Archive of Our Own ^beta

He woke slowly, the sun shining warm against his face. His eyes fluttered open, and he reached out to the other side of the bed, only to find it cold. Tom must have left early again. His work as Minister often demanded mornings like this. It had bothered him at first, the empty space beside him, but after years of it, the absence had settled into something familiar, almost routine.

He stretched lazily, pushing the covers off before finally pulling himself out of bed. The apartment was quiet as he moved into the kitchen. With a small flick of his wand, the kettle filled and began to boil. He sat down on a stool, watching the space around him in silence while he waited.

The dark circles beneath his eyes stood out more than usual. He had not been sleeping well these past days. Sometimes it lasted for weeks, nights broken by restless dreams and familiar nightmares. When Tom slept beside him, it helped. The weight of another presence grounded him. But on nights when Tom worked late and he slept alone, the nightmares returned in full force. That was why Tom usually tried to sleep beside him whenever he could.

It was still early, but Healer Shacklebolt had requested him specifically. His work demanded early mornings, especially now. He dressed quietly, pulling on his shirt, his trousers, his jumper, moving through the motions on instinct. When he left the apartment, silence lingered behind him.

St. Mungo’s was already busy when he arrived. A new strain of wizarding flu had begun spreading, and the hospital was overwhelmed. He headed straight for the lockers to change, the corridors buzzing with urgency. He was halfway through pulling on his healer’s robes when Hermione walked in.

She looked startled when she saw him, though it was not surprising. He knew he looked exhausted. Anyone could see he had not slept properly in days.

“Harry? What are you doing here?” she asked, confusion clear in her voice.

He closed his locker and looked at her. “What do you mean? I came to work. To help with the patients.”

She hesitated, studying him carefully. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, almost cautiously.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied.

The answer only seemed to unsettle her more, but she said nothing. After a moment, she nodded. “Come on. People are waiting.”

He brushed past her, already pushing the interaction to the back of his mind as he followed her out.

Later, Healer Shacklebolt approached him while he was working with a young patient. “Potter. How is it going?”

“It’s going well,” Harry answered evenly. “There are a lot of patients today, but the symptoms are similar. It makes it easier to identify who has the flu and who doesn’t. We are sorting them into categories and sending them to different wings so treatment is faster.”

Shacklebolt was silent for a moment. “Good. Keep it up.”

His face was unreadable, as always. Harry liked that about him. There was no praise, no disappointment to influence him. The only expectations he had to meet were his own. Shacklebolt lingered for a few seconds longer, then walked away, leaving Harry alone with the child again.

The day passed slowly. Most of his work involved directing patients, separating those with the flu from those suffering from something else. It was not difficult, and he did not mind doing his share, but part of him wished for something more demanding. He knew he was capable of more, yet he said nothing.

By the time their shift ended, it was late. In the locker room, Hermione and a few colleagues were chatting, but Harry barely listened as he changed.

“So, what are you doing now?” Hermione asked.

“I’m going home,” he said. “I’ll wait for Tom. He’ll probably be home late, but he usually makes dinner.”

She smiled faintly. “That sounds nice.”

He shrugged. “There’s that proposal he’s working on. You probably saw it in the papers. The Floo Network debate. He’s busy.”

“Ron will probably already be home when I get there,” Hermione said. “I’ll do the same.”

Harry finished packing his things and headed for the door.

“Harry,” she called.

He stopped and turned back. She looked at him with something unreadable in her expression.

“If you need anything,” she said gently, “you know how to reach me.”

A small, fleeting smile touched his lips, tugged there by an old, fragile memory of a time when asking for help had been easier. “I know. Thank you, Hermione.”

She watched him for a moment longer. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He turned and left the locker room, footsteps echoing softly as the door closed behind him.

---

He stood behind the stove, cooking Tom’s favorite meal. He wanted it to be perfect. The past weeks had been especially stressful for Tom, filled with endless proposals and one accident after another, and he wanted to do something small but meaningful to remind him how much he cared. He could not make anything extravagant, his shift had lasted longer than he had hoped, but this was one of Tom’s favorite meals. He hoped it would be enough. He hoped it would make Tom smile, even if only for a moment.

Lost in thought, he leaned against the kitchen counter until a shrill alarm cut through the quiet. The timer he had conjured for the noodles went off, signaling that they were finally done. He quickly levitated the pot off the stove, set the plates and utensils on the table, and laid everything out for two. He did not know exactly when Tom would come home, but he thought it would be within the next ten or twenty minutes. He could wait. He always could.

