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The parchment was luxurious and heavy, and Harry knew what it was before he’d even opened it. The indigo ink offered up an invitation to a ballroom he had no reason to be in, and he placed the letter down on the kitchen table without even finishing it.
Hermione joined him in the kitchen a few minutes later, followed closely by Ron, who was still in his pyjamas.
“Day off?” Harry asked, taking in his attire, and the redhead nodded, grinning lazily.
Ron loved a day off from work more than anyone Harry knew, which was actually odd considering that Ron actually enjoyed his job. He’d gone into the Department of Games at the Ministry, and had been promoted quickly to lead the statistics division.
Harry had denied the many invitations to the Ministry he’d received and had instead gone into a Healer apprenticeship at Saint Mungo’s, where he was now a qualified healer.
“They’re still trying to get you to the annual ball, I see,” Hermione said, as they sat down at the table, where Harry was laying platters of food. “Oh. There’s a postscript on this, Harry, did you see it?”
Harry frowned and shook his head, turning back to the bacon he was plating up. “I didn’t bother reading that far down, what does it say?”
“It’s… it’s from Tom,” she said, and he could hear the hesitance in her voice. “He’s asking you to come as his guest. He wants to talk to you and fix his mistakes.”
Harry snorted. “Unlikely.”
He put the final plate on the table and then joined his friends. “He can’t really think I’m going to go? I’ve literally never been to one and they invite me every year.”
“Maybe he thinks if he’s the one inviting you rather than the generic invitation, it might change your mind?” Hermione offered. “The two of you have… a lot of history.”
“I know,” Harry replied, wryly. “I was there.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I know you were, and I know how much he hurt you, but… you’ve never really had closure with him, have you? Maybe it’d be worth going just for that.”
Harry picked the letter up and read the postscript himself. Tom’s penmanship hadn’t changed since the last time Harry had seen it, and he was mad at himself when even just that was enough to make his heart beat faster.
“It doesn’t look like he wants closure though, does it?” Harry asked, looking back at Hermione. “I can’t put myself through that with him again, Hermione.”
“I know,” she agreed. “It was… awful. But… you were happier with him than you’ve ever been, Harry. Maybe he’s changed.”
Ron snorted, and Harry inclined his head. “I agree with Ron.”
…
The letter stayed on Harry’s mind for the next few days. Or, rather, the postscript, because the letter was one of many he’d received in the past, and likely that he would continue to receive in the future. He still thought that it would be a bad idea to go to the ball.
He was wary of being around Tom, especially at a formal event, where he would likely be looking even more impeccable than usual. Just the mental image of that was enough to fluster Harry.
And yet… he was considering it.
…
“This was a mistake,” Harry muttered, as Hermione helped him straighten out the navy blue dress robes he’d picked out for the evening. “I should have RSVP’d with a plus one, at least. You could have come with me. Or Ron.”
They both chuckled at the idea of Ron at the mercy of the upper echelons of wizarding society, where he would hate both the political nonsense and the tiny portions of food they served.
“I don’t think that would have gone well, considering he asked you to be his own plus one, do you?”
“I’m not going as his plus one,” Harry argued. “I didn’t reply to that part of the letter. I just RSVP’d that I would be there.”
“When has Tom ever not taken liberties with you?” she asked, stepping back to examine her handy work. “You look fantastic, Harry.”
“I should just… go and take a bath and go to bed,” he grumbled. “I don’t want to go, Hermione. I don’t know why I let a moment of weakness—”
“It’s not weakness,” she interrupted. “You’re allowed to still have feelings about him, or for him, Harry. The two of you were closer than anyone I’ve ever known.”
“I don’t…” he shook his head, because he didn’t know who he was trying to kid. Both himself and Hermione knew exactly how he felt about Tom, how he still felt about him, despite the protests.
“Try and have fun,” she advised. “And go with your gut, Harry. It’s rarely led you wrong in the past.”
…
“My little Potter!”
Harry turned just in time to find his face encompassed by masses of curly black hair as Bellatrix hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, laughing when she pulled away just enough that he was no longer eating her hair.
“Hi, Bella,” he greeted, a little less enthusiastic but no less warm than her own greeting. “How are you?”
“It’s been far too long, my little love,” she cooed at him. “We’ve missed you!”
“I missed you too,” he replied, honestly.
Losing Tom had meant losing half of his friend group, because he’d known he couldn’t be around them without asking about Tom, and that had been a road he hadn’t wanted to go down.
He chatted with Bellatrix for a while, and greeted Rodolphus, Rabastan and Lucius when they joined the conversation. Narcissa’s hug had been almost as tight as Bellatrix’s when she joined them, though less rambunctious. She’d always been the more elegant of the Black sisters.
