Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tom comes to a decision. It’s a very good decision, all thing considered, though this is hardly surprising considering how excellent Tom is at making decisions.

He is going to marry Harry Potter.

Tom’s considered marriage before – after all, married politicians poll as twenty-six-percent more trustworthy. He assumed it would be something tedious, a necessity. He’d pick out the most prestigious, eligible pureblood and be done with it.

But that was before he saw Harry duel.

It happened quite by accident. Tom was only assisting Barty Crouch because Percy Weasley was ill - for unrelated reasons (Weasley being an irritating pea-body) Tom had spiked his drink the night before - and Barty Crouch was only visiting the Auror training gym because Rufus Scrimgeor was threatening a Law Enforcement revolt over Fudge’s latest mishap and it was better to visit the man in his home environment.

And there Tom saw him.

Harry grinning as he danced and dodged, darting with all the conviction and roaring intensity of a tooth-and-nail fight for survival.

Glorious.

Tom’s taught many of his little Death Eaters to duel. None of them - none of them - fight like Harry. It hardly seems to matter to the auror-in-training whether he wins or loses. It’s duelling that calls him, the magic of it, singing to his soul.

Tom almost proposes then and there.

He doesn’t, of course, because Tom is sensible, and because he knows romantic attachments take at least three face-to-face meetings before they can be exploited. He knows this because he has kissed three people (two girls, one boy) and had sex once. (Tom didn’t enjoy the sex much, hence he has not yet repeated the experience).

Tom lets the auror-in-training be and instead covertly replicates a copy of the auror training schedule when Scrimgeour lets he and Crouch into his office for their Fudge-damage-control session. Crouch is lucky Tom spiked Weasley’s drink - Tom is very good at persuading people. It’s why he’s so confident Harry will be his.

A fortnight of courting, he estimates, then another fortnight to organise the wedding. Perhaps, if he begins planning now, the organising could be reduced to a week and they might be married before the ministry Halloween party. Then he’d really have something to boast about.

Tom concocts his plan. Harry’s training starts at nine am, so he presumably uses the lifts every day at approximately 8:50. The problem is that Tom is always at his desk by 7:58 (as are Granger and Weasley, annoyingly), so he must devise a reason to return to the atrium.

The solution is simple: Tom offers a coffee run.

Granger and Weasley both stare at him like he’s grown a second head – usually, Tom has much better things to do than coffee runs (Granger’s the youngest, it should be her job). Still, no matter. Tom smiles charmingly at them and they accept the offer without further complaint.

He buys the coffees from the overpriced atrium café, and dawdles until 8:50, keeping an eye on the fireplaces.

Harry does not appear.

Tom waits in the atrium for a whole extra ten minutes, but his betrothed-to-be still does not appear. Nine am comes and goes, so Tom leaves. Perhaps, like him, Harry also enjoys being prompt and instead gets the lift much earlier. It will be nice to have things in common - more than their love of duelling, of course.

Tom ponders this as the gold chains clink and grate, hot coffee slopping over his hands. It would not do to waste more time: he needs to find out as much about Harry as he can, and as quickly as possible. It’s already early-October, and the deadline for a Halloween wedding is quickly approaching.

He needs to steal Harry Potter’s auror record.

It’s not that hard. Nothing for Tom is that hard. He is a genius, after all, and very good at magic. Lacking such weaknesses as guilt or shame helps too.

He casts the imperius curse on Penelope Clearwater. She’s Weasley’s girlfriend so is around their office often enough. She also works in Law Enforcement, though in the ‘law’ part, rather than ‘enforcement’, so no imperius-resistance training for her. The curse takes hold easily.

The trainee-auror records are a little trickier to obtain than the schedule (a big print out on a cork board), though still concerningly simple for private ministry documents.

They’re kept in a cabinet in the office of Quinn Thimble, the lead trainer. Clearwater darts in while the trainee aurors are on a fieldtrip to Azkaban, and the other aurors are on their lunch break. Unlocking the cabinet and duplicating Harry’s record is straight-forward enough: they’re academic records, not protected, ancient, magical artifacts. Tom gets the girl to meet him after work. He lifts the curse, obliviates her, then takes home his bedtime reading.

For Tom, home is a cheap, bland flat in Knockturn Alley. Tom doesn’t care. He only uses it to sleep and shower – his Death Eater’s houses are for entertaining guests. No one even knows he lives here. Tom likes it that way. It gives him the freedom to slip into Knockturn as he pleases, and it ensures no pesky visitors interrupting his peace and quiet.

This evening, he sits on his sofa with a mug of tea, feet tucked up beneath him as he learns all about his husband-to-be.

Harry’s Hogwarts grades were good enough to become an auror, but not excellent. That’s fine – Tom wouldn’t want anyone competing with his genius anyway. Dealing with Granger and Weasley at work is vexing enough as it is.

Harry excels at the practical aspects of auror training; he’s more than good enough to make the cut. From his duelling Tom assumed as much, but it’s nice to have confirmation. He couldn’t marry a failure.

The auror personality tests describe Harry as of ‘outstanding moral character’. That gives Tom pause, and a squirm of uncertainty. On the one hand, he’d hate for Harry to become privy to and disrupt his plans. On the other, a righteous and empathetic Harry sounds like more fun than a cowardly, submissive one.