He waited longer than he expected. The noodles had already been reheated three times by the time he finally sat down alone. Eventually, he ate his portion, the food cooling faster than he would have liked. Tom had never given him a time, and he knew better than to expect one, but part of him had still hoped they would share dinner together.

He levitated his plate and utensils into the sink and cleaned them without a word. He was not angry. He knew how demanding Tom’s work was. Still, the quiet pressed in on him. He had grown used to the waiting over the years, but some nights it felt heavier than others. Sometimes it felt like he hardly saw him at all.

When the kitchen was clean again, he returned to the living room. His gaze lingered on the untouched plate across the table, Tom’s dinner sitting there alone. After a moment, he turned away and headed to the bedroom. He had an early shift in the morning and could not stay up any longer.

Tom would have to eat by himself when he finally came home.

---

He woke again with the sun shining against his face, reaching out to the other side of the bed out of habit. It was cold. He did not even know whether Tom had come home the night before. With a slow stretch, his back and shoulders protesting as his muscles cracked softly, he pushed himself upright. He felt worse than he had the day before, but there was nothing he could do about it.

The nightmares had been worse, leaving him barely any rest. The little sleep he had managed was shallow and restless, hardly sleep at all. He slipped out of bed and left the room quietly.

When he entered the dining area, his eyes went straight to the table. The meal he had prepared was gone. In the kitchen, dirty dishes sat in the sink. Tom must have been home after all, just not long enough for them to cross paths. He had been too exhausted to notice, and despite waking early, he still had not caught him. Sometimes he wondered when Tom even slept, if he slept at all. If he felt this drained with so little rest, what did that mean for Tom?

With a flick of his wand, water began to boil. He stood there, staring at the apartment in silence. Dust coated the windows in a thick layer. He could have cleared it with a simple spell, but he did not. Instead, he watched it, the particles drifting faintly in the light. It almost looked like snow, only trapped inside his home.

The kettle hissed, pulling him back. He made his tea, then returned to the bedroom to dress. His job did not wait for anyone.

St. Mungo’s was even busier than the day before, and the day before had already been overwhelming. He moved from patient to patient, yet the crowd never seemed to thin. His body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion he could not shake. He pushed through it anyway.

During a short break, he stepped outside for some air. Hermione approached him from behind.

“How are you, Harry?”

“It’s going okay,” he said. “There are more patients today than yesterday. I’m tired. I haven’t slept well the past few days. How about you?”

She hesitated before answering. “I’m fine. There are more patients, yes, but the system we’re using to separate them is working well.”

Silence settled between them again. He watched a small bird pecking at the ground, searching for something invisible. Seeds, maybe. Barkweed. He wondered, absently, if even small creatures had dreams.

“Do you know why they put me in charge of separating the patients?” he asked quietly.

She turned toward him. “What do you mean?”

“Why me?” he continued, eyes still fixed ahead. “Why not someone who just started healer training? It would be good practice for them.”

She studied him for a moment before answering. “I don’t know. Maybe they wanted someone experienced.”

He exhaled, a thin cloud of mist forming in the cool air. “I guess that makes sense.”

He nearly flinched when she placed her hand over his on the railing. He did not look at her, but he knew she was watching him.

“It will get better,” she said.

He did not respond. His gaze stayed on the bird until it gave up and flew away.

---

He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his own reflection. Greasy hair framed an unkempt face, exhaustion etched into every feature. He knew the long, stressful day had taken its toll, the endless stream of patients leaving its mark. Behind him, Tom’s favorite meal simmered in the pot. The alarm should ring any moment now, but he barely noticed. He was too absorbed in what he saw.

He looked pale, almost sickly. Sometimes he thought something about him looked wrong. His ribs were visible beneath his skin, sharp and unmistakable. He had always been thin, a remnant of his past. Tom used to tell him it was part of him, something he did not need to hate, but some days he wished it had never existed at all. He wished his body did not carry those reminders, those scars that never truly faded.

Tom always called him beautiful. He tried to believe it, but it was hard when Tom was the one people noticed, the one they looked at, the one they gravitated toward. He had always felt like he stood slightly to the side. Somehow, Tom still made him feel cherished, like the most beautiful thing in the room, even when he could not see it himself.

The shrill alarm cut through the quiet. He startled and hurried into the kitchen, levitating the pot off the stove before anything could burn. It had to be perfect. Quickly, he added the sauce, then set the plates and utensils on the table. Tom should be home any minute now. This time, maybe they would finally eat together.

The food cooled again.

