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The Ministry of Magic resembled a stirred-up beehive on that day. Hundreds of officials, diplomats, and reporters froze in anticipation as the gilded grates of the lifts parted with a loud clatter.
The Minister for Magic himself, Tom Riddle, stepped out of the cabin. His stride was predatory, and the cold gaze of his crimson eyes made those present involuntarily back away. Yet, the attention of everyone in attendance instantly shifted to the person walking right beside him.
Harry Potter-Riddle, the Minister’s spouse, was in his eighth month of pregnancy. His belly was already heavy and noticeably protruded forward. He looked like the very embodiment of unapproachable perfection.
He wore a robe of the finest emerald-green silk embroidered with silver, which softly outlined his silhouette with his every movement. But the defining detail of his attire was his shoes - sleek, patent leather pumps on a twelve-centimeter stiletto heel.
"He's insane," someone whispered in the crowd. "At such a stage... on such heels across the Ministry marble?"
Harry heard it, but he didn't even bat an eye. He walked across the mirrored floor of the Atrium with the grace of a predator. Every single step of his was resonant and confident. Tom walked slightly ahead, but his magic enveloped Harry in a dense cocoon, ready to support him at any given second.
"Mr. Potter-Riddle!" shouted one of the Daily Prophet reporters. "Isn't it too risky for your condition to choose such footwear?"
Harry came to a smooth halt. He slowly turned his head toward the journalist, a dangerous amusement flashing in his green eyes.
"Risk, my dear man, is when you ask such questions without having life insurance. As for my heels - it is merely a matter of discipline and control."
At that moment, Lord Yaxley blocked their path. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, undisguised disdain written all over his face.
"Minister. Potter," Yaxley deliberately ignored Harry's second surname. "I presumed that at such a late stage, omegas are expected to stay in bed rather than put on circus performances on high heels in a government building. It looks... unstable. Much like many of your recent decrees."
Harry slowly shifted his gaze to Yaxley. He drew himself up, standing taller due to the stilettos, and looked the lord dead in the eye.
"My stability, Lord Yaxley, is proven by years, not by the height of a heel. Your political career, on the other hand, might shatter from a single careless word of mine to my husband. If you do not care for my appearance - look at the floor. You can see the reflection of your own shoes from last year's collection there. Very... down-to-earth."
Yaxley flushed scarlet, but Tom’s magic, suddenly turning icy cold, forced him to step back. Harry, casually adjusting his robe, continued on his way to the admired gasps of the crowd.
Inside the Wizengamot courtroom, the air was thick with tension. The debate had been dragging on for three hours. Harry refused to ask for a soft pouf; he stood right beside Tom’s chair, even though his legs had already turned into two pillars of burning pain.
Lord Rosier, a staunch supporter of the old ways, rose from his seat. His gaze was pinned to Harry’s belly, and then down to his feet.
"We are discussing serious reforms," Rosier rasped. "And I find it difficult to concentrate when the Minister’s spouse turns the Wizengamot chamber into a runway. This... demonstration of physical endurance strikes me as inappropriate. Why are you here, Mr. Potter? To show us your new shoes or to remind us of your 'special' condition?"
Harry did not even flinch. He merely tightened his grip on the back of Tom’s chair a fraction more, feeling the child kick protestingly inside him.
"I am here, Lord Rosier, so that you do not forget: power in this country does not rest, even when it is carrying an heir. My shoes are a symbol that I can stand on my feet longer than you are capable of coherently expressing your thoughts. If my appearance distracts you so much, perhaps you should admit your weakness and leave the chamber? It is unhealthy for old men to remain under tension for so long."
Rosier choked with indignation, but silence fell over the room. The lords exchanged glances of poorly concealed awe. Harry's fortitude was beyond human limits. It was then that the moniker "The Titanium Lily" permanently stuck to him.
Only in the evening, when the heavy doors of their private quarters in the Ministry shut tight, cutting them off from the rest of the world, did the mask of flawlessness instantly crumble. Harry swayed, his body, stiff from hours of agonizing tension, trembling treacherously.
