Harry leaves his classroom -- the last time he will ever do so on, at least, this side of the Veil... a horrible, sad thought, even if he had accepted it would happen since the very beginning -- with strong contemplation at his side.

Strong contemplation... and Tom Riddle, of course.

Tom wants him to say something. Tom wants to say something himself -- and likely will, if Harry does not -- but he's giving Harry the chance to dictate this conversation. Harry has a problem and Tom can't monologue it out of him. He must listen. And Harry must talk. That's how it is. That's how it works.

Tom knows this. And maybe Tom thinks it will be enough for him to repair whatever large gap has formed in their relationship. Just like he thinks willingness to change is the same as change.

But the truth is, Harry is not as hopeful. He's not as helplessly and willfully blind.

Harry thinks that Tom will keep repeating that Whatever you find wrong with me, I will fix. I can fix. Tom will keep repeating it, but it isn't true. (You can tell a lie as many times over as you want and, at the end of the day, it is still a lie.) Tom has cut corners after corners for him -- done things that he really shouldn't have; things that would get a poorer man fined ten times over -- and though it's endearing -- really -- ...it is not worth much.

Because Tom still kicked him out of the Defense position. Because Tom still let Bellatrix Lestrange body shame him. Because Harry Potter is still not allowed to freely use magic.

And Harry gets it, he gets why. He gets why because Tom has nearly said it himself. It is Tom's brand (his legacy ), and he will act, like he is prone to do, like it does not matter -- or that it doesn't matter as much as Harry makes it out to be or that it shouldn't -- but it does.

Tom Riddle is President. And that matters. Why wouldn't it matter?

Harry is everything his administration hates, and he is it unabashedly. He is not a Pureblood and he does not care to act like one. He does not like the rich and feels more sympathy for the impoverished than Tom Riddle has probably ever felt in his entire life. He has had enough bad experience with school teachers to know censorship and educational disarming when he sees it, and has taught his own Order enough to hate it whenever he does.

He is a leader, he is a lover, he is a Gryffindor.

He had spent his wizarding life fighting a great evil so he knows, better than anyone, what this governmental scenario is. It follows the pattern of the Veil; everything here is similar. It is not identical and it is not different enough to be called something separated entirely.

It is a world that mirrors his own. Where Harry's universe was fighting the great evil of Voldemort, this society has already long lost to it.

And Tom will act like these facts -- Tom's administration hating certain groups of people; Harry being included in those people; Harry's ingrained inability to allow and withstand injustice -- don't matter, or like... like they shouldn't. But they do and they should and Tom, if he is even an ounce self aware, he has got to know this.

There are a lot of things Tom ought to know. There are just a lot of things Tom doesn't want to.

Tom is a smart boy. He's got to be -- those in charge are cruel... but they do not get in charge without some sort of intelligence. (Intelligence and lack of empathy. Harry thinks Tom fits the criteria so well, he might as well have pioneered it.)

So Harry walks the long, slow walk to his new classroom with a smitten and wrongly unassuming President Tom Riddle and ignores the too loud thumping of his own heart.

(He is lonely. He is at war with himself, always.)

"I'm ready to talk about it now," says Tom, his voice a gentle thing. He thinks he has angered Harry by existing -- when you have no idea what you did wrong, everything about you is an option.

"I'm not," says Harry, curtly, simply, like it matters. And it doesn't. For some reason, he hopes against hope that it does anyway.

He clears his throat, hands tucked awkwardly behind his back. "And, besides, you don't even know what 'it' is."

"I'd like to," says Tom. There's that earnest voice, the one he uses only where Harry is involved. Harry is special. Harry hates Tom for the privilege he is granted. "I am always yearning for a better idea of you and--"

"I don't want to talk to you," Harry says evenly. He hopes Tom will listen, now that he has stated his intentions. He is hoping against hope because... let's face it, he's made that clear already, hasn't he? He's made that perfectly clear. And so he knows that his no's are not no's unless Tom knows the reason.