He’ll ponder that further.

Then, there’s the fact that Harry’s parents are dead, killed twenty years ago by a Grindelwald at the height of his power – before Dumbledore defeated him nine years later. Tom knew this. The Potters are one of the big pureblood families and Tom knows all about them, just as he knows Harry will inherit his father’s Wizengamot seat at 25. Voting power: it’s another reason Harry’s such a brilliant choice.

And then, finally, the reason Tom hasn’t managed to bump into Harry in the lift: Harry is not early. Harry is late. Consistently. Has a temper too. And his Hogwarts’ detention history is abysmal.

Tom sips his tea. With these flaws on one end of the scale, and that brilliant grin of Harry’s on the other… Tom knows what he wants, he can deal with some tardiness. Besides, he can train it out of Harry later; Tom knows how to mould people.

There’s a photo at the top of the file. It’s a professional one so Harry isn’t grinning like Tom remembers, yet there’s still a sheepish tilt to photo-Harry’s lips. It’s a hard to tell in the small, grainy picture, but Tom thinks he has nice eyes.

He sticks the picture to his fridge and goes to bed thinking about Harry.

The following Monday, Tom does his coffee run ten minutes later. It’s less of a ‘run’ today - he can’t have Granger and Weasley become reliant. He gets a coffee only for himself.

It’s gone nine am and the atrium is quiet. Tom walks slowly, eyeing the fireplaces. He’s almost at the lifts when one flashes green and Harry comes tumbling out. His betrothed (to-be) catches himself before he can fall flat on his face, but it’s not graceful.

Tom steps into a lift - it’s empty, save for a few memos fluttering around. He holds the door and Harry hurtles through.

“Thanks,” he says, and Tom likes his voice. There’s a huskiness to it.

They catch eyes - Harry does have pretty eyes: they’re a light green, entrancing. Then, as if startled, Harry whips his gaze away.

Tom continues to stare. Dirty sneakers poke out beneath Harry’s askew robe, and there’s a smear on the lens of his glasses. Over the clanking and grinding of the lift, Harry’s breaths fall heavy, like he’s been running. It’s unprofessional, yet strangely endearing.

Over the weekend, Tom practised the demure-eye-catch-and-half-smile he knows he’s more than handsome enough to pull off. Patiently, he waits for Harry to look up, even as the lift grumbles up to Law Enforcement and Harry’s gaze stays glued to the floor, a flush colouring his neck. The black hair curled there is damp from a morning shower.

He’s still not looked up, and the lift is juddering to a stop, and Tom should do something to not squander this opportunity, so he says, “There’s a drying spell, you know. For your hair.”

He expects Harry to ask him what it is so Tom can suggest they go for a drink and he can teach him. Harry does not do that. Harry turns red and basically leaps from the lift the instant the doors open, dashing away without so much as a backwards glance.

Punching in his floor, Tom scowls. The lift judders, moving up. What did he do wrong? It was so easy to charm the Department heads and Wizengamot members for work. Flirting was hardly different. It wasn’t different.

Maybe it was Harry. He’s proving remarkably unpredictable. That’s fine, Tom tells himself, taking a sip of his coffee - he doesn’t even like coffee. It’s fine. Unpredictability is good. He’d hate for a partner of his to be boring. And hasn’t Tom always enjoyed a challenge?

Still, he spends the rest of the day scowling as he plots another way to bump into Harry. Sensibly, Granger and Weasley don’t talk to him.

“What a spiffing idea, Tom,” Fudge says on Tuesday morning as he lounges in his desk chair and polishes his bowler hat. “Yes, I’ll ask Thimble to show us a thing or two. The Irish President is always curious about our graduate recruitment programs…”

Tom walks back into his office smiling. Perhaps it’s that that tempts Granger to ask five minutes later, “Tom, are you seeing anyone?”

It’s an inane question. Usually, the three of them speak of nothing except work and it’s an arrangement that suits them all nicely. Hoping she isn’t trying to set him up with some dull friend of hers, he asks, “Why do you want to know?”

Granger turns pink. She often does that around Tom; he intimidates her. Still, she perseveres. “Curiosity. You know who Percy and I are dating.”

Curiosity. It’s a lie. Tom always knows when people lie to him. And besides, he doesn’t know who Granger’s dating. Or, perhaps he did know and he’s forgotten because a) they weren’t important, and b) he didn’t care. Granger knows better than to bring anyone into their office; Weasley only gets to do it because he’s the oldest.

“Yes,” Tom says because it’s almost true. “I am seeing someone.”

Weasley looks over. “Who?”

“Did you finish the report for Madame Bones yet, Weasley? I have to take it up to her in half an hour.”

Mercifully, he shuts up.

Tom sees Harry again on Thursday. The Irish Magical President is visiting and Tom, Fudge, and some others are showing her around a few departments before they spend the afternoon locked in meetings. Tom is always picked for these jobs over Granger and Weasley. While they’re both hard-working and (almost) as intelligent as Tom, they’re socially inept, while Tom is as handsome and charismatic as they come.

Charming the President is easy – Tom actually likes her. She’s a darn sight more competent than Fudge (as his political assistants, Tom often thinks he, Weasley, and Granger are the ones actually running the country). They have a remarkably interesting conversation about international portkeys that lasts right up until auror Thimble introduces her trainees and Tom’s mouth dries up.