"I've got you," Tom’s voice dropped low, stripped of that official steel. He caught Harry under his shoulder blades and knees and carried him like a precious burden to the plush sofa. Harry breathed heavily, his face pale, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"Damn it... Tom..." he gasped. "Take them off. Please."
The Minister for Magic knelt on the floor. His long, aristocratic fingers touched Harry's ankles. They were hot and noticeably swollen.
Tom carefully unclasped the thin straps that had already cut deep into the delicate skin. As the shoes were tossed aside, Harry let out a sigh of relief that was almost painful. Tom sat beside him, pulling his husband's legs onto his lap and retrieving a jar of healing salve from the bedside table.
"You are pushing the envelope too far," Tom said quietly, rubbing the formula of dittany extract and ice mint into the skin with slow, circular motions. "You nearly faltered by the lift today."
"But I didn't falter," Harry snapped back, leaning his head against the backrest. "They need to see that we are flawless. Especially right now, when they are waiting for any slip-up."
"They see it," Tom raised his gaze. There was no longer a calculating politician in his eyes - only a possessive, almost frightening tenderness. "But I do not want the price of your triumph to cost you your ability to walk. They saw enough as it is. But not at the cost of your fainting spells."
Tom reached up and pressed his palm against Harry's belly. The child inside kicked - hard and demanding.
"See?" Tom smirked. "Even he understands that his papa is too stubborn."
"He just wants me to wear those blue suede ones tomorrow," Harry whispered, covering Tom's hand with his own. "Their heel is a bit wider, I promise."
Tom sighed, scooped Harry up in his arms, and carried him toward the bedroom.
"Tomorrow," he dictated firmly, "you will receive the delegation while sitting in the throne-chair. And you will wear soft slippers. That is an order from the Minister."
"We shall see, Tom. We shall see."
The next morning, the Minister’s order was, naturally, ignored. Harry stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, struggling with the clasp on his emerald pumps. His fingers trembled slightly - yesterday’s marathon making itself known with a dull ache in his lower back - but his gaze remained unyielding.
"I distinctly said 'no', Harry."
Tom’s voice was like the crack of a whip. He stood at the doorway, already fully dressed, fastening his cuffs with cufflinks bearing the Peverell crest.
"And I said 'we shall see'," Harry finally clicked the lock into place and slowly straightened up. "The delegation from France is headed by Madame Delacour. For them, aesthetics is a second religion. If I appear in slippers, they will think the Riddle regime is growing soft."
Tom closed the distance between them in three strides. His hand came up to rest against Harry's throat - not squeezing, but rather marking the boundaries of his possession - while his other hand dropped onto the massive belly.
"You are carrying my heir. If you fall at this reception, I will personally destroy every shoemaker in London."
"I won't fall," Harry pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Just stand close and offer your elbow when I shift my weight. We cannot let them see 'soft slippers', Tom. Not today."
The reception hall was flooded with the light of magical candles. The scent of lilies mingled with the aroma of expensive wine. Madame Delacour, a statuesque omega with Veela blood, was conversing animatedly with Tom when Lord Cassius Nott approached them.
Nott was a man of indeterminate age, with a face resembling a frozen wax mask.
"Minister," Nott bowed his head. "Mr. Potter-Riddle. Your fortitude... is astonishing."
Harry felt a cramp seize his calves, but he didn't even bat an eyebrow. He merely leaned a bit heavier on Tom’s elbow.
"Thank you, Lord Nott. I trust you are referring to my political stance, and not just my physical form?"
"Both," Nott narrowed his eyes. "You know, rumors are circulating within the circles of the old aristocracy. They say your image is an elaborate illusion. That it is impossible for an omega at such a late stage to maintain such a... vertical posture."
"Illusion is what they feed the public when the treasury is empty, Lord Nott," Tom intervened smoothly, his magic filling the room with the heavy, palpable scent of ozone. "My spouse, however, demonstrates discipline. Something that many pureblood houses sorely lack."
Harry smiled, looking straight into Nott’s eyes:
"If you wish to verify it, Lord Cassius, you are welcome to check the floor for levitation runes. But be warned: the carpets were woven in Persia, and they are highly sensitive to foreign magic. Much like myself."
