Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Harry slept with the letter under his pillow but still woke to the coldness, the swimming dark, the knowledge that he had killed them. He had watched it happen, after all: he had lured them out of the house on his tiny toy broomstick, and straight into the path of a killing curse. 

Teeth chattering, he knew sleep was futile. In the dark, Grimmauld Place was gloomy, and without a wand he had to rely on the chandeliers and brass torches to guide his way. They dimmed from seven o'clock onwards before snuffing out completely and coming back to life in the morning. At his movements, the torches stirred. 

The silver countertops of the kitchen were gleaming when he pulled open the door. By the sink was a mound of dishes that he and Riddle had compiled and he looked at them quickly and pushed the thought from his mind. Rummaging through the cupboards, he found teabags. 

Grimmauld Place didn’t have matches or electricity. Harry filled the kettle with water, placed it on the stove and ordered it to light. When he was finished, he leaned against the kitchen counter.

Kreacher would be back soon, he thought, staring at the tiny flame that hadn’t yet disappeared from the hob. And this whole mess would be sorted out. 

He pressed his fingers against his forehead and they came back sticky. His scar was bleeding again. In the dim light, the blood almost looked black. 

Harry spent the morning thinking about Dumbledore and Grindelwald and their supposed friendship. It was easier than thinking about the house and the claustrophobic feeling that it always brought. He had started writing down every question he had to answer on a sheet of parchment when he realised - hands smeared with ink - that the list was getting too long. And how exactly was Harry going to find answers? Not here, trapped in his godfather’s old house with Tom Riddle.

Thinking about Dumbledore always led Harry back to that patchy night, and the more he tried to recall it, the harder it got. The thinking led to an enormous headache and —with little else to do—he spent the morning sleeping, teeth chattering and bundled up in his cloak. 

Unlike the kitchen appliances, the fireplaces in Grimmauld Place would not obey Harry when he tried to light them. Perhaps the Order had sealed them, taking no chances that Harry could use the floo. The water too would never heat and the house seemed to get colder and damper by the day.

On day five (Harry crossed the diagonal line on his tally with no satisfaction), he realised the food in the pantry had dwindled. Tins and jars stared back at him; herbs and spices and bottles of mead peered from the shelves. 

Where were all the crackers? The cereal? The stale biscuits he had munched on in boredom? 

“You need to stop eating everything.”

Riddle’s long legs were stretched out on the library sofa. There was a dull, vacant look in his eyes: it took him a whole minute to notice Harry’s presence. 

“There’s loads of food,” he replied, straightening up at once. 

“Like what — tinned strawberries? Lentils?”

Riddle gave him that grin. “At least you won’t get scurvy.” 

Harry snatched the last of the peanut butter and stuffed it in a desk drawer furiously. If Riddle was going to hoard food, so was he. 

But this culminated into another argument - I don’t know when he’s going to come back! Harry said, as they stood in the hallway to the pantry, glaring at each other. And why the hell should I do anything for you? 

…You could at least have some manners. All this old rubbish of Sirius’ around here … you’re lucky I haven’t gotten bored and burned it …

He had found Riddle searching his room, found robes and cloaks thrown haphazardly across the floor. It’s not really your stuff though, is it? Riddle said, while Harry thought up ways of killing him. Do you actually think I’d believe you when you said you didn’t have a wand? 

That was yesterday. 

Harry had eaten miserably, slept even worse, and jumped at every noise in the house. He had read three library books, most of which told him how to disembowel, explode and asphyxiate people (Harry thought longing of Riddle in the other room), but none of which helped him get closer to fixing his memories. 

Resigned, he slumped into the Drawing Room, not even caring that Riddle was also seated there. Harry swept the room with his eyes and then stared into the bare fireplace. He wished Kreacher would come back. Wished the fireplace would open up and swallow him whole. 

“I’m bored,” Riddle said. He was sitting on the floor, beneath the tapestry, arranging marbles into neat lines. 

Harry shot him a glance. Maybe Riddle was really losing it.

“Really?” he said. “That seems like very stimulating stuff.” 

Riddle swept his hand through the marbles, sending them skidding across the wood. “Aren’t you bored?” 