And Harry knows he is a stubborn man. Sometimes against reason, he sticks to his ideologies. His side does not lose. His side is never wrong. Every hill he stakes is one he is prepared to die on.

Harry remembers his second year. The year of Tom Riddle. The year that so many things went wrong, the year of friends turning into enemies and sticking his heels into the ground to fight in order to prove that not only is he not a monster; he's a hero.

At the end of term, Dumbledore had called him into his office and explained that, yes, Tom Riddle is Voldemort. He is, he'd said, so much like Harry is. An orphan, a halfblood, destined for great things if he only so chooses to accomplish them.

Harry had scoffed. Because it's not a kind thing, being compared to his parents' murderer -- it's not a compassion centric conversation to have after fighting to save the life of yourself and your friend.

He is nothing like Tom Riddle. He's not even fucking close.

Or so he had thought at the time. Or so he'd continue to think for a long, long time afterwards.

But now, walking with the man himself side by side, he has changed his mind. Now, he sees where Dumbledore is coming from, and that's not something that can be said often.

Harry Potter is a stubborn man. So is Tom Riddle. (So is Voldemort... non-stubborn people don't go through such great lengths to murder people that slighted them, accidentally, might he add, thirteen years ago. The incident in Harry's fourth year was so elaborate it is easy to forget at times that it's exactly the type of shit Harry would pull -- and is pulling -- if only the issue of morality was switched.)

If Harry were to press this issue the same way he's been doing -- without explanation, a full and obvious and deserved dismissal -- Harry knows what would happen. He would arrive at his classroom blanketed in an uncomfortable and tense silence. He would get a class period -- a day or two; likely less than a week -- of peace and he might, if he's dumb enough, lower his guard.

And then Tom would start sending his letters again. Each one would build upon the desperation of the last.

Tom would... break, eventually. If that is the correct word for it. He would pull a stunt like he's doing now -- getting Harry kicked out of his Defense class, partly because of Bella and partly because this is an effective way to see Harry again -- and force Harry to meet him face to face. And maybe the better parts of him, that ever changing nature of his, would, left unattended, left unrewarded , flee. Maybe Tom Riddle would do anything to make Harry like him again and maybe they'd be right back to square one.

Stubborn recognizes stubborn. He gets it.

So Harry does not want to have this conversation. He's expressed that. And he's going to have it anyway. Because Tom is a danger if he doesn't, and Harry would do anything to protect the people he loves.

Harry considers his words carefully. He's... not quite sure how to go about this. He wants to be honest. He wants, at the same time, to express his boundaries in a way that will ensure Tom won't cross them.

He wants to express, simply: I don't want to talk to you anymore. Here's why. And now that you understand, I need you to act like it.

It shouldn't be so hard. But he is not used to talking about his feelings like this, so of course it is.

"I was in a battle before I arrived here." There. A pure statement of fact. Something that can't be argued. It's a good start.

To his credit, Tom is good at not letting his obvious delight shine through his voice. "You mentioned," he says, trying to keep his tone flat. "Though not with much detail."

He is always happy to hear more about him, to understand the great spectrum of Harry Potter in any sort of depth. Harry hopes he enjoys it. It will be the last of it he will ever get.

"I was fighting Voldemort," states Harry. It is not a good memory. But it is a good starting point for this conversation. Here, and rarely elsewhere, Harry Potter is a man of compromise. "Me and my people were. We fell into a trap, my fault... And we were fighting, because if we did not fight, we would die. And then Bellatrix Lestrange pushed Sirius through the Veil, and then I followed... but that's not what I'm here to talk about."

Tom is clearly trying to absorb the information about Harry and keep up with the conversation at the same time and even clearer is struggling with it. "No?"

"No," says Harry. He looks down at his hands, running his fingertip over the callouses on his palms. "I hate him. Voldemort. I got these dreams of him and -- and I would wake screaming because it hurt but also because I hated him. I hated being so close to him -- and I hate that so much, even now, when I am worlds away from him."