Harry’s wearing the dark green auror robes, and he looks gorgeous. They complement his eyes. Tom’s never wanted to kiss anyone before, but he decides he wants to kiss Harry. He also wants to rip out the eyeballs of their merry little group, so no one else can look at what’s his.

Thimble’s talking, and Tom’s still staring at Harry. Those pretty eyes dart to Tom’s and he quickly tries to do his demure-eye-catch-and-half-smile, but Harry caught him off guard and he thinks his face sort-of spasms, then Harry’s back to flushing and staring at the floor.

Tom does learn something helpful though. The ginger, freckled trainee on Harry’s left is someone named Ron Weasley who must be a brother or a cousin of Percy. The name rings some other bell in Tom’s head, but he can’t quite pinpoint it so it’s probably not important.

Thimble gets Harry to speak about the training program. He’s a little awkward, which is understandable given the circumstances, and Tom doesn’t mind because he just likes the tenor of Harry’s voice. Once they’re married, they’ll work on Harry’s confidence. He looked plenty confident while duelling so it’s in there somewhere.

Tom wants to talk to him, but Harry mentioned Quidditch (he used to play on the Gryffindor team – Tom knows that, though he never attended any of the Hogwarts games) and now the Irish President is desperate to visit the Magical Sports and Games Department.

They say goodbye, Tom feeling strangely hollow. It’s unsettling, and likely a product of his plans to speak properly with Harry failing. He’s tried the coffee run trick three further times this week yet hasn’t seen Harry once. Perhaps he’s stopped being late.

On Friday morning, he talks to Percy Weasley.

“Do you have any siblings?”

The wet blanket’s signing documents on Fudge’s behalf and nearly drops the quill.

“Do I… Well, yes. I do.”

Granger’s quill ceases scratching.

“Who?”

“Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny. Any reason?”

That’s more siblings than Tom’s had dates, but it gives him the confirmation he needs. “Fred and George haven’t filed their shop’s tax return correctly.”

Granger’s quill resumes scratching.

Tom’s weekend plans involve far too much pureblood socialising for his liking, so he clears space in his schedule on Sunday morning to break into the Law Enforcement Department. It’s easy, given his disillusionment spell is so good it’s essentially invisibility, and he has a clearance card.

The aurors, including the trainees, all have individual cubicles with their names embossed on the felt. Ron Weasley’s is beside Harry’s, certifying Tom’s assumption that they’re friends. He’ll speak with Weasley (Percy) further next week.

For now, he examines the slight shimmer surrounding Harry’s cubicle. It’s a ward, and quite a clever one. It makes Tom smile, knowing Harry’s good enough at magic to pull off something like this, then frown when he realises he can’t break the ward without Harry noticing. He checks Weasley’s cubicle and finds the same. Harry must’ve taught him.

Just as Tom’s stewing over the interruption to his plans to snoop through Harry’s personal effects, he sees an auror enter the empty office. She’s a young woman with bright, pink hair and Tom recognises her as Nymphadora Tonks. Bellatrix complains about her much too often.

Tonks strides directly towards him, and Tom just manages to duck around the corner in time. She pauses before Harry’s cubicle, glances around, takes a note from her robe pocket then steps inside. She darts out a moment later and leaves rather rapidly.

Heart racing, Tom stares after her. What was that? His mind shuts off and hot rage rushes from his head to his toes.

Are they dating? Is Harry dating someone? A girl?

...Does Harry even like boys?

They’re questions Tom should’ve asked two weeks ago, but he was so confident he didn’t even think to. He’s still confident, Tom tells himself. He shouldn’t be so ridiculous. If Harry’s dating Tonks, he’ll realise what a much better option Tom is and leave her. If Harry doesn’t like boys… well, most people aren’t completely straight. Tom could give Harry a really good blowjob, and then he’d change his mind.

Tom should figure out how to give a really good blowjob.

He leaves the auror office - making sure to drop a report onto Scrimgeour’s desk so he has a good reason for being there in case someone checks his card - then he heads to Flourish and Blott’s in Diagon Alley for books about sex. (He uses a disguise - no point wasting his breath explaining himself if he bumps into any acquaintances).

On Monday, Tom charms Weasley (Percy). It’s tricky, given how much time he’s invested into conditioning Weasley to fear him, but Tom is good at charming people and by the end of the day, he has what he needs:

Percy lives with his girlfriend and hardly talks to his family because they think he’s a pompous, arse-kissing sleazebag (Tom agrees).

It’s another dead end.

Tom tries the coffee trick again on Tuesday. He spots Harry, but he’s on time so they end up in a lift with ten others. On Wednesday and Thursday Harry’s on another fieldtrip (a stealth and tracking one in Milton Keynes), and on Friday Fudge is having a meltdown over the Senior Undersecretary’s sudden resignation after sordid details of a Veela party in the Swiss Alps leak. It throws plans for the International Relations bill into disarray, and Tom is busy.

It’s all highly concerning because it’s mid-October and he thought he and Harry would be planning their wedding by now.

They are not.

They haven’t even spoken.

On the Friday evening, Fudge summons Tom to his office.

“Sit, sit,” he says, as frazzled as if he’s stuck his head into a Hungarian Horntail’s nest and tried to bade it goodnight. It’s not a good look.

