Work Text:
Tu cherches quoi, rencontrer la mort?
Tu te prends pour qui?
Toi aussi, tu détestes la vie.
It feels cruel, at times, to always move forward and never, ever back.
It is springtime in Paris, and Harry is there because he threw a dart at a map and it landed in the Seine.
He would have liked to see the city in its prime, when artists and intellectuals crowded smoke-choked rooms and argued until dawn. He would have liked to slip in and out of the jazz clubs and the salons, sip absinthe, and float away to the clouds.
Every time he returns, the streets are more crowded, dirtier. Years push the city forward, push everything forward.
Yet, Harry remains fixed at the age of victory, frozen in youth, not a single day older than he was when he killed Voldemort.
Was it the Hallows that made him this way—a Master of Death?
Or was it the cruel truth of the prophecy: that if Harry did not die at the hand of Voldemort, he would be cursed to never die at all?
From the moment he grasped the truth of his immortality, he has always been in motion. By now, he feels like he’s seen nearly everything. But there is no choice except to keep moving, always keep moving.
It’s been so long that Harry has forgotten this age. At some point, the number became meaningless.
He’s outlived everyone he’s ever loved, and in time the pain of that has softened as well. He thinks of Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna—all of them—rarely now, but always with fondness.
Harry hasn’t allowed himself to grow close to anyone else since them. Whether that is kindness or avoidance, he still can’t be sure.
It is Voldemort that Harry thinks of the most, his presence still haunting him even as centuries pass by.
Voldemort had wanted this—immortality. Though Voldemort never intended to flee from the rumours that would arise as time marched onward and he remained untouched by it. He wished to be an eternal ruler in a gilded palace, while the world bowed and rotted beneath him.
If he wished, Harry could have done the same with ease.
Once, Harry had visited Albania and ventured into the dark forest where Voldemort had once resided. He had wandered for days, half-delirious, until he came upon a clearing of scorched, lifeless earth—so steeped in dark magic that nothing new could ever grow.
A blackened, gnarled tree stood at the center, clawing toward the heavens, blotting out the sky.
Harry had knelt there to press his palm against the cold earth. He felt something faint then—perhaps only imagined. An echo of the wraith who had spent years there, trapped and vengeful.
While Harry has kept moving all this time, he thinks he might be just as trapped.
When Harry lifted his hand again, a flower bloomed beneath it— small, vivid, blood-red against the ash.
Even now, in the quaint flat he rents in Montmartre, Harry lies awake at night with his hand splayed over his chest, searching inward for the hollow space where another fragment of soul once rested, cradled against his own.
Harry is walking out of a bakery, a warm, fresh croissant in hand, when his pulse spikes violently.
A chill creeps down his back—the unmistakable certainty that he is being watched.
He turns just in time to see a blurred figure of a man disappearing behind a corner. He only catches sight of dark, tousled hair and a long pale neck.
Harry is unsure why he continues to feel unsettled long after the moment has passed.
He still occasionally draws curiosity and stares, though not for the same reasons he had in his youth. He avoids magical enclaves nowadays, because those who are more magically sensitive often sense the death that clings to him. Still, witches and wizards drift through the Muggle world, and some notice him anyway. Few ever approach.
Days later, he is sipping coffee outside a café when he feels eyes upon him again, this time from across the street. He rises to his feet, locking eyes with a man he is sure must be the same one from before. His face is too distant to make out properly, but something familiar about him burns between Harry’s ribs.
Harry steps forward. A bus roars past, swallowing the view. When it clears, the man is gone.
That evening, Harry spots someone lingering outside his flat, disappearing before he reaches the door.
Later, he paces the floors, restless. He can’t be sure if the shadow that crosses outside his window is real or only a trick of the light.
It isn’t impossible, he thinks, that though time has spared his body, it has finally caught up with his mind.
His heart races, though he has no reason to be afraid.
There is no one left alive who can harm him.
Rain pours down on Haussmann Boulevard, soaking through Harry’s clothing and sending a chill clear down to his bones.
It is funny, to be ancient and do something as mundane as getting caught in a downpour without an umbrella.
He ducks into an alley, scanning the ground for rubbish he can transfigure out of sight. Before he can draw his wand, that familiar sensation crawls over him again.
The man stands at the alley's mouth, falling rain veiling his face. This time, he doesn’t run. He approaches deliberately. Harry steps forward too, as though pulled by an invisible tether.
Harry’s hand tightens over the wand in his pocket, feet drifting into a practiced stance.
But now that the man is close enough, Harry sees him clearly. The recognition steals the breath from his lungs.
He has seen that face before.
Porcelain-pale skin. Sharp jaw. Hollowed cheeks. Dark eyes framed by long lashes. Wet black curls plastered to his forehead.
Harry knows that face as well as his own.
