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“You belong to me now, Harry.”
“It goes both ways, Tom.”
“Your life is mine.”
“Don’t even think about using that to control me.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing…”
—
Harry was dead, but he didn’t really mind. Well, he sort of did. He missed Tom and he felt a little guilty for leaving him behind, but if he had the chance to go back, he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Because saving Tom was worth far more than his life.
And besides, Tom had others. He could replace Harry. The thought made him a little sad, but Tom’s happiness came first. Even if it meant seeing stupid Bella hanging off of Tom’s arm, crazy bitch that she was.
Harry pouted a little. Then he stopped, because he didn’t want to be selfish. And besides, he was being called. The loving voice of his parents washed over him in a wave of warmth he had never before experienced. It was a kind of feeling neither he nor Tom had ever had the pleasure of knowing. They had found refuge in each other instead, sharing their warmth and love with a desperate kind of affection, pledging themselves in a way that only children could. Together forever, they promised.
And even as they had grown up, and occasionally apart, their oaths held and they’d drift back together, never quite whole when the other was gone.
And then Harry had gone and died. He felt a little guilty as he was held in his mother’s arms, surrounded by love and warmth. But really, it was Tom’s fault. Tom, who had all these grandiose plans that made him some powerful enemies. Of course Harry was going to save him from the blasting curse. He was a Gryffindor. It was what he did.
—
“You’re never allowed to die, Harry. If you do, I’ll resurrect you as a dog.”
“You wouldn’t dare! If I die, you leave my soul the hell alone.”
“With a collar and leash to help curb your brash tendencies.”
“I swear to Merlin I’ll take you down with me - “
—
His father ruffled his hair, and Harry grinned before he was tackled by an overly enthusiastic Padfoot.
The last thing he remembered was Tom screaming his name, a mixture of fear and anger swelling his voice. Then, of course, there was pain, and then - well, light and warmth and airy pleasant floaty feeling of the afterlife.
Time, he knew, just… didn’t matter here. As he smiled and laughed, he thought that a few minutes might have passed, or perhaps an eternity. He supposed it was just as well - he’d probably go insane otherwise.
“Sacrificing your life,” His father was saying, nodding sagely. “A worthy death.”
His mother smacked James’ arm. “Dying in your sleep would have been just as well,” she reassured him.
“Well, he didn’t die in his sleep so it’s a moot point,” Sirius pointed out.
“I’m just saying,” His mother crossed her arms. “I would be proud of him either way.”
“But you’re secretly extra proud of him for being so noble.” James winked.
“If he hadn’t been so noble, he wouldn’t be dead,” Lily said flatly. She paused. “Not that I’m angry that you’re dead, sweetie. I’m so very happy to see you.”
Harry smiled, and he was a spirit so he couldn’t cry, but if he could, he would definitely be bawling his eyes out.
—
“Tom… If you could bring your parents back, would you?”
“I don’t need parents.”
“But if you could?”
“As long as you’re alive, I won’t need to resurrect anyone.”
“Very funny, Tom. You can’t resurrect me if I die.”
“…”
“No way, Tom. If I die, you leave me to rest in fucking peace.”
“Such vulgar language, darling.”
“Tom!”
—
There was a pleasant haze surrounding his mind as he trailed after his parents. They passed through forests and villages and castles and all of it Harry loved. One day, he knew, he would be able to share all of this with Tom. And if Tom’s parents weren’t here, that was alright, because Harry could just share his. They had agreed, after all. What was Harry’s was Tom’s, and what was Tom’s was Harry’s.
“Home,” His father beamed, an arm sweeping out to show the large expanse. It was overflowing with trees and bushes and flowers that climbed and swirled over a house that looked at once small and large. A mixture of cozy and extravagant. A building that looked as if it had been created through a stubborn clash of wills.
“Come, Harry. Let’s go inside.” His mother beckoned him.
A small stone path lead to the front door. His steps slowed, and if he’d had a heart, it would be pounding. Home. With his parents. It was what he and Tom had always dreamed of - a home and unconditional love.
He paused then on the threshold. He could see inside, down the hallway and into the sitting room. The glowing lights and soft seating and the portraits that lined the hall.
“Harry?” Sirius was watching him curiously. “You coming?”
“I - “ Yes, he wanted to say. Why wouldn’t he? But there was a strange tugging in his chest and he stumbled back with a bemused frown.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” His mother peered at him worriedly.
“I don’t know,” Harry replied, rubbing his chest. “I feel like - “ His vision blurred, doubled, overlaid. An image flirted across his vision - a dark room, a figure, and a flash of silver.
Harry opened his mouth to speak but all he could do was gasp as the pull strengthened. He hunched forward, stumbling back another step. His parents and Sirius were staring at him, eyes wide.
His mother opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then a knowing look overcame her features. She smiled, and Harry basked in her warmth.
“Give him our love, Harry,” She said.
What - Harry wanted to ask her, but he couldn’t speak, and the world around him blurred, and then there was darkness.
And he felt cold.
He opened his eyes. The dark room, the dark figure, the metallic glint of surgical tools. Ritual candles surrounded his body in a circle.
He sat up, slowly, tenderly. He stared forward, then down. His hands. He flexed them experimentally. The were thin, as his had been, but he could see faint stitch marks running down the back of one of his hands and along his wrist zigzagging like lightning -
His body felt chilled right down to the bones. It also felt… strong, as he had never felt before, and yet as if held together with a mere needle and thread. He knew, then, with absolute certainty, just who had put him back together. Who had taken each piece of him and stitched him whole with a loving hand. A possessive hand. A greedy hand that just wouldn’t let him go.
Harry had died. His body blasted to pieces. And now… He was reanimated.
He had a heart - he could hear it beating - but it moved to His command. The blood in his veins flowed to the sound of His magic.
His very being was strung together, his soul held in this vessel by His strength and will.
Muscles flexed and skin stretched and stitches strained as he turned, slow and still a little unsteady, to the dark figure that waited with an unusual patience.
Tom, his Tom, was staring at him with gleaming eyes, triumphant, hungry, and - relieved? Or was it pleased? Harry felt something then - a warmth that stirred within his body, completely independent of Tom’s magic.
Was it anger?
Was it love?
Because Tom had - brought him back into this undead body. He had -
Red eyes gleamed. “I told you not to die, Harry.”
“Tom, you absolute fuck.”