“I’m going to have to move Augusta into the Senior Undersecretary role,” says Fudge. “Then Henry’ll take her spot, which opens up the Junior Undersecretary position.” He taps his fingers on his chin. “I know Percy’s had the most experience, but… I’d prefer for you to take the job, Tom.”

Tom smiles, glad his hard work has paid off. Convincing Narcissa Malfoy to exploit her high society connections to spread scandal had taken him almost an entire ten minutes at the Malfoy dinner party last Saturday.

“I’d be honoured, Minister.”

“Excellent,” he says. “Excellent. Keep it to yourself for now - let’s announce it at the Halloween soirée in a couple of weeks, once all the paperwork’s sorted. At least one good thing has come out of this mess…”

Tom promises he will.

Saturday's still busy, and they have to work. Weasley’s running about somewhere and Tom’s stuck in the office with Granger, annoyed he can’t gloat about his promotion yet. She’s tugging on her bushy hair, frizzing it up even more than usual as she scrawls frantically on a new draft for the bill.

Granger’s not very good with stress. She doesn’t shut down like Weasley does; instead she bites and snaps, making her presence even more intolerable than usual.

There’s a knock, and Umbridge enters.

Tom smiles at the ghastly, pink woman because he learnt early on that being nice to Dolores Umbridge gets one places. She beams back.

“Granger,” she simpers, turning to the girl. “The Daily Prophet statements Susan prepared yesterday. I expected them on my desk this morning, yet..?”

Quill frozen a millimetre above her parchment, Granger looks stricken. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

Umbridge’s pink lips press together. She’s enjoying this. “Well. Where are they?”

From Granger’s face, Tom can tell she doesn’t have them. Umbridge can tell too; those painted lips stretch into a predatory smirk.

“I, uh, I think maybe, um…”

“On my desk in the next half an hour, Miss Granger.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

With a wink at Tom, Umbridge leaves and Granger’s head drops into her hands.

“Where are they?” Tom asks.

“I left them on my coffee table.” Her words are muffled.

“You took them home?”

“I wanted to proofread them last night.”

Tom grins. “Taking home private Ministry documents is a sackable offence, Miss Granger.”

“Oh shut up,” she snaps. “I know you’ve done the same.”

Worried, Tom thinks of Harry’s Auror record, but… no, Granger doesn’t know about that. Work, that’s all she’s referring to.

“Please don’t tell anyone, Tom.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he lies.

She runs her fingers through her tangled hair, glaring at the parchment before her. “Mafalda needs this section of the bill in less than an hour.”

“I know,” Tom says.

“And Umbridge wants the statements in half an hour.”

“I heard,” Tom says. He’s going to make her ask for it.

She mumbles something.

“What was that?” He asks pleasantly.

“May you go and get the statements?”

Tom looks at her.

“Please.”

He sighs. “I suppose I’ve got some time. You’ll owe me.”

She scowls fiercely. “Why can’t you just do it for free like a nice, normal human?”

Tom doesn’t deign that with a response, just smiles in satisfaction as she scribbles down her floo address. He’s not normal, and that is a very, very good thing.

As he wanders up to the atrium, humming tunelessly, he considers getting Granger sacked. She’ll be competition for the Minister role one day: she’s competent and highly opinionated and though she hasn’t yet learnt how to play the political game, one day she might. Perhaps for those reasons, Tom prefers her where he can see her. He could always remove her later if she poses too much of a threat. Besides, he’d hate for her to be replaced with someone useless. Or chatty.

Granger doesn’t speak much of home (perhaps she used to, and Tom told her to stop). Curious, he says the name of Granger’s house (Ocean’s Rest) and steps into the warm, green flames.

He arrives in a low, cluttered kitchen. To his left, a countertop window overlooks a sea of white houses and stone chimneys, sloping down to shimmering blue harbour. Perhaps they’re in Dorset. Or Cornwall. It’s pretty.

There’s movement by the door. Tom looks over and sees someone holding a-

No.

No.

Not someone.

Harry.

He sees Harry in the doorway, empty Gryffindor mug in one hand, eyes wide behind his glasses. He’s wearing an oversized, woollen sweater with knitted snitches, and a pair of blue boxers. His legs are bare, save for a pair of socks.

Tom’s brain short circuits. Dimly, he thinks it’s the longest he and Harry have stared at each other.

Then, Harry makes a strange, strangled noise, flushes, and runs from the room.

Tom’s struggling to shift his gaze from the spot where Harry stood a moment earlier. He just manages to formulate the thought: ‘WhatisHarrydoinginGranger’shouse?’ when a freckled face appears in Tom’s eyeline.

Ron Weasley.

Oh, that’s why Tom knew the name.

Granger’s boyfriend.

“Hello,” Weasley says. He’s wearing more clothes than Harry. “What do you want?”

Harry. Tom nearly says it aloud.

“Granger has statements,” he manages.

“What?”

“On the coffee table.” Tom clears his throat. What is he doing? “Granger left some work documents here. She’s busy and I offered to pick them up for her.”

Weasley’s face splits into a grin. “You’re Tom Riddle.”

“Yes.”

He cackles. It’s a very annoying sound. “Come in,” he says, as if Tom isn’t already stood in their kitchen. “Lounge is through there. D’you want a drink?”