“I feel like I know you,” Tom Riddle says. “But I do not know whether I wish to kiss or kill you.”
Harry inclines his head, taking in the youthful face of his once-enemy, the familiar set of his shoulders, the impossibility of his existence.
Perhaps, at last, time has come full circle. Perhaps this is how it ends.
“I think,” Harry says slowly, “that I would prefer we start with kissing.”
His name is Tom Jedusor, not Riddle. He studies painting at the Sorbonne and lives in a shoebox flat near the university. Shockingly, he has no magic.
They peel off their drenched clothing, attached at the mouth, leaving them in a heap by the door. It has centuries since Harry has touched anyone in this way, but his hands seem to know exactly where to go.
It feels almost as if he has touched Tom this way before—countless times—even though every time Voldemort laid hands on Harry, it had brought nothing but brutal pain.
There is no pain now—only breathless, dizzying pleasure. Harry cannot recall ever having anyone in so many ways all at once. He feels inexhaustible, as though reclaiming centuries of lost time.
Tom moves above him, sweat glistening across his chest, ethereal. His head tips back, his spine arches, and he cries out.
Afterward, he collapses next to Harry, his head settling against Harry’s chest. Harry’s heart beats loudly in his ears, pounding where Tom’s cheek rests against it. Beneath that, he feels something else. A current. A hum.
He’s quite certain that even without his magic, Tom must be able to feel it too.
Neither of them speak of it.
A sliver of sunlight creeps past Harry’s eyelids. He stirs, waking slowly, still not quite aware of where he is.
Graphite scratches insistently against paper.
Harry opens his eyes to find Tom sitting in a chair by the bed, ankles crossed, intense eyes tracing Harry’s form as he sketches.
“There is something about your features that feels timeless,” Tom says.
Harry thinks Tom’s looks are rather timeless as well. Like Caravaggio’s brush strokes made flesh.
“And your eyes—there is something in them that feels very old.”
“I am old,” Harry says, stretching languidly.
Tom’s brows furrow. “You are certainly younger than I am.”
Harry shakes his head. “I’m older than you. I promise.”
Later, Harry catches a glimpse of the sketch.
His body is laid out bare against the sheets, splayed like an offering, his face soft with sleep.
At the center of his chest, a hollow has been carved away, and his heart rests in his outstretched palm.
By some unspoken agreement, Harry stays.
Tom shares the story of his life, which begins in a way that is uncomfortably familiar.
“My mother died shortly after I was born,” Tom says. “She lived only long enough to name me Tom, for my father…”
His lips pinch together. “And Elvis, for the very old American rock-and-roll musician.”
Harry lets out a shocked bark of laughter, clutching his chest.
“No!” Tom snaps, swatting at Harry’s forearm as he chokes on his mirth. “Do not laugh at me! It is humiliating!”
Harry grins, catching Tom and tugging him close, pressing a kiss into his curls. “It’s a perfectly good name,” he says. “I happen to like Elvis.”
Tom pouts, but melts easily into Harry’s arms.
“What sort of story do you think I have?” Harry asks.
Tom tilts his head up, studying Harry thoughtfully.
“I believe that you are an orphan, like myself,” he says.
“I am,” Harry confirms.
“I also think,” Tom continues, “that we have both been alone for a very long time.”
Harry nods, pulling Tom even closer.
Tom has no idea how long that time has truly been.
“It is strange,” Tom says. “I still feel as if we have met before. But it is not possible.”
“I think,” Harry says softly, “we must have known each other in another life.”
“I have never believed in such things,” Tom replies.
His mouth finds the curve of Harry’s neck. “But somehow, I feel it must be true.”
Voldemort had once believed in the might of magic above anything else. It is strange to know this version of him—this Tom—who until now has believed in nothing at all.
Tom’s flat has a narrow balcony, and sometimes Harry steps out there to smoke.
“Such a terrible habit,” Tom says, frowning as he joins him outside.
He wears nothing but a silk robe and slippers, fresh bite marks blooming dark against his neck.
“We’re in Paris,” Harry says, smiling. “You’re meant to smoke in Paris.”
Tom sniffs. “Ignorant.”
Harry laughs.
“If you get cancer, I will not be your nursemaid,” Tom says primly. “You will have to find another.”
“Noted,” Harry says, grinning.
Tom stands beside him, looking out into the city.
“Since you’re so concerned about my welfare, I suppose you aren’t thinking about killing me anymore,” Harry says.
“Not now,” Tom replies.
He pulls the cigarette from between Harry’s fingers and brings it to his lips.
“You are quite pleasant to look at,” Tom says, exhaling smoke. “and you have an exquisite cock. It would be a waste.”
“Glad I can be of service,” Harry chuckles.
“I think of murder quite often,” Tom says casually. “It is not unusual.”