"Dreams?" asks Tom, quiet.

"Focus, Tom."

"Right," says Tom, absently. "Right, sorry."

Harry rolls his eyes. "I hated him. There's reasons for it. Most of them... they're personal." They're mine and you can't have them -- not over a conversation so small. They're mine. My heart is mine and you can't have it. "But they're also political. We call him -- what he and his people believe in so much they'd kill for it -- terroristic, but, here, they're just political. It's just politics."

"What do you mean?"

"His ideals are something like yours. There's less focus on class -- though I'd also argue that with his bigotry toward blood relates to class; intersectionality and all that -- but, besides his war driven attitude, he's just like you. You and your people."

"Harry," Tom says. He's nearly pleading. It is pathetic. "Harry, I--"

"No," says Harry, shutting him down. (It's pathetic. It's also not Harry's problem. ) "None of that. I'm talking now. You're not talking." He waits for Tom's jaw to shut to continue. "His ideals -- his politics -- are one of the reasons I hate him. They, however, are not the only ones."

Harry swallowed, frowning. "He killed people. People close to me -- my family, my friends, people I loved -- and he did it, all of them, right in front of me."

"Harry... you're so young -- I can't imagine--"

"Shush," says Harry softly. Tom shushes. "My hatred of Voldemort it's personal. It's why I do not only want him dead, I want a part in his murder.

"I guess... I guess that's why it was so easy with you. Maybe, I don't know, if Voldemort hadn't been trying to kill me since I was a baby--"

" He'd been WHAT? "

"-- and, maybe, if he hadn't killed all those people I loved and if he'd been more a politician than a war lord -- if he was like you then..." Harry laughed. "Well, no, I'd still hate him. But it'd be different, you know? It'd be a different kind of hatred.

" That's why it was so easy with you Tom. So easy to forget. I could almost squint my eyes and see Tom Riddle and Mr. President as separate entities because you hadn't killed people I love -- and that is a low bar to set and a low bar to pass, I know.

"I hated you. I had struggled with you, your personal nature, and it wasn't like we were close. But I could see it. Even if I didn't want to -- even if I still don't – I could see it happening in the future. You were changing for me. And that's worth something."

He looks, finally, at Tom. Tom's full and unadulterated attention is on him. There is longing there. Guilt, suspense. It's too much. Too much to feel and too much to see, but Harry does not look away. "Your policies affected me personally. How the public perceives my body and how they perceive my style. By oppressing my people, you've oppressed me.

"And even then, " Harry laughs, near hysterical, running his hands through his hair. Tom looks worried at the gesture. "And even then, I could have worked past it, if I was given time -- and I have a lot of that in this reality. Time. It's a wonder what no longer being hunted down by a madman will do to your nerves.

"But I have realized my mistake. I have realized and been trying to rectify it because, Tom," the words come heavy tumbling out of his mouth, " the President killed my friend. And you're the President."

"I didn't--"

"You did, Tom," Harry says, desolately. "And he was young -- so, so young -- and you killed him and you probably didn't even know it. He died because of the President's orders and he was eleven years old and I wanted to know him. I wanted to know him, Tom, I really did." (He is lonely. He is fifthteen and alone here and lonely, so lonely.) "And I think that I hate you. I hate you like I hate Voldemort. Your policies are horrible and you killed someone I love. I hate the President and, despite everything, Tom, that's all you are."

"That's not true," Tom begs.

"Then why, " Harry laughs hollowly, "aren't I allowed to use magic? Because it'd look bad, publicly, wouldn't it? Putting me in powerful positions is one thing and putting me in powerful positions is another and you can't fucking afford that bad of PR."

"It's a sensitive subject--"

"And if you are more than just the President -- and if I am supposed to think you're more than just the President then tell me why, Tom, you value Bellatrix Lestrange's opinion more than mine? Why you kicked me out under her pressure? Why you let her shit talk me during a fucking Malfoy dinner party?"