There was a moody look on his face. He wasn’t bothering to act charming around Harry anymore, or sly, or - to Harry’s immense relief - flirtatious.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But what’s there to do? Read more books?” He stared out the window at the brilliant blue sky. “It would be alright if we could use magic.” 

“We could try and figure out why you’re stuck here with me.”

“No.”

“You could tell me about Voldemort.” 

“I’ll pass.” 

“At least what the Wizarding World’s like now.” 

“No.” 

“I could practice trying to read your mind while you attempt to block me out.” 

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “Do all your suggestions involve using me for information?” 

Riddle wiped dust off of his legs and crossed the floor. “Not all of them,” he said, and flung himself down in an armchair across from him. “Want to have sex?” 

Harry’s face warmed. He looked away from the intensity of Riddle’s gaze and down to the polished wood, dappled with sunlight from the windows. “Funny,” he said. 

“I wasn’t joking.” 

“You weren’t —” Harry scowled. “I’m still going to pass.” 

“Oh, c’mon, Harry. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.” 

“Surprisingly, I haven’t.” 

“Well, I have.” 

Harry hoped he wasn’t as red as he felt. Riddle really was mad. Completely bonkers.

“It’ll be fun,” Riddle continued. “Unless you’re scared.” 

“You can’t dare me into having sex with you.” 

“Can’t I?” 

Harry stared at him and said, as if talking to a stupid child, “you’re a Horcrux and I hate you. And”—this was particularly important— “I’m not gay.”

“It’s sex, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Maybe to Riddle it didn’t. But Harry didn’t know if he could ever live with himself if he was reduced to having sex with Voldemort’s Horcrux. And why would he want to do such a thing anyway? Why would the offer ever sound anything more than absurd?  

Something settled low in the pit of his stomach. 

“Grindelwald was still in power during your time, wasn’t he?” 

At the change of topic, Riddle smirked. He laid his hand on the arm of the chair (and Harry searched those long, pale fingers for a ring he couldn’t find). 

Even with the lacey curtains pulled over, the drawing room was one of the brightest rooms in the house. Riddle’s marbles were scattered across the gleaming wood; the floating particles of dust in the air caught the light. 

“Yes,” Riddle said. “I made the Horcrux in January of my seventh year, and by that point, Grindelwald was ruling a large portion of Europe —though not Britain, obviously. People suspected that it was because of Dumbledore, and that he was building up an army before he invaded. “ 

He drummed his fingers on the velvet arm. “When did he get defeated?” 

“In 1945,” Harry said. There was nothing Riddle could do with the information now but telling it to him felt wrong. “The same year you made the ring, I guess. Dumbledore defeated him in a duel.” 

“Dumbledore did?” Riddle pulled a face. “Thank God I missed that.” 

Harry’s stomach sank again. Riddle had killed Dumbledore. Riddle was the reason they were stuck here. 

But he couldn’t help himself. Even Riddle’s wretched company was better than the silence of the house - better than the things that came to him in those quiet hours, those long nights, his only company the dark.  

“You saw that letter, didn’t you?” Harry said, grimacing as the words left his mouth. “The one which said Dumbledore and Grindelwald were friends.”

Riddle leaned forward in his seat. “I assume this isn’t public knowledge?”

“No,” Harry said. “Probably because it’s a lie. They didn’t even go to the same school. Why would they …”

“But it could be true,” Tom said. “It depends on how reliable this ‘Bathilda’ is. Do you have any clue who she is?”

“I was thinking maybe Bathilda Bagshot.” 

Riddle’s eyebrows knitted. “Bagshot lives in Godric's Hollow. Is that where your parents are from? Why were they hiding anyway?”

Harry’s mouth was dry. With a start, he realised how dangerous the act of talking to Riddle was. But then, what could Riddle do with the information? It was public knowledge to all that Harry was the Chosen One. 

(Had his parents lived there?)

“We’re talking about Grindelwald,” Harry said. 

Riddle gave him a dirty look. “If it is Bathilda Bagshot then it’s definitely true. Not only was she a reputable historian”—he looked at Harry, watching his reaction— “she was also Grindelwald’s aunt.” 

“What?”