He did not reheat it. He simply let it sit, growing stiff as the minutes passed. His hunger faded with the warmth. He stared at the empty chair across from him, Tom’s chair, taking in the stillness of the apartment. He did not know whether to keep waiting or give up. One more minute. Five. Ten. Thirty. How long was long enough?

He had an early shift again tomorrow. He could not afford even less sleep than he already got, especially when his nights were barely restful as they were. Slowly, he stood and carried his plate to the sink, setting it down without a sound.

When he returned to the table, he lifted the pot. The handle snapped loose in his hand.

The pot crashed to the floor, pasta and sauce splattering across the tiles and onto the carpet. He did not move. He just stared at the mess, the dark stain spreading. He was exhausted, drained past the point of reacting. He knew he should clean it, especially since the carpet was one of Tom’s rare rugs. Tom had always been an expert in things like that. In many things, really.

But he had no strength left.

He picked up the broken pot and its handle and dropped them into the trash. The food stayed where it was, spilled across the floor. Without looking back, he turned and walked into their bedroom.

Maybe Tom could clean it up when he came home.

---

The next morning, he stepped out of the bedroom. The stain was still spread across the carpet, the spilled food untouched on the floor. The meal he had made for Tom was still sitting on the table, cold and forgotten. It meant Tom had not come home at all.

It did not surprise him. He had slept badly again, nightmares pulling him under again and again through the night. He almost lifted his wand to start the kettle, but the thought alone felt exhausting. He did not have the strength to do it all over again.

So instead, he turned back around, returned to their bedroom, and quietly got ready for the day ahead.

---

This day was hell on earth. There were more patients, more chaos, and at one point someone even threw up on him. By the time his shift finally ended, the only thing he wanted was a shower and his bed. He did not have the energy to cook. He barely had the energy to stand.

He dragged his exhausted body through the front door and closed it behind him, already halfway to collapsing when he realized he was not alone.

He turned, breath catching in his throat.

Tom stood there.

Tom, his Tom, looking at him with soft adoration in his eyes. He held a bundle of lilies in his hands, smiling as if Harry had not just come home worn thin by exhaustion and sickness. As if Tom himself had not just returned from endless meetings and impossible responsibilities.

“Tom,” Harry breathed, disbelief and exhaustion tangled together. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, darling,” Tom said gently. “I’m sorry I haven’t been home the last few days. I wanted to surprise you.”

As always, Tom looked immaculate. Not a hair out of place, his suit crisp and perfect, every bit the Minister of Magic. The photographs in the newspapers never did him justice.

In two long strides, Tom was in front of him.

“You’re really here?” Harry whispered, tears burning in his eyes as he clutched the front of Tom’s jacket.

“Of course I am,” Tom murmured. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here.”

Something inside Harry broke loose. He threw himself into Tom’s arms, clutching his smaller frame against Tom’s chest and burying his face into his shoulder. He did not want to let go. He breathed him in, the familiar scent grounding him, his body trembling as tears finally slipped free.

“Oh, darling,” Tom whispered, holding him tightly. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry because of me. I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Harry said nothing. He just held on.

Eventually, he loosened his grip and stepped back, looking up at Tom’s face as if memorizing it. It felt like forever since he had last seen him.

“I just came back from my shift,” Harry said quietly. “I could make dinner. Your favorite. I’ve been making it the last few days, but you weren’t here. I can make it again, if you want.”

Tom smiled, eyes never leaving him. “That would be lovely.”

Harry felt himself blush under the attention as he stepped further into the apartment, Tom following silently behind him. Despite his height, Tom always moved so quietly. Harry had often wondered if he used magic without even thinking about it.

As they entered the living room, Harry remembered the stain.

He saw Tom notice it too.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly, shame flooding his chest. “Yesterday I was waiting for you and I spilled something. I forgot to clean it up.”

He felt awful. Tom was finally home, and this was what he saw.

“It’s alright,” Tom said calmly. “It can be replaced. Don’t worry about it.”

The reassurance helped, but the shame lingered. Still, Harry guided Tom to the table before heading into the kitchen to cook.

The meal came together faster than it ever had before. He wanted it perfect, but more than that, he wanted to spend every possible moment with Tom. He set the plates and utensils, levitating them neatly into place. Tom was already seated, the lilies now arranged in a vase at the center of the table.

When Harry brought the food out, he placed it between them and filled Tom’s plate.

“Darling,” Tom said softly, “this is immaculate. Thank you.”

Harry ducked his head, cheeks warm. Tom’s gaze lingered on him, intense and gentle all at once.