"She's a powerful person, Harry--"

" And you're not?" Harry nearly shouts. He calms himself. "She's a powerful person. And that matters because... why, Tom? Because you're the President. It matters because you're the President and if you want to play mean overall, you've got to play nice to others. That's how it is. That's how it works.

"You'd said that you care more about me than your reputation, when we were visiting Gringotts. 'More than you'd know,' that's what you said." Harry stares at him, stressing the syllables, "And I think you do care, Tom. I think you care about me more than your reputation -- just a little bit. But not enough. And definitely not more than I know."

Harry shifts under Tom's gaze and he tears his eyes away from his face. He locks his eyes on the tiles as they walk past them. "So that's why I don't want to talk to you. That's why this isn't something you can't fix -- because you don't want to fix this. You don't want to stop being President and -- and it's not like you can be blamed for that, you know?" He laughs. "Hell, I'd want to keep being President, too.

"So... let's not talk anymore, Tom. And you can keep doing your research to get your Harry back. And I can keep teaching, keeping my head down," a lie, but it doesn't matter. Why would it matter? "And we can go our separate ways."

They keep walking. Harry waits to see if Tom will say something. If he will deny what Harry's said. If he will beg. If he will argue, argue, argue -- declare that Harry is his, regardless of whether Harry hates him or not.

Harry waits. And then Tom says, quietly, "I don't think you would keep your head down. If we went our separate ways."

"No?" says Harry. It's not a rejection. "Why not?"

"Because that's just not something you'd do to someone you hate. You don't roll over and die, you don't kneel -- am I right? You'd rebel against me still and the only thing that would change is that our personal relationship dissolves."

"Maybe," allows Harry. "Does that matter?"

And Tom says of course, "Why wouldn't it?"

Harry shrugs. He is curious where he's going with this. He reminds himself the purpose of talking in the first place: establish why he doesn't want to talk to Tom in order to continue not talking to Tom.

"I have a proposal, then."

"No," Harry says instantly. "The answer's no. I hate you--"

" No, " says Tom. Harry nearly laughs. "You hate the President."

"Did you stop listening to my rant halfway?" Harry barks out. "Because I've thoroughly explained why I think those are the same thing."

"I disagree," Tom says. Excited. He's excited.

Harry scoffs. "Of course you do."

"No -- No, really, Harry, I do not mean to be dismissive--"

"That doesn't mean you aren't being dismissive. "

"-- And what you've said is honestly -- it's in depth, it's fascinating."

"Thanks," Harry says dryly.

"And it's just that if we can, and, as you've clarified, it's a total possibility, separate our personal relationship and our political one--"

"What a word for it, Tom."

"If we can, then why don't we?"

Harry is tired of this. Tired of Tom. It is like talking to a brick wall. "Because I hate you. "

"You said that, outside of my Presidency, you liked me."

"Not true," says Harry. "I said I was growing to. "

Tom waves his hand. "Whatever. Close enough."

"Right." Harry rolls his eyes. "Right -- right, whatever. It doesn't matter. Because you aren't you outside of your Presidency."

"I can be."

"You're fucking stupid," Harry snapped, stopping walking, throwing his hands down. "You're fucking stupid and you're not listening to me. You never listen to me."

"I do," Tom says quietly, stopping beside him. "The President -- he can't. He can't do everything for you because he's the President and that gets in the way of things; it muddles the water, always. I see why you hate him. I'm not even saying you shouldn't.

"You could separate the two of us before. I think -- I think you could, again, if you wanted to. If you allowed yourself to. You can hate the President and lo... like me."

And he will be honest here: Harry wants to.

He really, really wants to.

He's lonely. Albus is his friend. But he's also, like, a hundred years older than Harry. And Harry has never been satisfied so easily -- his heart is so big; if it is not satiated, he knows it will swallow him whole.

In his own world, he had Hermione and Ron and Neville and Albus and Luna and Fred and George and Molly and Arthur and Sirius Black -- and even though, with some of these people, they knew only the pretty fragments of his personality -- even fragments are enough if you have a lot of them!