“I researched him when he started to gain power. Not only was she his aunt, but he lived with her for a while. Everyone was trying to get her to do interviews when he rose to fame but Bagshot refused. If she’s the Bathilda the letter is talking about, then she would know that they were friends.” 

“Bathilda Bagshot is Grindelwald’s aunt?” Harry repeated.  

“I wonder if she’s a supporter.”

Harry doubted it. He may not have known his parents, but if it was the same Bathilda, if they also lived in Godric’s Hollow, then Harry doubted they would associate with a Grindelwald supporter. 

“Yeah, well, you can’t choose your family,” he muttered. 

“You’ve got that right,” Riddle said. At the contempt in his tone, Harry glanced up. 

He didn’t like having things in common with Riddle, but this —the mutual dislike for their relatives and upbringings—was indisputable.

But Riddle had killed his own father. Riddle had framed his uncle for the murder of his family, sentencing him to a lifetime in Azkaban. Riddle was cruel in a way Harry could barely comprehend. 

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Dumbledore was friends with Grindelwald,” Riddle said. “He always acted too perfect to be true. And if he was friends with him, then he wasn’t really the great muggle-loving hero he pretended to be.” 

Harry's eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a clue what you’re on about.” 

“And you do, I suppose?” 

“Dumbledore was a great wizard,” Harry said. “And he’s the reason Grindelwald is imprisoned. He led the resistance against Voldemort. He created the Order of the Phoenix. And Voldemort was scared of him. They say he’s the only one Voldemort ever feared. But you’d know that personally, wouldn’t you?” 

A dark look crossed Riddle’s face. “The old fool wasn’t so scary when I killed him. When I felt him get weaker and weaker every day, until he was practically as powerful as a baby, until a strong breeze would knock him off his old rickety legs, and—” 

Harry sprang to his feet. 

“It’s all going to be for nothing,” he hissed. “You’re stuck here. You’re trapped. And once the Order finds out that you have a body, they’re going to kill you. You’re living on borrowed time right now, Riddle, so even if you did kill Dumbledore, you’re going to regret it.”

“And what about you?” he said. “I bet they want to use you as a piece of bait to lure Voldemort out of hiding. Maybe that was Dumbledore’s plan all along.” 

“You know nothing about Dumbledore.”

“I know he was a fool. You can blame me for his death all you want, Harry, but he was the one who put that ring on. And he wore it for months.” 

Harry’s mouth opened but no sound came out. 

“You’re lying,” he said, stopping in his tracks before his clenched fist made contact with Riddle’s face. “Why would he…” 

“I was surprised too. It was almost too good to be true. Albus Dumbledore puts on the Horcrux ring, Albus Dumbledore, who always kept such a careful eye on me, who always thought I was up to no good, and he doesn’t take it off.” 

“He… he…” Harry looked at Riddle sharply. “Why’d he do it then? And don’t say you don’t know; you were leeching off his magic the entire time.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Bullshit. When the diary possessed Ginny—” 

He caught himself a second too late.

“The diary possessed someone?” Riddle said. The delight in his voice made Harry bite down on his cheek. 

“Well, the diary is completely different. That Horcrux feeds on memories, on knowledge, on emotions that bleed through the pages. Of course it can recall things, that’s how it becomes stronger. The ring is different. It’s magic-based. I could only sense it was him - I could feel someone’s magic becoming mine, more and more by the day. I could gather impressions, pictures, a sense of Dumbledore’s presence becoming clearer.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Harry said. 

He wanted to ask Riddle more questions; he wanted to demand he explain everything that had happened and how he had ended up in the house. He wanted information like he was starving for it, like he would tear through walls and pages and doors, like he was mad. 

“I’m not going to let the Order kill you,” Harry said. “I’m going to do it myself. I’m going to stab you with a basilisk fang, just like I did to your stupid diary. You should have heard the way it screamed when it knew it was dying.” 

Riddle smiled, sharp as a cat. “We’ll see,” he said, and there was no trace of humour left in his eyes. 

Harry’s hands were twitching. If he stormed away, it looked like Riddle had gotten a rise from him. And if he didn’t … 

The poker by the fireplace was lying across the mat, leaving a patch of black soot. Harry hadn’t been the only one trying to create heat. 