Eventually, Tom joined them, as Harry knew he would. He wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Tom had sent over his friends first in an attempt to make him a little more comfortable before approaching. Then again, he could just be letting his suspicions about Tom run away with him.
“Harry,” Tom murmured, eyes regarding him almost hungrily, taking in every inch of Harry.
“Tom,” Harry replied, inclining his head. “You look well.”
He looked far better than ‘well’. He looked amazing, and he knew it. Harry was hard pressed to stop himself from drooling, and only their history kept him in control of himself. He’d had plenty of practice at doing so when Tom decided to tease him in public.
“You look amazing,” Tom replied, smiling slightly. “May I have a private chat with you before dinner commences?”
Harry was a little surprised that Tom wanted to talk immediately; in the past, he’d preferred to make his prey sweat for a while before he pounced. He nodded and followed Tom to the edge of the room, and through the curtains onto a balcony.
It overlooked the Ministry gardens, which had been spruced up for the occasion. Harry let himself be distracted by the fairy lights and fountains for a moment, before Tom cleared his throat.
“I didn’t think you would come,” he said, softly.
“I sent my RSVP,” Harry replied, quietly.
“I still didn’t think you would come,” Tom reiterated. “I know how much I hurt you when we parted, Harry. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d never wanted to look at me again.”
Harry tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps you did the right thing,” he said. “Look at you now, senior undersecretary. The word on the street is that you’re being prepped to run for the next election in Fudge’s place.”
Tom arched his eyebrow. “Where did you hear that? It’s not supposed to be common knowledge.”
Harry chuckled. “It’s like you don’t know who you’re talking to, Tom. When did I ever not know what was going on?”
“A fair point,” Tom replied, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But you’re wrong, Harry. Leaving you was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. I didn’t need to be alone to succeed.”
“Ah, but you didn’t plan to be alone, did you?” Harry retorted, the memory of their break up as fresh in his mind as if it had happened only an hour ago. “You wanted someone more appropriate to the station you were chasing.”
Tom closed his eyes briefly. “A mistake,” he replied, eventually. “One that I’ve been hoping to rectify.”
Harry looked away.
“Harry, please look at me. Please?” He waited until Harry had answered his plea, and then said, “I wish for us to begin anew. I wish to court you properly, as per the old ways.”
Harry’s brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t expected that. Part of him had been expecting Tom to flirt with him, maybe even try to make amends, but courting per the old ways was just about the most public thing someone could do.
“Tom…” Harry paused. “Courting? Really?”
“Yes, Harry. Courting. I want you back, and I knew that nothing less than that wouldn’t convince you.”
“So… do you actually want to do it, or is it just because you want to convince me you’re serious?” Harry asked.
“I want to court you, Harry. I want to show you that I am serious about you. I never should have parted from you in the first place, and I realise that. I want to fix it. I miss you, I love you. I have always loved you.”
Harry nodded slowly. “I… I need to think, Tom. I—”
“Do you still love me?”
“It’s not about—”
“Harry. Do you still love me?”
“Yes,” Harry admitted. “But I don’t trust you.”
“I can regain your trust if you give me time, Harry. Trust that, if nothing else.”
Before Harry could reply, they could hear the announcement for dinner, and he was actually pleased for the reprieve. Having Tom right in front of him, fighting his case while looking so utterly fantastic, was doing absolutely nothing for his self control.
…
The dinner passed by without anything notable happening. Harry was seated at Tom’s table—surprising nobody, of course—but the conversation was kept surface level, as it usually was at these events. Harry was a little distracted by their previous conversation, but he managed to hold his own with their table mates regardless.
Just because he didn’t like rubbing elbows with the upper echelons, didn’t mean that he couldn’t. While he chose to eschew anything political, he’d been raised to know his place in society; as heir to the Potter and Black houses, he’d always known that he had a place at practically any table if he wanted it.
Fudge opened the dancing with Apolline Delacour, the French Minister’s wife, who was visiting for the event. It was political, of course, but Harry was amused by how enamoured Fudge seemed by the elegant woman. So distracted by that, he didn’t realise Tom had stood until he held his hand out to Harry.
“Dance with me?”
Harry knew what he was really asked. If Harry accepted the hand and allowed Tom to lead him to the dancefloor, he would more or less publicly be accepting the courtship that would undoubtedly arrive in the coming days.
He looked up at Tom for a long moment—long enough that the usually unflappable man looked a little unsure—before he slipped his hand into Tom’s and allowed him to pull him to his feet.
As they made their way to the dancefloor, Harry murmured, “Don’t make me regret you, Tom.”
“Never again,” Tom swore, as he whirled them into place. “I swear it, Harry. Never again.”