He loved these people!

He lived for them!

He was okay with dying for them!

He led his friends into battle and they followed and he would do the same to them, every day if he had to, every time.

He had gone lonely for so long that as soon as he had a taste of something different, there was no possibility he would stop so soon.

And now he's here and he can tell himself At least I have Sirius Black and At least I have Albus Dumbledore all day long if he wants to, but his friend here is dead and the other is afraid of him and he's not his best friend's best friend. He can lie to himself all he wants but, at the end of the day, it's still a lie.

Harry wants to say Yes. He wants to say he will hate Mr. President and be friends with Tom Riddle -- he's even got his godfather's blessing! -- and he knows he'd be happy to. His heart pounds in his ears and it is a strong reminder that he is one word away from soothing it.

But Harry doesn't say Yes. Harry says, pained, "I can't." Because Ron Wealsey is dead and the President killed him and Tom Riddle is the President and he is alone, so alone. He is eight years old again and there is no one to fight for him and so he must fight for himself. His thoughts are so muddled in his head and he thinks it will kill him before Voldemort even gets a chance.

And Tom must notice the pain in his voice. His vulnerability -- he must notice and maybe he has full intentions to take advantage of it. Maybe he is genuine in his gentleness. Harry cannot tell. Harry does not want to.

Tom asks, softly, "Do you remember the question I asked you? In my letters?"

Harry thinks of Tom and not Mr. President when he croaks out, "You're going to have to be more specific."

Tom chuckles. "Yes, you're right... I asked if you were plotting against me."

"What a stupid question," Harry rasps out.

"In hindsight. Do you remember what I said after that? I said, Harry, that if you were, it's okay. It is a sentiment I still stand by."

Harry catches his drift. "You'd be okay with that?" he asks. There's something in his voice he doesn't recognize -- an emotion tangled in his throat that can't quite place. "You'd be okay with me... plotting to overthrow you? Even if we're friends?"

Ah. Harry knows it, what he's hearing now.

Hope. He's hearing hope.

"Especially," says Tom, "if we're friends."

He's speaking as if he's already won. He's speaking as if he knows it.

And... and maybe it's not arrogant of him to do so. Maybe he thinks he's won because he has.

I hate Mr. President. But I like Tom.

And he thinks, maybe, that both things can be true.

The words feel good in his head. He recalls the too thin bodies of the class he teaches and Ron Wealsey's imagined face, smeared with blood, and Sirius Black's knowing look and the word traitor traitor traitor echoes in his head so loudly he can hardly hear anything else.

Traitor. He would be a traitor if he said yes.

But... would he really? The fact that that is a hard question to answer is a sign on its own.

So Harry opens his mouth and says, "This arrangement... is agreeable. It's alright," and a million thoughts are running through his head as he does so.

He is not sure if it is the right choice. He wonders if he will ever be. But it's the choice he makes, and he's never been big on regret.

Tom grins widely -- stupidly -- and it is not the grin of a ruthless Dark Lord -- a Dark President -- it's... merely the grin of an eighteen year old boy in love.

Harry returns it. He buries his guilt alive and hopes it will die there. He can hear only vaguely that small part of his mind that whispers that he hopes Sirius is right. That he can find a way home and this -- whatever this is, this fragile thing he has with Tom, can be forgotten.

...

Harry thinks, on their remaining walk to the Muggle Studies classroom, more on Tom's letters. "You said something that's been bothering me," says Harry.

And Tom is open to listening because he understands this is Harry doing what he's been wanting him to do all along; meet him halfway. "What is it, Harry?"

Harry watches their hands swing between them -- Tom had insisted that they hold hands while they walk and Harry had settled on locking their pinkies together -- and says, tilting his head, "You called me a child. Young. Said you couldn't stress it enough."

"That I did," confirms Tom. "And I still stand by it now."

"But I'm nearly sixteen."

"You've said. When is your birthday, by the way? I understand if you don't want an overtly elaborate party, but if you did-- "

"Later, Tom."

