. His tongue flicks once, twice, then flattens and presses, vibrating with a low hum that Harry feels everywhere. Inside, outside, everywhere. The pressure coils until Harry’s entire world narrows to the wet heat of Tom’s mouth and the fingers working him open, driving him straight toward the edge with no escape.

“Tom! Stop, please stop!” Harry’s voice cracks, the words tumbling over each other as his hips jerk helplessly. Something huge is building inside him, a pressure so intense it scares him. “Tom, I’m going to cum, stop!”

Tom doesn’t even flinch.

He keeps his mouth sealed over Harry’s clit, tongue lashing in ruthless circles while his fingers drive deep, curling hard against that spot that makes Harry see stars. The wet sounds are obscene now, louder than any of Harry’s pleas. 

Harry’s hands fly to Tom’s hair, fingers twisting in dark strands to try to yank him away. “Listen to me, damn it!”

Tom only hums and sucks harder. His free arm locks across Harry’s hips, pinning him to the mattress.

Harry can feel it coming, feel the hot, liquid rush gathering low in his belly. Last time he’d squirted it had been mortifying; this time it’s going to be worse, so much worse, and Tom’s face is right there.

“I— c-cum—mi— T-Tom—“

The warning shreds into nothing as Harry’s body seizes. A violent, full-body spasm rips through him; his back bows so high the mattress groans beneath them. Then it happens: a forceful gush bursts from him, clear and copious, slamming straight into Tom’s waiting mouth.

Tom doesn’t move. He takes it, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, letting the flood fill his mouth, spill over his chin, drench his cheeks and jaw. It soaks the collar of his shirt in seconds, runs in rivulets down his neck, coats his wrist and forearm, dripping in thick ropes from his elbow to the sheets below. Every thrust of his fingers drags another pulsing jet. If Tom hears the cry muffled against the pillow Harry has clamped between his teeth, he shows no signs of it. 

Only when the last shudder wracks Harry’s spent body and he collapses does Tom finally ease back. His face gleams, slick and shining under the low light. He licks his lips slowly, tongue curling to catch every stray drop, then slides his soaked fingers into his mouth one by one, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum.

Harry lies there wrecked, the sheets beneath him dark and ruined, while Tom watches him with dark eyes and a smile.

“Why did you do that?” Harry whispered through his sobs, tears streaking his cheeks. He couldn’t find the strength to move his head, but his eyes never left Tom.

“Because I wanted to.” Tom replied simply. His reason for everything, it seems.

“But it’s disgusting. Do you know what you just drank?”

His previous partners had never done such a thing, but then again, none of his previous partners had ever made him squirt, either. Much less twice in a row. 

Merlin, Tom really was good at everything, wasn’t he? How terrifying.

“Before you say any more, it’s not pee.”

“It is!”

“It’s not, it’s…creamier.” Tom licks his fingers again. “And even if it were, it’s not as though I mind.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Harry breathed, weakly dragging his legs up to brace his feet against Tom’s chest, keeping him away. His head lolled to the side, eyes hazy and glass-bright. “And insane.”

“Yes, I am.” Grabbing one of Harry’s feet, Tom brings it up to his face and licks between his toes. Harry squeals and squirms, trying to shake Tom off him. It doesn’t work. 

“There’s nothing about you that could be described as ‘disgusting.’” Tom told him, loosening his grip so Harry could pull his foot back. “Not to me.”

Harry blushed, a different kind of warmth spreading through him. Moments like this always caught him off guard. Sweetness from Tom came rarely, and when it did appear, it seemed to slip past every defense Harry thought he had.

Maybe that’s why he reacted so easily to Tom’s praise—it felt like… ah, like when a ferocious cat suddenly allows you to stroke its fur. 

Harry gestured for Tom to come closer, and the moment he was within reach, Harry slipped his arms around his neck and kissed him with a depth that startled even himself.

His fingers tighten at the nape of Tom’s neck as his tongue sweeps in, chasing the lingering trace of himself on Tom’s lips. Tom groans and answers by shoving his tongue deeper, sliding it alongside Harry’s in a glide that makes obscene little sounds between them.

Saliva and Harry’s release mix. Tom sucks on Harry’s bottom lip hard enough to sting, then biting down just to feel Harry jerk and whimper into him. Harry retaliates by sucking Tom’s tongue like it’s his cock, hollowing his cheeks, drawing out every last trace of his own mess until Tom’s hips grind forward.

Ah, that’s right. Tom’s still dressed.