They ate mostly in silence. They often did. Tom preferred not to speak while eating, but his presence alone eased something deep inside Harry.

When they were finished, Tom cleaned the dishes with a flick of his wand and took Harry’s hand, leading him to the bedroom. They changed quickly and slipped beneath the covers, Harry finally settling comfortably into Tom’s arms after so many restless nights.

“Sleep well, darling,” Tom whispered. “I’ll watch over you.”

And for the first time in days, Harry fell asleep peacefully.

---

He awoke again, stretching his arm to the side of the bed. The bed was still cold, but somehow he felt more rested. Tom had already left for work, yet the quiet morning felt a little lighter than usual. He swung his legs over the side and stood, stretching once more before heading to the kitchen. With a flick of his wrist, the kettle began to boil.

Looking around at the kitchen, he noticed the dishes left from yesterday. He thought about cleaning them right then but decided against it. There was no time. He would take care of them, and finally get rid of the carpet stain and the mess on the floor, once his shift was over. Maybe then the apartment would feel truly clean. Maybe then Tom would come home more often.

When his tea was ready, he poured himself a cup, grabbed a few things, and went back to the bedroom to get ready for the day.

---

By mid-morning, he had lost track of how many patients he had seen, maybe fifteen, maybe more. He was moving through them quickly, checking charts and administering treatments, when Hermione approached him.

“You look rested, Harry,” she said.

He barely looked up, still jotting down notes. “Yeah… well, Tom came home last night. We… ate together.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, Tom came home last night?”

“He came earlier than usual,” Harry explained without looking up. “We spent time together. I slept better than I have in days.”

Hermione said nothing, just let out a deep sigh. Finally, Harry turned his head toward her, noticing her expression for the first time. Her eyes were soft but heavy with sadness, almost pitying, and he did not understand why.

“Harry… this isn’t normal,” she said quietly.

“What do you mean it’s not normal? I’m just noting the charts like we always do. What are you talking about?” he asked sharply.

“You know what I mean,” Hermione replied, her gaze steady. “What you’re doing… you can’t keep this up.”

Harry frowned, confused. “I have no idea what you mean. I have more patients to see. We’ll talk another time, Hermione.”

“Okay… we’ll see each other,” she said softly.

He set the papers down and moved on, leaving her standing there, watching him with a contemplative, sorrowful expression, unsure how to help him even as he walked away.

---

When he came home that day, he was still irritated, flustered even, from his earlier interaction with Hermione. He didn’t fully understand what she had meant, but her words had left a strange, lingering feeling in him.

He walked through the door, half-expecting to see Tom, but the apartment was silent. Letting out a deep sigh, he tried to temper his expectations. Of course it wasn’t unusual, Tom had a demanding schedule. Just because he had come home one evening didn’t mean he would appear every night.

He moved into the kitchen and gathered a few things, preparing a small meal for himself, uncertain if Tom would come home at all. Once the meal was ready, he set the table for two, just in case, and began to eat.

When he finished, he stood slowly, careful not to step on the old stain on the floor, where the spilled food had already seeped into the wood. He levitated the plates into the sink, adding them to the ever-growing pile of dishes, before finally retreating to the bedroom.

---

He lay turned away, staring into the darkness, awake and restless, when he felt the mattress shift. Tom crawled into bed behind him, wrapping his arms around Harry.

“Darling, what’s going on?”

Harry barely responded, his voice caught in his throat. He just stared into the void.

“Tom… why do you come home so late? Or… why do you almost never come home?”

Tom let out a deep sigh, saying nothing, only holding him tighter from behind.

“You know why, Harry. You know why.”

Harry remained silent, eyes fixed on the darkness.

“But I need you, Tom. I need you here with me. I can’t do this alone.”

“But you have to,” Tom whispered.

Harry turned slowly, meeting Tom’s gaze. Those red, unnatural eyes, were absolute gemstones to him, shining with a beauty only he could see. They looked at him with such adoration, making him feel wholly, deeply loved.

Tom said nothing, just held his gaze, steady and unwavering.

“But I’m not enough,” Harry whispered. “And you know that. I miss you so much.”

“I know you do,” Tom said softly.

Tom remained silent again, and Harry leaned into him, bracing his chin in Tom’s arms. At last, held in his husband’s embrace, Harry finally fell asleep without nightmares, if only for a moment.

When he woke, he was alone in the bed again. The room was silent, the world outside still. On the kitchen table, a dried bundle of lilies sagged under their own weight, petals slowly drifting to the surface below.

---

Knowing someone isn’t coming back doesn’t mean you ever stop waiting.