Leaning back in his chair, and staring up at the twinkling chandelier, heavy with dust and cobwebs, he realised that the situation had only left him with more questions. 

But one thing was certain: he had to find that ring. 

He wasn’t sure if it still existed. Perhaps when Riddle had taken on a body the ring had exploded or dissolved or simply disappeared. But Harry remembered the diary in second-year, which hadn’t faded out of existence as Tom Riddle grew more solid. If it still existed, it was most likely just a ring now. But what if it wasn’t? 

Harry didn’t search Riddle’s room yet. Riddle was always wandering around the hall, his footsteps light. He liked to pop into rooms unexpectedly, complaining that he was bored and ask what Harry was doing; other times he’d try to read Harry’s mind or interrogate him with rude, pressing questions. If he got a whiff of what Harry was researching, if he even suspected, the respite between them would vanish. 

As if by silent agreement, he and Riddle had decided to be civil to each other. It was simply easier when Harry wasn’t always looking over his shoulder or wincing as he breathed inwards after one of their fistfights. Six days and his ribs still hadn’t fully recovered.  Nor had the mottled yellow bruise beneath his eye, which still throbbed unexpectedly. 

Riddle may have been using Harry, but Harry was using him right back. With no one else to talk to all day, he and Riddle ended up grudgingly sitting in the same rooms and picking at conversations that didn’t turn into arguments. Most of them did. 

One time, Riddle even convinced Harry to play a game of chess with him. What’s the worst that can happen, Riddle said, already setting up the pieces on the dining room table. When he promptly won and smiled smugly, Harry walked into another room, flung himself on the bed and wondered how his life had ended up like this. 

Seven days and no Kreacher. The wait was becoming unbearable. Harry continued searching the house for the ring but found no trace of it. He also started researching anything he could find on Grindelwald, but the Black Family Library didn’t have any modern books, and Harry resorted to reading Bathilda Bagshot’s collection of work, feeling like he was stuck in a never-ending History of Magic class. 

He missed Ron and Hermione terribly. Even in the worst of the summers with the Dursleys, there had always been the knowledge that he was going back to Hogwarts and would see them again. Now, Harry had finished Hogwarts and spent his summer alone with the Dursleys. Now, he had nothing.

He tried not to think of them at the Burrow but it played on his mind constantly: did they know where he was? Were they also in hiding? 

Didn’t they care about him at all?

By the end of the week, the weather turned miserable. This was about the only upside Harry could think of: he no longer stared wistfully out at the warm air and august sunlight, but at grey roads and potholes overflowing with rubbish. It was during one of these times, as he was seated in the library watching the raindrops slide down the glass, that Harry spotted movement. 

The street below was gloomy. Rain pounded the cement and the wind sent bags of rubbish blowing across the square, releasing everything from beer bottles and crisp packets to squashed yoghurt pots. 

Hood drawn over its face, a figure made its way down the street and paused between house numbers eleven and thirteen. The figure stood there for a long moment, hunched in the rain, coat-tail flapping. Then—just as they moved to leave—Harry caught a glimpse of a face that was concealed by a black mask. 

Hardly daring to breathe, he watched the figure move down the street and out of sight. Then—only half-aware of what he was doing—he hurried down the stairs. 

“There’s Death Eaters patrolling the street,” he announced, pulling open Riddle’s bedroom door and stopping dead in his tracks. “I just saw one.” 

Riddle, seated at the edge of his bed, was clad only in his underwear. He was holding a pair of grey robes, and he looked up from fiddling with the buttons. 

“Hello to you too,” he said. 

Harry’s eyes remained on the centre of Riddle’s forehead. “Sorry,” he said. “Nevermind. I’ll just —” 

But Riddle didn’t seem to hear him. “Did you say Death Eaters?”

Harry wondered why his heart was beating so fast. “I saw one out the library window. He stood right in front of the house, stared at it, and walked off.”

Riddle’s eyebrows knitted. “So they think either you or the Order of the Phoenix are here. What protection is the house under?”

“Loads,” Harry said. “The Black Family cast many anti-trespassing charms on it when it was built, and it was under a Fidelius Charm too. But that was broken and the Order had to leave a few years ago. They did something to it again recently - Dumbledore worked on it for a while, and the other members of the Order did too. But I don’t know how strong the spells are.” 