Tom’s hand slides from Harry’s hip to his jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge to keep his mouth open. He feeds Harry the taste with thrusts of his tongue—in, out, in again—until Harry is trembling, chasing it, licking desperately at Tom’s lips, his teeth, the slick mess on his chin. He’s aware it was gross and disgusting, but it was hard associating those kinds of words with anything related to Tom.

Tom’s mouth is still on Harry’s when he shifts his weight, slotting one thigh between Harry’s and pressing down. The soaked wool of his trousers drags over Harry’s bare, swollen cunt, the coarse fabric catching on slick folds and his clit with every roll of Tom’s hips.

Harry keens into the kiss, the sound muffled and wet. His hips jerk upward, grinding his dripping pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge of Tom’s clothed cock. Each thrust smears fresh slick across expensive fabric, darkens the stain already there, leaves glistening trails that cool instantly against Harry’s fevered skin. Wet fabric rasps over tender flesh, and Tom’s soaked shirt scrapes Harry’s nipples raw.

His pinned wrists flex in Tom’s grip; Harry spreads his legs wider, thighs trembling as he tries to ride the friction. The soaked sheets squelch beneath them, the room is thick with the scent of sex and the wet slap of fabric on skin.

When they finally tear apart, a thin string of spit and slick still connects their mouths. Harry’s chest heaves; his lips feel swollen and unbelievably bruised.

Their foreheads are pressed together when Harry’s voice came, “Take your clothes off. I can’t be the only one naked any longer.”

For one heartbeat, Tom just stares at Harry’s face. But then his gaze flickers down to the mess between them, and it’s like watching a spark catch.

He releases Harry’s wrists only long enough to rip at his own tie, yanking the silk loose and letting it fall. Buttons scatter as he tears his soaked shirt open; the fabric clinging to his chest before he shrugs it off and tosses it aside. He shoves trousers and briefs down in one motion, kicking them away until he’s finally, gloriously bare. 

Harry stops breathing at the sight: Tom’s cock was angry, red, and flushed right down to his base. The slit pulsed open as a dewdrop of precum sat pretty on the very tip. It was somehow grotesque and beautiful all at once, a contradiction only Tom could be. A single strand of Harry’s earlier mess still clings to Tom’s abdomen, glistening under the low light. Harry’s mouth waters, he licks his lips. 

Tom doesn’t give him time to take it in. He drops back over Harry, the first press of Tom’s bare cock sliding through Harry’s folds drags a loud moan from them both. Tom grinds once, twice, letting Harry feel every burning inch drag over his clit, nudge at his entrance, coat himself in the mess Harry made. 

“Harry.” Tom moaned, he grabbed his cock and lined himself up. One slow push and the head slips inside. Harry’s back arches off the bed, it was too much. Way too much. Harry would be speared alive!

“Tom! Too big! You won’t fit!” Harry yelled. 

“I’ll fit just fine.” Tom said, the words sounding familiar.

“W-Wait—please,” Harry said, “I’m scared.” The words slipped out before he could think, a confession he would never allow himself if his mind were steady.

“Do you wish to stop?” Tom asked, though he had not pulled out.

Harry freezes. “I don’t know.”

Tom reached out and swept the loose hair from Harry’s forehead, the motion unexpectedly gentle. “Do you like this or hate it?”

“I don’t know.” Harry lied. 

The truth was that he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate this at all. That was the problem. 

“You don’t know this either?” Tom asked, his tone slipping into something that made Harry feel about five years old.

They had already crossed too many lines, far too many to retreat from now. And Tom deserved the truth, given the situation, no matter how hard it was for Harry to give voice to it.

“I’m scared I’m losing my mind.” Harry confessed, his gaze downcast. “What if we do this and I’ll want you forever? What if you change my body, and my hole can’t accept anyone but you?”

There’s a long pause.

When Harry finally risks looking at him, he freezes. Tom’s eyes look hollow, like something vital has narrowed to a single point of focus. Tension knots along his jaw, each muscle drawn so tight it looked painful.

“What are you saying right now?” Tom asked. One of his eyes twitched. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Harry doesn’t get to reply before Tom slides his cock to the hilt inside of him in one powerful, ruthless thrust. 

A single tear slides down his face from the feeling of being fucked for the first time in years. Tom reaches a gentle hand up and wipes it away from his face, a confusing hypocrisy from the cruel tone of his voice and roughness of his thrust.  

“Do not speak like a whore if you do not wish to get fucked like one.”