"Right. Sorry."

Harry sighs, puffing out his cheeks. "It's just that... you were sixteen when you became President. Totally fucking insane concept, by the way. Like completely ludicrous."

"Your point?"

"If you weren't too young to be President, why am I too young to oppose you?"

"It's not that simple, Harry."

"Everytime someone uses that phrase, it's always exceedingly simple."

"I was mature," Tom says, turning up his nose. "It is different."

"Oh, so now I'm not mature?"

"That's not what I said."

"Okay but it literally is." Harry adds, before Tom can say something, " And how am I too immature to use a gun but not too immature to make sexual innuendos toward?"

Tom huffs. "You must, at least, acknowledge that it is not merely you 'using guns' that I was so opposed to? That my opposition was to the fact that you were handing them out to children, as a child yourself, and training them to use them?"

"We're too young to fight against you but not too young to be affected by you?" Harry shakes his head. "You've got them all mixed up, bro, these kids. They don't have a healthy relationship with their bodies or with anything -- Herm... one of my students basically told me the other day that when people die in riots or protests, it's their fault for wanting to protest in the first place."

"And you told them they were wrong?" Tom raises an eyebrow.

"Are you asking this question as the President or as Tom Riddle? Because I honestly want to punch the both of you in the face right now."

Tom laughs good naturedly. "I do amend you for your restraint," he says, chuckling. "Wanting to punch me and not actually doing it, it must be so hard for you."

"Oh, you've no idea."

"Perhaps that's why children are not allowed in politics--"

"All children except you, right?"

Tom speaks over him, "Because you give into emotions so intrinsic, it would be difficult to hold a formal, political debate with you."

"Pulling the 'you're too emotional' card, are we?"

Tom hums. "Perhaps."

"Nah, nah, nah!" Harry scoffs. "Don't give me that shit!"

"Why not?" An impossible question.

" Because, " Harry sputters, "it's shit !"

Tom breaks down into loud, rambunctious laughter and, after a moment of quickly softening glaring, Harry joins him. They both laugh, clutching each others' hands fully now, stumbling down the hallway.

Harry feels his face, red with mirth as he laughs, and watches Tom's own face contort in emotion. This Tom -- the one laughing at his side, holding his hand, his eyes wrinkled at the corners... how could he have ever mistaken this Tom for someone evil ? (Easily, he thinks. He could mistake him easily. But he shakes that thought from his head because he's feeling good right now, and he doesn't get to feel good often.)

(Yes. He will let him have this -- he will let them both have this.)

Their laughter dies down quietly and, eventually, they stop right outside a classroom door. Harry has never taken this class, but he can tell this is the location of his new teaching position.

Harry, reluctantly, separates their hands. He looks between them, awkwardness creeping up his spine. He clears his throat. "I'll..." he says. "I'll talk to you later. I guess."

Tom practically glows. "Of course," he says smoothly. "And we can finish our talk on the maturity issue later, if it continues to bother you so. We can talk later. About anything, we can talk later."

It is said fondly.

He is glad, Harry thinks, that they will talk later. When Harry is attacking him, when he is disagreeing with him, when he is insulting him... Tom is happy. Harry is a simple man and Tom is an even simpler one; he sees Harry and likes what he sees.

There is passion in Harry's anger and Tom loves his passion, even when it is not his favour.

(Harry does not know if his own love is unconditional. He knows Sirius' isn't. But he thinks that, for sure... Tom's is.)

(And he wonders, however absently, what the other Harry Potter did so atrocities to lose it.)

And Harry... Harry realizes he's glad that they'll talk later, too. And he knows Tom is not a changed man. He might never be. But he is a changing one. And for Harry, that's enough.

(For right now, at least.)

His possessiveness. His double standards when it comes to maturity. His inability to take no for an answer. It can change because Harry has given them the great gift of time for it to.

So Harry smiles. He smiles, tells Tom, "That's right. I'll talk to you later, Tom," and enters his new classroom, a skip in his step.