“Alright,” Tom says, checking his watch. He has twenty minutes.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea. Milk, no sugar.”

Ron sticks his head through the kitchen door, and calls, “Harry! D’you want another tea?”

There’s a beat as Tom’s heart pounds, then, “No!”

It comes from upstairs somewhere.

If possible, Ron’s grin widens. “I’m going to make you one anyway!” he calls. “Go take a seat,” he says to Tom. "And feel free to grab what you need."

The lounge is as cluttered as the kitchen and has the same low ceiling. There’s the front door and the staircase, and that’s it. No chandeliers, no servants’ corridors; it’s nothing like his Death Eaters’ houses. But it’s where Harry (presumably) lives. There’s evidence of him everywhere: photos, Quidditch trophies, a hundred books on jinxes and hexes. One lies open on the sofa arm; it details a neat little spell to temporarily blind someone with custard.

As he gathers Granger’s work documents, he spots a glossy photo of Harry on the coffee table. He’s stood in Granger’s kitchen, spatula in hand, laughing. Every now and then he shimmies the frying pan and shoots the camera a wide grin. He looks more relaxed and confident than Tom has ever seen him. Tom glances around, then slides the photo into his pocket.

It’s nicer than the one on his fridge.

“Here you go,” says Weasley, placing three mugs on the coffee table – it’s a squeeze to find space between the magazines, joke shop supplies, and auror-related revision notes, but he manages with a practised ease. “Harry!” He calls again. “Tea’s ready.”

Weasley goes to take the armchair, and sits on a fuzzy, orange cushion. There’s a yowl, and he jumps up. “Ow!” He exclaims, rubbing his arse. “If you don’t want to be sat on, don’t nap on the bloody chair, you monster.” And he unceremoniously shoves the cat off.

Tom instantly prefers this Weasley to his brother.

He especially prefers him because by sitting on the armchair, Weasley ensures that the only place for Harry to sit is on the sofa next to Tom.

A pair of socked feet appear atop the wooden stairs, then Harry trudges down. He’s pulled a pair of joggers on, which is a shame, though his neck and ears are as flushed as they were before.

“Hello,” he says, a bit awkwardly.

Tom tries to give him a bright smile, but his face doesn’t work like normal. “Hullo.”

“Sorry,” Harry says as he hovers at the base of the stairs. “I, um, wasn’t expecting guests.”

“That’s fine. Sorry for intruding.”

Tom’s not sorry at all. This might be the best day of his year. Or his life? Why does his brain never work around Harry? Tom remembers to breathe. Since when did he forget to breathe? That’s not healthy. He should see a doctor. What do his hands usually do in conversation? He grabs his mug and takes a gulp, scalding his mouth.

“So Tom,” Weasley says, ignoring the glare Harry throws him as he perches on the sofa’s edge, as far away from Tom as he can manage. “Hermione says you’re seeing someone?”

Tom realises his mistake. “Oh, um. No.”

“No?” Weasley asks, sipping his tea.

“Not anymore.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear it. What happened?”

That’s a lie. He is not sorry to hear it.

“It wasn’t working out.”

“No?” he says again. He’s smirking. Tom rescinds his earlier thought: this Weasley is more annoying than Percy, actually.

“No.”

Weasley takes another sip. Tom does the same. Harry hasn’t touched his tea: his hands are tucked under his thighs and he’s staring at the rug like he wants to set it on fire. The ball of orange fur sees Harry’s stationary legs as an invitation and leaps onto his lap, and it’s just not fair that the cat gets to touch him when Tom can’t. If Harry would like to set the cat on fire instead, that would be appreciated.

“Harry’s not seeing anyone.”

That takes a moment to worm its way into Tom’s fog-addled brain. “Excuse me?”

“Harry’s-”

“I don’t think that’s relevant,” Harry says, teeth gritted. He’s glaring at the rug.

Then, Tom thinks a horrible thought he wishes he could unthink…

Harry hates him.

It makes a ghastly amount of sense. He’s rude and awkward, he’d rather stare at the ground than at Tom (even though Tom has a nice face), he runs away from Tom, he scowls, and he’s best friends with Hermione Granger. Granger, who Tom has been consistently mean to for the past two years.

Tom checks his watch, then stands up. “I should go,” he says, though he still has a spare ten minutes.

“Oh, alright,” says Weasley. He’s dating Granger! Does he hate Tom too? Did he put something in the tea? Has he been laughing at him this whole time?

“Thank you for the tea.”

Tom leaves, striding back through the cluttered kitchen. Harry’s Gryffindor mug is in the sink. Tom takes it. Thankfully, the floo powder is in a labelled pot, so he doesn’t have to ask.

The flames make him dizzy. The walk to Umbridge’s office is longer than usual, the polite chatter inane. He almost forgets to shrink and hide Harry’s mug before he walks into his own office. Almost.

Granger’s looking less frazzled. She smiles at Tom as he walks in. “Thank you.”

It’s hard to know how to respond. He could be as mean to her as she deserves for gossiping about him to Harry, ruining his chances, or he could play nice and hope she passes on the good word and changes Harry’s mind for him.

“It’s no problem,” he says. He can’t quite bring himself to smile back – he still feels ill – but it’s a start. He takes his chair. “I didn’t know you lived with Harry Potter.”