Tom snaps his hips forward and fills him again and again, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. The thick length drags over every raw nerve before punching back in. Harry’s body jolts with the rhythm, cunt clenching helplessly around the relentless invasion as Tom sets a punishing pace that stays true to his word.

Harry Potter: Fucked like a whore by his son.

“You’re too rough, Tom! Be gentle!”

“I don’t want to,” Tom said. A beat later, he sneers and says, “More accurately, I can’t.”

And it really seems that way, considering Tom’s pace hasn’t slowed or paused once. Harry’s eyes roll back until only white remains. Thought dissolves. Harry is nothing but sensation now: the burn of each thrust, the slick heat pooling low in his belly, the coiling pressure that climbs his spine and flares behind his navel. Every merciless stroke stokes it higher, a white-hot wire tightening, tightening, until his entire body is one long, helpless shudder caught on the edge of breaking.

“Ah, ah, oh, hmm, ah, oh—!”

“That’s it. Louder, Harry. I want to hear you. Fuck, you feel so good.”  

Harry hadn't noticed how loud he was until he heard Tom. Now that he knows, the noises tear free even louder. His throat feels shredded, as if Tom has been wringing these exact cries from him across every year since they first met again.

Tom’s hips piston with single minded focus until the headboard’s rhythm becomes a repetition of bangbangbangbang. He thrusts with such force that Harry’s body skids higher on the sheets, inch by jolting inch, until the crown of his head meets the headboard with a repeated thud. The impacts blur into one another; Harry barely registers the discomfort, lost in the pleasure of Tom inside him, until suddenly the hard wood is gone. 

Something softer has taken its place.

The next thrust slams Harry upward again, but now his head collides only with the living cushion of Tom’s fingers and the tense muscle of his forearm, absorbing every shock. Tom's rhythm never falters during this, hips driving deep enough to rattle Harry’s bones while that protective hand remains spread across the headboard. The contradiction to the punishing cock splitting him open made Harry dizzy.

When Harry realizes what Tom was doing, the words come out of him: “I love you.”

Tom had the capacity to be cruel, selfish, manipulative, cunning, and at times truly awful. Yet he also had moments where sweetness surfaced, leaving Harry unable to grasp how such opposing sides could live in the same person.

Tom’s rhythm finally falters, earning Harry a drawn out groan. His head drops to Harry’s neck, a tongue darting out to lick at his scent gland again.

“I love you, Tom. I love you so much.” It’s all Harry could say as Tom shifts his angle just a fraction, hips rolling forward so the thick crown of his cock rams against Harry’s g-spot. Harry’s spine arches so violently that only his shoulders and heels remain on the bed.

A realization slid into place. Tom had always known where that spot was; he’d just withheld it until the moment he decided Harry had earned it. There it was, the sweetness and the cruelty. 

“Allow me to bite you.” He hears Tom say against his neck. “You told me once that, when you finally met your alpha, you hoped he’d resemble me.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Why not have him be me?”

“N-No—“ Harry moaned.

To have sex with his son was wrong. To get mated to him was something else entirely. It would be unheard of. It would be forbidden and looked down upon.

Again. The swollen head hits that same spot, vicious this time, as if Tom was telling him he didn’t appreciate Harry’s answer. 

“I would take care of you, Harry. You would never know loneliness again. You would want for nothing. Money would never trouble you. I will fill you with as many pups as you’d like. I could make you the happiest man alive.” Tom’s voice wavered, something Harry is unsure he’s ever heard from Tom before. Harry wanted so badly to see the expression that went with it.

Each impact rattles the headboard, drives the air from Harry’s lungs into sobs, sends shockwaves of blinding pleasure until his cunt flutters in frantic, helpless spasms around the cock that refuses to miss its mark. Harry believed him. He knew that if he mated with Tom, hell, if any omega did—they would be the happiest person alive. Tom would make sure of it, because Tom has never failed at anything in his life.

Finally, Tom unburied his face from Harry’s neck. Through his own teary eyes, he could see Tom above him, making an expression Harry was seeing for the first time. His whole face was contorted in pleasure, eyes shut, head hung, sweat dripping down his brow, lips parted as little sounds slipped past them. To know he was the one to bring Tom to this state sent a thrill through him. The thought of anyone getting to do the same made him ill. 

And Harry knew what he desired. Or maybe he had known for far longer than he wanted to admit. But turning from it wasn’t possible anymore, not when Tom was laying himself bare.

No, not completely bare just yet. 

“Would you love me?” Harry asked.

Tom’s eyes widened, the question striking him, as if he thought that was the last thing Harry could possibly ask. Harry’s not sure why it’s catching Tom so off guard. Afterall…

Tom has never said those three words to him. 