I don’t know what they did. 

It had been two summers since Harry had seen Death Eaters prowling the streets. The last time he had been waiting on his O.W.L results, fifteen, and standing in Sirius’ drawing room. The last time Sirius had packed a bag in the night and moved in with Lupin. 

“I wonder if Voldemort knows I'm alive.” 

“You” — Harry chewed his lip— “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“He’d get me out of here,” Riddle said, but he was pale - paler than he had been when Harry had first spotted him - and he ran a hand through his wet hair. “Anyway,” he said, “this just means it will be harder to escape. The Death Eaters were always going to be a problem.” 

He folded the robes on the bed beside him and frowned. 

Against his will, Harry’s eyes dipped. Riddle was very lean, his chest smooth and unmarred, his collar bones poking out prominently. His shoulders were broader than Harry had imagined them to be, and his long fingers traced over the rose-patterned bedding. 

“I’m gonna go,” Harry said. 

“Do I make you nervous?” 

Riddle said it so teasingly that Harry swallowed. 

“Nervous that I’m going to snap and kill you, maybe.”

Riddle laughed. He leaned back on his elbows, a little smirk curling at the corner of his lips. 

But Harry had been in a changing room before; he knew how to keep his eyes up, how to not betray his embarrassment, even when Riddle was staring at him so intensely. 

“Since you’re here,” Riddle began, staring at him in that unnerving way. His tone was insinuating. Bold.

 Harry forced out a choked laugh. “I’ve already told you I’m not gay, Riddle.” 

“And nor am I.” He scoffed. “We’re alone in this house. It’s boring. It’s just getting off.” 

The glint of his white teeth was too much for Harry. He felt that heat pooling in his stomach: that hot bite of hatred, climbing higher and higher, coiling up, tight around his chest. 

“Still not happening,” he said. “Jesus. Just have a wank or something.” 

“Like right now?”

“No!”

He caught Riddle's smirk at the last moment; the knowledge that he had never been serious, that he had only wanted Harry to squirm. 

“Bye, Riddle,” Harry said, and when he closed the door and stepped into the hall, his heart was thundering so hard it hurt. 

No more Death Eaters showed up at Grimmauld Place that day. Harry peered out the window, watching the rain wane into a drizzle and stop entirely. The encounter with Riddle was stuck in his head, coming at strange moments, like when he was reading in the library, or as he stood under the shower spray, his teeth chattering. It made his stomach churn with both anger and embarrassment. 

When they ran into each other later that evening, Riddle was thankfully clothed. He was levitating a library book wandlessly with his left hand, his eyes half shut.

Harry watched this display as he moved through the library shelves. Just what he needed, he thought, Riddle becoming more proficient at wandless magic. 

“Hello, Harry.” 

The book hit the desk with a thud. 

Harry scanned the shelves. The back of his neck was growing hot in annoyance, and when he turned to leave the room, he caught Riddle’s eyes. 

“Do you think Kreacher could apparate us out of here?” 

Harry stopped a foot away from him. “I already asked him that,” he said, “and he can’t. The Order must have tampered with what he can and can’t do.” 

A flicker of something uncertain crossed Riddle’s face. Kreacher, it seemed, had been the solution to all of his problems.

“Any clue when he’s coming back?”

Harry tightened his grip on the book. “Counting down your final days?” 

“Something like that.” 

And then—as they stood gazing at each other—Riddle fluttered his eyelashes suggestively. 

Harry’s chest tightened. “Do you have to do that?” he snapped. 

“Do what?”

A muscle jumped in Harry’s jaw. The air in the library was thick, heavy, and he cleared his throat, trying not to fidget. 

“Nevermind… I’m leaving.”

He moved back through the shelves, skin tingling.  Harry kept his back straight —ignore him, ignore him, ignore him —until he reached the doors. 

“See you later, darling,” Riddle called, his singsong voice a mockery of all Harry’s nightmares.  

Harry almost threw the book at him. 

Riddle continued to flip between making flirty remarks when he was bored and asking him nosy questions. Harry tried his best not to get flustered. 