Granger starts, then ducks her face, pretending to riffle through her cabinet. “Oh,” she says, voice oddly high-pitched. “Did you meet him?”

“He was in the kitchen.”

There’s another strange noise, and the cabinet slams closed. “How, er, how do you know Harry?”

“He’ll take the Potter Wizengamot seat in a few years,” Tom says absently.

“Ah,” Granger says. “Right.”

The instant Tom gets home, he unshrinks the mug and stares at it. He wants to do something weird, like run his tongue along the rim so he knows he and Harry have licked the same place, but that feels so pale in comparison to kissing him that Tom doesn’t want to. Instead, he washes the mug, admiring the tea stains, then he places it in the middle of one of his kitchen shelves, carefully adjusting its position so it’s visible from all angles. This is where it belongs, not shoved in a box with all his other stolen trinkets. This one means more to him than all of those ever could.

He forgets to eat, flopping onto his sofa – it’s not as squishy as Harry’s – and gazes at the photograph. Harry looks like a good cook, and Tom wonders where he learnt. From those muggles who raised him, perhaps? Tom didn’t see any photos of people who might be related to Harry in his house, aside from one of his dead parents. Perhaps they don’t have a good relationship.

Tom doesn’t cry, thinking that Harry might not be his. Tom never cries, and Harry will be his, just… If Harry hates him, it might take longer than expected.

Briefly, Tom ponders asking one of his allies for advice. Like how he never cries, Tom also never asks for help… but perhaps this wouldn’t be help, per se. More, a second opinion. Who could he ask? Dolohov, Avery, Mulicber? Too blunt. They wouldn’t give good advice. Lucius? Tom doesn’t want the man to think he needed help dating of all things. Bella? She’s so in love with Tom, she might just try and kill Harry. He couldn’t have that.

No. He doesn’t need them. What would they say, anyway? Just ask the boy on a date? Pfft, as if Tom hasn’t thought of that and dismissed it as the silly idea it is.

Harry smiles up at him from the photo and Tom lays it on his chest, wrapping his arms around it. He falls asleep that way.

The following week, Tom tries to be nicer to Granger. If she finds it suspicious, she doesn’t say, but her and Weasley (Percy) start whispering more amongst themselves.

Tom’s tempted to spill the secret of his upcoming promotion, just to shut them up.

“Are you alright, Tom?” She asks on Wednesday, as Tom vanishes a carved pumpkin that had mysteriously appeared on his desk. It’s Halloween next week. It should’ve been his and Harry’s wedding date.

“Fine,” he says. Normally, he’d follow up with a snappy comment about her work, but today he doesn’t. “When are you going for lunch?”

She blanches. “Um, twenty minutes or so. Why?”

“I’ll eat with you.”

She looks to Weasley, who shrugs. “Do you, um, have work you want to discuss?”

“No,” Tom says. There’s a false ghost apparition floating about the room. He vanishes that too.

At twelve, they head for the canteen. “I’m meeting friends,” Granger says. “Is that alright?”

“That’s fine.”

More than fine. He may go insane having only Granger to speak with for an hour. It’s even more ‘more than fine’ when it transpires that her ‘friends’ include Harry. There are others too, but Tom has eyes only for him.

He takes the seat beside Granger, opposite Harry. As usual, Harry’s eyes are glued to the table, presenting Tom with the top of his messy, black hair. It looks soft. Tom really wants to touch it.

“Wow,” says a girl. “Aren’t you Tom Riddle? We thought Hermione was keeping you all to herself.”

“I am,” Tom says, trying to focus on speaking and not on staring at Harry. In front of the trainee-auror is a Tupperware filled with leftovers; Weasley (Ron) and Granger have the same.

“Nice! Loads of people thinks you’ll be Minister of Magic one day. I’m Katie Bell, this is Ernie MacMillan, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter.” They all chime a hello, except Harry who says it a beat too late.

“I wouldn’t say everyone thinks that,” says Granger, a bit put out.

“I think they do,” says MacMillan.

“Are you all in the auror training program?” Tom asks.

Weasley replies. “Yeah, though Katie’s a year ahead. We all met in the DA at Hogwarts.”

“The DA?”

“An underground duelling club,” Weasley says with a wry smile. “Harry ran it- ow, Harry! Don’t kick me.”

“You ran it?” Tom asks him.

Harry nods, then takes a large forkful of food so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. That hollow feeling in Tom’s stomach returns.

“Aren’t you eating anything?” Granger asks him.

Tom doesn’t usually eat lunch, he’s much too busy. But now he realises that, given lunch was what he suggested, that seems strange. Why doesn’t his brain ever work properly around Harry?

“I’ll just… buy something,” he says, and awkwardly half stands.

Granger gives him a funny look. “Why don’t you have some of ours? We’ve got loads. Grab a plate.”

It’s the first time Tom’s ever been grateful for being told what to do. He takes a canteen plate and fork, and Granger spoons on food from her Tupperware. Then she nicks some of Weasley’s food for herself, grinning. He doesn’t complain.

It’s a cold noodle dish with peanuts and spring greens, and it tastes great.

“Harry made it,” Granger says smugly. “He’s a really good cook. I can’t believe he’s not dating anyone.”