Nott froze, then offered a barely perceptible smile - recognizing an equal. When the guests finally departed the hall, Harry felt the world around him begin to slowly spin.
"Tom..." he called out quietly.
Riddle scooped Harry into his arms the second they stepped into the empty corridor.
"That's it," Tom barked. "The masks are off for today."
At home, Tom was practically snarling as he rubbed the ointments into the burning ankles:
"Never again! Do you hear me? This performance nearly cost you a fainting spell right in front of Delacour. Nott wasn't worth it."
"Did you see Nott’s face?" Harry smiled weakly. "He came to witness our weakness, but he left completely convinced that we control gravity itself. He is ours now, Tom. Until the very end."
Tom paused for a moment. He looked down at Harry’s pale, exhausted, yet triumphant face, and a feeling akin to reverent awe stirred within him.
He realized that Harry had broken the will of the old aristocracy over his knee, using nothing but his sheer endurance and a pair of stiletto heels.
My... flashed through Tom’s mind. My insane, unbending, magnificent Potter. Tom knew he could never forbid him from doing this - because that very thirst for flawlessness was what made Harry the Titanium Lily.
A few days later, Malfoy Manor played host to the annual Winter Ball. The grand ballroom gleamed with gold and crystal.
Harry and Tom were the last to enter the hall under the ceremonial announcement of the herald. Harry glided across the highly polished parquet with such ease as though he wore clouds instead of stilettos. The entire nobility held their breath.
Draco Malfoy made a blunder, attempting to display a friendly familiarity.
"Potter!" he called out with a smirk.
"Not Potter, Draco. Potter-Riddle," Harry replied, steel lacing his voice, without so much as turning toward the blond.
"You know, Harry," Draco chuckled, trying to mask his awkwardness, "aren't you afraid that such an obsession with appearance makes you look more like an expensive vase? Beautiful, no doubt, but far too fragile for real politics."
Harry slowly turned to face him. The eyes of the entire aristocracy were pinned to the scene.
"Draco. Fragility is what I see in your attempts to restore your family's influence through social gossip. I am the face of Tom's regime. Every single appearance of mine on these stilettos is a demonstration of control, which you lack even over your own robes. And if you consider me a 'vase'... just remember that Ming dynasty vases outlive entire empires while everything else crumbles into dust."
Lucius Malfoy, paling at his son's audacity, swiftly stepped forward and gripped his shoulder.
"Silence, Draco! Immediately!" Lucius hissed. He bowed his head low before Harry, acknowledging his absolute supremacy.
Later that evening, Harry faltered in their bedroom. Tom was by his side in an instant.
"You've proven everything to them."
"I proved it to myself, Tom. No one will ever call us weak again."
Another two weeks passed. The tension in the air became palpable. Harry sat in the Minister’s office, wearing shoes made of dragon hide.
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain gripped his abdomen. The golden quill slipped from his hand, leaving an ugly blot of ink on the parchment.
"Harry?" Riddle’s head snapped up instantly.
"It seems... our heir has decided to introduce himself to your Wizengamot personally. Right now."
Tom leapt to his feet.
"The Floo! We are heading to the Manor immediately!"
"No," Harry intercepted his hand. "Help me... stand up. We are going through the Atrium."
"You are delirious!" Tom shouted, his voice cracking into a roar. "You are in labor! What bloody pride?! We are leaving right now, and I don't give a damn what they think!"
"Well, I do!" Harry cried out as another contraction hit, his face contorting. "If I vanish right now, tomorrow they will say I fled in agony! I am the face of this regime, Tom! You will not let me fall! We will walk through that Atrium so that their very bones tremble at our composure! Help me put on this blasted robe! NOW!!!"
"YOU WOULD KILL YOURSELF FOR THE SAKE OF THEIR OPINION?!" Tom slammed his fist onto the desk, the magic in the room crackling with black lightning.
"BUT YOU CANNOT ERASE THEIR MEMORIES!" Harry practically rasped, gripping the edge of the desk. "Either you lead me by the arm like a queen, or I walk out there myself and fall alone! Choose!"
Tom threw the heavy silk robe over Harry's shoulders, concealing his tremors.