Riddle shouldn’t have been able to annoy him so much by suggestively saying that he could think of a few things they could do to kill time, or by hounding Harry with questions about whether he had a girlfriend, was a virgin, or was always this riled up. He didn’t seem to care that Harry fantasised about his impending death. His boredom was an all-intense thing, an incessant desire to get under Harry’s skin, in his space at all times. 

Sometimes, when the house was quiet and cold and the clocks seemed frozen, Harry couldn’t blame him. Other times he wished Riddle’s head was mounted on the wall alongside the Black family elves. 

Riddle had put that awful idea in his mind. If Riddle gave him a handjob, would it feel better than a wank?

He didn’t want to touch Riddle back in return, but the prospect of someone else —even if it was Riddle—touching his cock was more desirable than he wanted to admit. Even if he was horrible and cruel, Riddle was incredibly attractive. 

He imagined Riddle’s long, slender fingers wrapped around his dick; imagined those glittering eyes, the faint blue veins that stretched across his hands. Maybe it wasn’t Harry’s fault that the idea came to him at wild times —why wouldn’t it when Riddle was always saying such horribly suggestive things?

Two days later, Harry awoke to swimming darkness. He had dreamed about Dumbledore wearing the Horcrux ring and writing letters to Grindelwald. The sheet of parchment had grown longer and longer until it sprang into the air and wrapped around the headmaster’s neck. 

When Harry reached the kitchen, it took his brain a minute to make sense of what he saw. The cupboards were almost empty, save for a couple of glass containers, a bottle opener, and a dozen shot glasses. There was no cutlery in the drawers, and only two clean bowls, one dinner plate and three wine glasses. 

Harry knew they were running low on dishes but he hadn’t realised it was so bad. The mound of dirty plates by the sink looked like something from the end of year feast at Hogwarts. They loomed several feet in the air, pots and pans balanced precariously. 

Harry found a spoon with effort, grabbed the final clean bowl, and when he finished his cereal, stared at the pile of dishes. 

Why had he and Riddle made such a mess?

Because you thought you wouldn’t be here this long, a voice whispered back. Because it isn’t your home. 

Riddle was in the drawing room. He sat cross-legged, eating peaches straight from a tin. “You saw the kitchen, I take it?”

Harry nodded. 

“Great. Well, since you’re the one who got rid of the house-elf, you should wash the dishes.” 

“I should wash your filthy dishes?”

“They're yours as well. And technically, this is your house …” 

Harry scoffed. “So you’re some sort of guest?” 

“Exactly.”

What ensued was two hours of arguing (I’ll order Kreacher to never clean up after you, Riddle; you think I can’t force a house-elf to obey me? Please), and in the end, they agreed to wash half each. 

Riddle insisted Harry wash first, and while Harry did so, he perched on the kitchen island, taking immense delight in watching Harry work. 

Harry threw a fork at him but Riddle only ducked. 

Some of the plates were thick with a layer of grime. Harry had steeped the pots in water at least —a habit ingrained in him from his days with the Dursleys—but he still had to scrub them so hard his arms ached. 

He piled the clean dishes to one side and glumly stuck his hands back into the sink of soapy water. The one good thing about Grimmauld Place was that the sink was enormous. 

“Do you have to sit there and stare at me?” Harry asked. He was positioned half facing Riddle because he didn’t like having his back to him. 

“I like watching you suffer,” Riddle replied, his voice so sincere that Harry snorted. 

“Do you think there’s a radio in this place?  Sirius Black has some records up in his room but there’s nothing to play them on.” 

Harry almost scalded himself with the tap. 

“Stop looking through his things,” he said, turning around to stare Riddle straight in the eye. “And anyway, every channel will be overtaken by Voldemort. If you want to listen to music” —he made his tone as biting as he could — “then you’re out of luck.” 

But as he turned back to the sink, Harry thought of the possibilities that may arise from tuning into one of those channels. Would they be talking about him? The Order of the Phoenix? 

“It’s a connection to the outside world,” Riddle said. “So as long as it can’t be traced to here—” 

“Fidelius,” Harry reminded.

“—then it’s worth a shot.” 

What was worse: being in the dark while Riddle was equally so, or finding out what was going on outside with the risk of Riddle knowing too?