Harry slams his fork down. “Can you stop?”

Defiant green flashes in his eyes and Tom can’t look away, he can’t swallow, he can’t breathe. This is the Harry he saw duel three weeks ago. The one Tom would end the world for.

“What?” Granger asks, shocked.

“You know what!” Harry hisses and it almost sounds like parseltongue. “I don’t find it funny, so stop.” Weasley opens his mouth, but Harry cuts him off. “You too!”

Then, he stands and storms off.

Black dots cloud Tom’s vision; he still isn’t breathing. Forcing air into his lungs requires effort.

“He’s not normally like that,” Bell says, frowning, though Tom knows from Harry’s record that he is like that. Seeing it in person is something else.

“Harry’s normally very chatty,” MacMillan agrees. He looks to Granger and Weasley. “What was that about?”

Granger flushes. “Oh, nothing.”

Weasley mumbles something into his noodles.

Harry doesn’t return, but MacMillan and Bell are easy to pry information about him from: he’s a great teacher, and has a sharp wit, and his instincts are second-to-none. Tom doesn’t really understand what love is, but he thinks he’d kill for Harry, and maybe that’s close.

As he walks back to the office with Granger, he takes a chance. “Does Harry hate me?”

“What?” Granger asks, her eyes turning to saucers.

Tom despises repeating himself, so he waits for her to figure it out.

“Harry - no! He- Well, he, um, doesn’t know you. He can be shy around strangers.”

“Right.” She’s withholding something. Tom knows, like he always does. He and Harry aren’t strangers! So… it’s true. Harry hates him.

Harry hates him.

Granger stops walking. The look she gives Tom is one he recognises immediately: a million thoughts flying through her head at once. Realisation. Tom knows the feeling well.

His mind starts to race. “What is it?”

“Um…” The look passes. She schools her face. “The flying carpet tariffs. I think I’ve figured out the right wording for section 3bii.”

And that is most definitely a lie.

Tom stresses for the rest of the week. He’s committed a crime or two while pursuing Harry, though he’s sure Granger can’t trace any of that back to him. The obliviate on Clearwater took well, and no one knows the auror office was broken into - he barely touched anything! Besides, if Granger does suspect something, Tom can blackmail her about the reports she took home.

He could sway a court into finding her guilty. He knows a lot of people in high up places.

Still, it’s unnerving. She keeps asking him bizarre questions like, “Do you prefer coffee or tea?” or, “How come you like the canteen so much now?” or, “Have you seen the picture I keep in my wallet? It’s of me, Harry, and Ron?”, or, “Are you coming to the ministry Halloween party?”

The answer to that last one is yes. It’s where Fudge’ll announce his promotion. Granger doesn’t know that, but she does know that ministry parties provide fantastic networking opportunities and of course Tom would be going, which is why he snaps, “Unless you’ve checked the draft for the public enquiry into leaky cauldron bottoms, Granger, you shouldn’t be chatting.”

Being nice to Granger is wearing on him.

She mutters something about how unfair it is that she’s doing Weasley’s work while he’s out with Fudge, and Tom ignores her. She should try being more personable.

Harry doesn’t visit the canteen that week. Tom also doesn’t spot him on his morning coffee runs. It’s strange because Tom knows Harry’s attending his auror training (he uses Clearwater to check the register). It’s silly, but it feels like Harry is hiding from him.

Does he hate Tom enough to do that?

Tom thinks about Harry a lot. Thinks about those angry, green eyes, and that shy smile, and that creeping, pink flush. He thinks other thoughts too – those books are putting ideas in his head. Ideas of kissing, and sex, and blowjobs.

He hasn’t thought much of these things before. Perhaps when he was thirteen and believed he should think about these things, before he realised they didn’t interest him.

Harry interests him.

On Friday evening he goes to Harry’s house. It’s in Porthwyn, in Cornwall, which Tom figures out by sneaking a peak in Granger’s purse so he can apparate there instead of flooing into their kitchen. He doesn’t do anything creepy (like knock on the door). Instead, he watches Harry, Granger, and Weasley laugh and drink butterbeer in the lounge.

Tom doesn’t understand it: isn’t Harry angry with them? Didn't they argue? Aren’t they not friends anymore? When Tom’s allies disappoint him, he curses them, or ignores them for a month to teach them a lesson. Sometimes both. Maybe Harry’s laughter is false? At this distance, Tom can’t tell.

That night, for the first time, the gap in the bed beside Tom feels empty.

“What are you wearing?” Granger asks on Monday.

Tom raises an eyebrow above his parchment. “My uniform?”

“No,” she says, rolling her eyes. He’s allowed her to get too comfortable. “To the party on Friday!”

“I’m busy, Granger. Ask me next week.”

There’s a silence, and Tom smiles, thinking he’s won. Then, Granger appears right beside him, leaning on his desk.

“Go away.”

“No,” she says. She plucks the parchment out from under his quill and scans it. “This is preparation for the next International Confederation of Wizards meeting. That’s not until next year, Tom!”

“Preparation,” he says, snatching the parchment back. “I know when it is.”

“My point is it’s not so urgent you can’t have a conversation.”

“Perhaps I simply don’t want to have a conversation with you, Granger. You’re not that interesting.”