“Oh?” Harry lifts a brow. “Have you killed anyone, then?”
Tom shakes his head, passing the cigarette back. “No.”
“Not yet?” Harry teases.
Tom’s mouth curves into a wicked smirk. “Do you wish for me to kill someone for you, mon chéri?”
“No,” Harry says. “I would much prefer you not kill anyone at all.”
Tom sighs theatrically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Oh, how very controlling you are.”
Tom sweeps back into the flat. Harry flicks ash over the balcony rail and crushes the cigarette beneath his heel before following Tom back inside.
Music drifts in through the open door, low and distant. The melody settles beneath Harry’s skin with uncanny familiarity, like something he once heard in a dream and never managed to forget.
Tom tilts his head, listening.
A bandoneón sighs. The sound is heavy with anticipation.
Harry steps forward, offering his hand.
“Shall we?”
Tom looks at Harry’s hand as though it might bite him. “I do not dance.”
“Yes, you do,” Harry says.
It is difficult to imagine Voldemort dancing the tango in his serpentine form, but Harry is quite sure that Tom Riddle must once have moved effortlessly across polished floors in his youth, drawing admiring stares with every graceful step.
This Tom simply doesn’t remember.
After a beat, Tom gives in, and their hands meet.
Harry draws him in.
The contact pulses between them—chest to chest, breath to breath, their joined hands lifted, Harry’s other hand firm at Tom’s back. They’ve been this close before—many times now—but this time it feels more exhilarating, more dangerous.
Harry steps forward, and Tom follows.
Harry begins leading Tom with care, gently guiding him through the slow, precise steps. The wooden floor creaks softly beneath their feet. Their bodies align with an ease that feels fated. That familiar current stirs again, a steady thrum beneath the music, beating in time with Harry’s heart.
At first, Tom is tense beneath Harry’s hands. His movements are tightly controlled—too restrained.
But as Harry turns him, something flickers across Tom’s face, a shadow of a memory from another life. His lips curl, and something keen appears in his eyes.
By the third turn, Tom no longer waits for the pressure at his back. He anticipates it. By the fifth, he counters it.
The firm press between Harry’s shoulders draws out a gasp.
The music swells. Harry pivots, and Tom turns with him, flawless. A sudden pull brings them even closer, breath tangling, heat flaring between them.
“This,” Tom says, a murmur against Harry’s lips, “feels like a memory.”
Harry nods, because in a way, it’s true—though the last dance Harry shared with Voldemort was a far more violent one.
Then Tom shifts.
He takes the lead without warning, a confident smirk tugging at his mouth. Harry allows himself to be guided backward, swept into tight, breathless turns, trusting Tom’s hand at his back, allowing it to anchor him.
With every deliberate step, Harry feels more certain that they’ve done this before, in lives long buried. They have circled one another as empires rose and fell, bound by an ancient thread that refuses to fray.
When the music ends, neither of them moves.
They remain there, suspended, foreheads nearly touching, hands still clasped, holding one another as the light outside dims and the sun slips below the horizon.
Neither of them lets go.
Harry wakes in the night.
Tom is awake too, clinging to him tightly. His face is illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the window—pale, tension carved into every line.
“Are you all right?” Harry whispers.
“I had a strange dream,” Tom says, his voice hollow.
A hand reaches out, brushing back Harry’s fringe. Tom stares at the lightning-shaped scar with unwavering intensity.
“Who gave that to you?” Tom asks.
“The man who killed my parents,” Harry answers.
Tom’s eyes remain fixed there, a finger tracing the shape with reverence. “I dreamed it was me.”
Harry has lived in Paris long enough to watch four seasons turn. He cannot recall the last time he stayed settled in one place for so long. It feels like something worthy of celebration.
He picks up a fresh baguette and an expensive bottle of wine and heads back with a smile.
Home.
He’s not sure when he began thinking of the flat he shares with Tom as such, but it feels correct.
When he opens the door, the normally neat space is in disarray—furniture shoved back, the center of the room cleared.
There, Tom kneels, encircled in chalk. His head snaps up at Harry’s entrance, a wild, triumphant smile stretching across his face.
His eyes blaze crimson.
“I remember,” he breathes. “I remember everything now.”
In his hand, he holds a human heart, somehow still steadily beating.
Tom has not only regained his memories, it appears his magic has been restored as well. Harry can feel it swirling in the air, thick enough to suffocate.
Fear does not arrive. Rather, it feels like balance has been restored.
No one is meant to live forever.
“Do you wish to kill me now?” Harry asks.
“No,” Tom says.
He rises and cups Harry’s cheek with a blood-slick hand.
“This time,” Tom says softly, “we will write our own fate. We both shall survive.”
An endless future stretches out before them. But now that Harry is no longer alone, eternity doesn't feel like a cage