It took around an hour to wash half of the dishes. Riddle sat reading his book on the countertop or wandering in and out of the room like a stray cat. When it was his turn to do the dishes —to Harry’s lack of disbelief—he decided they should take a break.

“And do what?” Harry said but followed him out of the room. His hands had turned pink from the hot water. “And don’t say ‘jerk each other off.’” 

“Is that what you’re thinking about?” 

“Fuck off, Riddle. I mean it.” 

Riddle moved into the corridor and pulled open the pantry door. “We could get drunk,” he said, lifting a bottle of mead from a shelf.

“You still have to do the dishes.” 

“Do you have to be so boring?”

Harry ignored him. Now that Riddle had lifted a bottle, the gaps in the shelf looked more apparent. He realised, his heart sinking, just how much the space had changed. 

“We need to do something about the food situation. There’s barely anything left.” 

Riddle stepped further into the pantry. There was barely room for the two of them to stand, not without touching. Harry held his breath. 

“There’s about a month’s worth if we cut back,” Riddle said. The humour had disappeared from his voice at once, replaced by something calculated. 

“A month’s worth,” Harry said. “No way. Two weeks, and that’s pushing it.”

“There’s still a lot of pasta. That’s one week of food at least. There are twenty tins left, which can be stretched out to another week. Two bags of beans, which are quite filling if there’s nothing else. And there’s two bags of flour, so we could make bread or something …” 

He had spotted things Harry hadn’t seen: things he had discarded as useless, inedible, hidden beneath layers of dust on the bottom shelves. 

“We need to be careful with the rest of the fruit. You could survive on half a tin a day, but it’s pushing it if that will last…” 

Harry felt a shrug. 

“If we decide how much to eat per week”—he lifted a bag of pasta and set it aside. With it came four tins, a bag of beans and five potatoes. “—and you actually bring the elf back soon —” 

“I will,” Harry said. “If he doesn’t come back by the end of the week, I will.” 

He stared at the precise way Riddle was laying out food. The mathematical movement of his hands, the way he was muttering under his breath. He didn’t notice when Harry stepped out of the pantry and went back into the kitchen. His head barely rose.  

An image fizzled into Harry’s brain: he and Riddle fighting over a tin of tuna, a meagre handful of beans. Harry, as hungry as he had been when he was nine, when Uncle Vernon had left him in the cupboard for a week, when the days all bled into one. 

He shut the memory out before it could fester. 

It wasn’t going to happen. The Order wouldn’t let him starve here. They wouldn’t. 

Before he was aware of what he was doing, Harry made his way to the sink and scrubbed the remaining dishes furiously. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Riddle came back into the kitchen, nodded at him, and blinked when he saw Harry doing the dishes. 

“I'm not being nice,” Harry snapped, but he couldn’t explain to Riddle that he needed to do something with his hands. 

“Right.” Riddle ran a hand through his hair. “I organised the food.” 

Harry stared at the soapy countertop, the gleam of the overhead lights. There was something awkward about Riddle’s tone, something Harry didn’t want to think of too deeply. 

“We probably don’t have to stretch it out to a month, but I organised it that way just in case. So don’t start complaining about being hungry when you’ve sent the house-elf away …” 

“I’m not going to complain about being hungry,” Harry said. “Trust me, my relatives really weren’t the generous sort.”

It was out before he was aware of saying it. Biting his tongue, Harry turned away so he didn’t have to see Riddle’s face. 

“Didn’t you grow up with Sirius?”

“No, I”—a bitter laugh left Harry’s lips—“I wish. They were muggles. My aunt and uncle.” 

“Muggles,” Riddle repeated. “Why?”

Harry didn’t answer. He moved away from the sink and told Riddle to wash the rest of the dishes. They stood there in silence, which now felt thick and heavy and much worse than it had been before, and then—with a dramatic sigh—Riddle moved towards the sink.  

Harry went back to the pantry. It took him a moment to make sense of the way Riddle had organised it. There were rows of food each of them had per week, and the separate sides of the room were labelled ‘Tom’ and ‘Harry.’

Harry stared at it for a long moment, and called out incredulously: “Why do you get more than me?”