"If you lose consciousness, I will burn this building to the ground. Let's go."
It was an agonizing journey. A hundred meters across the marble. No one suspected that Harry was in the middle of labor. The stilettos struck a steady, rhythmic beat.
Back at Riddle Manor, Tom didn't bother unfastening the straps. He drew a dagger and literally slashed the dragon-hide shoes off Harry's swollen feet, furiously discarding the ruined scraps into a corner.
"Never again, Harry! I will burn your entire wardrobe!"
"You... will buy me new ones... on a higher heel... Your greatness, Tom... it lies in my flawlessness as well."
Two hours later, beneath the cries of the newborn, Tom sat by the bed, rubbing ointment into Harry's battered feet.
"Yaxley sent his apologies today. And Nott sent a gift. A set of the rarest emeralds to be found in the magical world. And a note: 'To the strongest pillar of the Ministry. We bow before your strength, my Lord.'"
"See? And you were grumbling. Emeralds... they will match my new shoes perfectly... The ones you are going to buy me tomorrow. The reporters are coming the day after tomorrow, Tom... I must be perfection itself. Choose the highest model... to match your status."
Harry glanced toward the side table where the set of those very same rare emeralds gleamed.
"I swear, Harry," Tom kissed his palm, "tomorrow you are not leaving this bed."
"Of course," Harry smiled weakly. "For the day after tomorrow, the press will arrive to capture the heir. And I haven't yet decided which outfit will suit those stilettos."
Tom could only sigh.
Riddle Manor shone with a cold, aristocratic brilliance on the day of the official reception. In the grand hall, upon the central wall, hung a massive family portrait. Tom and Harry looked frighteningly perfect on it - their commanding gazes seemed to follow every guest. Tom had already given orders to prepare a space for a new canvas where they would be captured as a trio.
The reception took place in the staterooms, whose windows overlooked the immaculate garden. Guests were barred from taking walks - they could only contemplate the labyrinths of living hedges, laden with black roses, through the panoramic windows of the terrace.
In the very center of this magnificence, on a small island in the middle of a crystal-clear pond, stood a snow-white gazebo. The water in the pond was so perfectly still that the skies and the delicate carving of the dome reflected in it like a mirror.
The surface of the water was adorned with rare nymphaeas, whose petals glowed with a soft silver light in the twilight. It was a place of absolute silence, a symbol of their eternal union.
But the true crown jewel of the estate was the Mirrored Conservatory. This majestic structure of magical glass and black stone stood apart from the rest. From the outside, the walls of the conservatory appeared to be impenetrable mirrors, hiding the inner world from prying eyes, while from the inside, they offered a panoramic view of the estate.
Here lay the rarest, most ancient flowers of the magical world. Entry was strictly forbidden to anyone outside the ruling family - not even Lucius Malfoy had ever crossed its threshold.
A separate gardener, a master of the highest caliber, had been hired to care for this living treasure, his contract bound by a magical oath of secrecy.
Harry frequently spent his time here, strolling among the stalks of Moonbells.
For the reception, Harry received the guests while seated in the throne-chair on a dais in the Great Hall. He wore an indigo-colored robe, and a gold bracelet - a personal gift from Tom - gleamed dully on his wrist. It was adorned with charms: a moon, a sun, a crown, a heart, a lightning bolt, and the Deathly Hallows.
"This is a token of the highest affection and absolute possessiveness," Harry explained to the press when they were admitted. He moved his hand casually, letting the bracelet chime. "Every omega ought to have a piece of jewelry matching the color of his alpha's eyes. My husband preferred to express it this way."
Little Thomas Junior slept peacefully in a crib carved from ivory.
The following morning, every newspaper in Britain came out with the headlines: “The Titanium Lily: Flawless Even in Motherhood.”
Featured on the front page was a photograph of Harry Potter-Riddle holding the heir in his arms, and from beneath the hem of his immaculate emerald robe, the patent leather toe of a twelve-centimeter stiletto heel still defiantly peeked out.
Tom stood beside him, his arm wrapped around his spouse’s shoulders as they looked out at their garden. His Titanium Lily had conquered everyone. Their private paradise remained impregnable.