Then, a smile formed. A wave of emotion crossed his features, undetectable if you didn’t know him enough. His mouth curved into a smile that was, for once, neither mocking, fake, or mean. This one was soft and startling in its sincerity, a smile Harry suspected no one but him would ever glimpse on Tom Riddle.

“Since when have I not?”

Tears gathered again, though these carried none of the heaviness from before. Tears of joy, they are. Harry turned his head, revealing the scent gland on his neck, opening it to Tom in a gesture he had never given anyone else. An invitation he hoped Tom understood.

Tom kisses Harry again, tongue claiming every last corner before he tears away. His lips drag down the column of Harry’s throat, open-mouthed until he finds the scent gland. He lingers there, tongue mapping the exact place he intends to mark forever.

Harry feels the shift a heartbeat before it happens: Tom’s hips stutter, then surge faster, harder, the swelling knot at the base of his cock catching on every withdrawal. He feels Tom growl against his skin and drives forward one final time. And the knot, the sheer size of it, breaches him in a single push, and in the same instant, Tom’s fangs sinks in.

The pain is searing; Harry howls, a sound that tears his throat apart. There was a long moment where Harry truly believes he might die, that he was actively dying. But then pleasure follows an instant later, detonating behind his eyes and ripping through his cunt in violent waves. He comes undone around the knot, milking Tom in pulses that drag a guttural snarl from the man buried inside him.

Tom holds the bite and doesn’t let go. His teeth remained buried to the gum, tongue pressed to the wounds as tiny beads of blood bloom copper-bright against it. It hurts. It feels good. Both things are true. His release floods Harry in thick, endless streams, hips jerking helplessly against the lock of the knot.

The agony drained out of him, leaving something warm and oddly brilliant in its wake. His body loosened beneath the weight holding him still, as if his bones had dissolved. The sensation echoed that disastrous afternoon when Lockhart’s spell left his arm soft as pudding.

Tears slip sideways into his hair; Harry is weightless, held together only by the teeth in his neck and the knot deep inside him.

Only when the scar is set does Tom pull back just enough to sweep his tongue over the torn crescents, the hormones in his saliva helping to heal and partially seal it.

Harry tried to call Tom’s name, yet all he managed was an exhale that barely counted as sound.

His fingers, which had been clawing weakly at Tom’s back, loosen and slip, sliding down the sweat-slick curve of muscle until his arms fall to the mattress like dead weight. The knot throbs inside him, a heartbeat that isn’t his own, and it’s the last thing he feels clearly.

His lashes flutter once, twice, before settling. His hips give one last, feeble rock against the body locking him in place, and then even that stops. 

Tom says something to him, but he says it so quietly that Harry does not catch it. Something wet licks gently across his cheek, following the path of his tears. It’s Tom’s tongue, he realizes. 

And then, his eyes fell shut.

Lestrange knew he was going to die, and he had exactly two hours to accept it.

He did. In fact, he resigned himself to it. Any attempt to flee would only provoke a punishment far worse than death itself, so he made his choice while the plate of untouched cookies cooled in his room. He would go to his Lord, he would hand himself over, and then he would hope that his Lord was feeling generous enough to let him part this world easy.

See? Those two hours had not been wasted. The Polyjuice potion had worn off, and he managed to write personal letters to every family member and friend. He even completed his will with more detail than he expected! His mother always called his writing style grandiose, and she might be right, although that same tendency would probably irritate his father far more. But better irritation than leaving anything unsaid.

And so, he lifted his hand and knocked on the door to Harry Potter’s headquarters.

Lestrange briefly considered the possibility that they were still occupied, but an answer came before the thought could settle.

“Come in.”

Lestrange could have identified that voice in the dark, half-dead, or dreaming.

The door opened, and Lestrange stepped inside. His hands stayed clasped behind his back like those of a man already convicted, and the posture suited him far too well given how completely he had failed his Lord.

Tom Riddle sat upright in Harry’s bed, bare except for a blanket draped loosely over his hips. A Harry-sized shape rested beside him, tucked beneath the sheets and sleeping without disturbance. The floor looked as though a wardrobe had exploded; pieces of clothing belonging to his Lord, along with several from his professor, lay scattered in a manner that told Lestrange his lord had gotten exactly what he wanted, with or without the cookies.

A prickle of guilt passed through Lestrange—not for disappointing his Lord, but for what he had brought upon Harry. He liked the professor well enough, or at least far more than he liked any of the others. That fondness would have to be taken to his grave, of course, because letting his Lord sense it would be suicidal.

The feeling lingered regardless. Harry had always been a capable DADA instructor, patient with his students and sure in his teachings, and the thought of betraying a man of such steadiness struck Lestrange harder than he expected. Nothing about this felt right, especially the weight of what he had failed to do.

“My Lord…” Lestrange bowed, a wave of nausea tightening his throat.

“Lestrange, raise your head.” Why? So it’ll be easier for you to chop it off?

Nevertheless, he follows the order. Lestrange straightened and lifted his face toward his Lord, utterly unprepared for the vision that awaited him. His Lord, who prided himself on flawless appearance, now looked thoroughly undone. Strands of hair stuck out where hands had clearly raked through it, and his lips were swollen and red from an enthusiastic mouth. Moonlight split his features in two, one half washed in pale brightness and the other consumed by shadow. The result resembled a masterpiece rendered in living flesh. The irony did not escape Lestrange.

His attention lingered so long on his Lord’s appearance that he almost missed the item resting in Tom’s hand: the Sanguis Aureum potion. The orange liquid drifted in its glass container, swaying with each subtle motion of his Lord’s wrist.

This must be the moment, Lestrange told himself as he forced his eyes closed, the gesture tightening every muscle in his face. He hoped he could deliver an apology before everything ended—

“You did well.”

Shock tore his eyes open.

His Lord smiled at the glowing liquid, the expression devilish and strangely beautiful. “It was more effective than I ever imagined. You carried out your part well, and the reward will reflect that.”

Lestrange remained motionless as doubt crept through him. A trap seemed possible, maybe even likely. Confession could offer mercy, though that was only a theory. Still, the satisfied look on Tom’s face seemed too genuine to dismiss.

At last, his Lord’s eyes shifted toward him, the sudden focus making Lestrange flinch.

“You may go. Remove every trace of evidence and manage whatever excuses are required for my absence tonight.”

“Y-Yes, My Lord.”

Lestrange was hesitant to turn his back, afraid that once he did, Avada Kedavra would pierce him. Yet no path existed except forward, so he stepped through the doorway.

Unscathed. 

He leaned his back against the door, blinking at his luck. The cookies remained exactly where he left them, cooling on his bedside table without a single missing bite. No one had tried it, not even Harry, because when Lestrange came to him Polyjucied as Professor Slughorn to deliver them, the room was empty.

A gap in Tom’s design that Lestrange had never imagined.

So Lestrange had done what anyone in his position might do after failing his Lord: he fled to a quiet corner of the castle and hid. He stayed there for some time, long enough for the certainty of death to settle in, and long enough to decide that his closest companions deserved a final farewell. He spent another hour drafting last words he believed he would never repeat aloud, and that hour delivered him to this moment.

Alive when he should have been dead.

He needed to dispose of those cookies before his Lord discovered the truth.

Tom stared down at Harry, his mother now turned Mate. 

Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.Mate. Mate. Mate.Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Harry, his mate.  

A laugh bubbled out of him, and once it started, he couldn’t force it back. The sound grew until he dropped his head into his hands, still laughing as the truth of it hit him. To think that it had finally happened. After all those years of planning. After so much effort and time spent shaping himself into something he was not so Harry would gaze at him with that softness. The restraint it took him—Salazar, the restraint—now bearing fruit.

When you are talented and amazing in potion brewing as Tom is, Amortentia becomes an easy potion to produce. The Sanguis Aureum, however, challenged him in a way few things ever had. Its recipe lay buried in an archive in Italy, and the brewing process proved to be a beast on its own. Tom needed three full attempts to master it, an almost unthinkable number of failures for him, and even then the heat-inducing potion refused to reach the level of perfection he wanted. Though the effect of the heat was stronger, the duration suffered greatly as a result. That flaw became obvious when a single orgasm cleared most of Harry’s head.

At least the cookies, laced with Amortentia, had kept Harry attached to him. Tom had held a few small doubts about entrusting such an important task to Lestrange, yet he had no other choice; he obviously couldn’t appear as Slughorn when Harry, under the pull of both Amortentia and Sanguis Aureum, began seeking him out. 

In the end, Tom supposed none of that mattered. He had gotten exactly what he wanted, and the bite mark on Harry’s neck and cum pooling out of Harry’s cunt was proof.

Tom inclined his head and brushed a soft kiss against the curve of Harry’s ear. His voice followed in a low murmur, the same confession he had given Harry moments before sleep claimed him.

“I love you.”

End.