For some reason, she grins wildly. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“You don’t like me. I mean, I knew you didn’t like me - I didn’t think you liked anyone. But then you’ve been acting so strangely for the past month-”

“-No I haven’t-”

“Yes, you have. I’m not an idiot. And you don’t like me, do you?”

“Go away,” Tom repeats. He picks up his quill.

Granger tilts her head. “Do you have any friends?”

“I spent all weekend in Yorkshire with Rowle and Dolohov.”

“Really? Is that why you refer to them by their surnames?”

“That’s for your benefit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know who Thorfinn and Antonin are. Their names crop up often enough at work. It's odd, how you call everyone by their surname.”

“Go away,” Tom says again. He’s repeating himself. He hates repeating himself. And Granger is being fucking annoying. He wants to curse her. He won’t. He’s at work. It’s a terrible idea. But he wants to.

“Come to ours,” she says, “To get ready before the office party. We’ll have some drinks-”

She breaks off, a squeak escaping her lips as Tom stands, blood rushing, getting into her space. His wand is in his hand; he doesn’t remember drawing it.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, and he hears how his voice drops lower, dangerous.

Granger’s chin juts up. This is why she was a stupid Gryffindor, not a clever Ravenclaw or a cunning Slytherin.

“You want to come, don’t you?” She says bravely. “Even though you don’t like me. Is there someone else you like, Tom?”

She is playing with fire. Tom snaps.

“Why the fuck would I want to come to your stupid, little house full of blood traitors and mudbloods?”

There’s a pathetic, strangled noise from the back of her throat. Tom thinks she might cry. Good.

“You can’t-”

“I can say whatever I please. Ninety per-cent of the Wizengamot seats are hereditary, Granger. Do you really think your foolish, mudblood ideas will gain any traction there? Don’t be naive. Those with power are the ones most inclined to maintain the status quo.”

“That’s- just- stop!” She splutters, red. “You’re changing the subject!”

“To something less in-”

“I know you like Harry!”

Tom stares at her.

“Why can’t you just ask him out like a normal, bloody person?”

“Harry hates me,” Tom says, unable to stop his traitorous mouth.

Granger frowns. “Harry, what? What are you on about? I already told you that wasn’t true!”

“You lied.”

"I- Not really. I suppose I didn't tell the truth about why he's weird around you."

Tom continues to stare. He feels hollow again, and the hollowness is growing, like a tree rotting from the inside. “Tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have to, Tom – it’s bloody obvious that he has a crush on you! I thought you were good at reading people!”

Tom is good at reading people. He had to learn to be. Had to learn how to fit in, to appear normal. He is good at it.

Why, then, is something about Harry tearing apart his edges? Why can he not see or think? Why does he feel these snatches of soaring happiness that suddenly vanish, leaving him tumbling into a bottomless ocean? He hates it. He misses making the smartest decision, never doubting himself, knowing his goals. And now… this. The hollowness.

The fear.

Harry likes him.

For some reason, that makes everything worse.

Tom leaves. He doesn’t care that Granger yells after him that he’s a prick. Let her tell Harry. She should tell Harry. She should scare him off.

He doesn’t go into work on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. Fudge sends him a ‘Get Well Soon!’ card. Tom lies on the hard sofa in his boring, damp, small, empty apartment, staring at the ceiling. He tries reading a book. He tries practising magic. He tries torturing a spider. Nothing makes him feel better.

He wants Harry.

Perfect, fiery, Harry.

His Harry.

It should be simple. Tom knows how to make people love him, and perhaps Harry already does. He can fake smiles and laughs, can forge false connections, can lie and manipulate. Why is it so hard to apply those same skills to Harry? He has to.

Tom wants Harry.

Tom gets what he wants.

He paces. He ponders. He steels himself.

Friday gives him a headache. He’s back in the office - the party's tonight, Fudge needs him there, Tom's career needs him there - and Granger keeps looking like she wants to say something, then not. It’s making him ill, so he spends as much of the day as possible with Weasley (Percy), which is something he’s never done before. It doesn't improve his headache.

At the end of the day, he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s even paler than usual and his hair isn’t sitting right. He splashes cold water over his face, dries it, then stands straight and smiles at himself. It’s so clearly fake. How can no one else tell?

It doesn’t matter. Today, and everyday onwards, falsehoods are what he needs.

He meets Granger in the corridor outside their office. “Are you ready?”

Startled, she says, “For what?”

“I recall an invitation, Granger.”

“An inv… you want to come?”

“Yes. I’d like to spend more time with Harry. I believe that was your point.”

She looks slightly aghast. “Well… yes, um. I don’t know that… I don’t think you should date him.”

“Are you his guardian?”

“No, but-”

“Then I fail to see how it’s any of your business.”

“I’m his friend,” Granger says hotly. “Remember those? I’m looking out for him. You acted horribly the other day, and I don’t think Harry should be with anyone mean. No matter what they look like. He deserves better.”

Tom looks at the tiled floor. He knows how to do this. “I’m sorry, Granger – Hermione. I… let my emotions get the better of me and spoke in anger. Truthfully, my feelings for Harry have taken me by surprise and my actions have not entirely been rational. I only wish the best for him; if you sincerely believe our relationship will be detrimental, then I will pursue it no further.”

Crossing her arms, Granger huffs. “That tactic doesn't work on me. I’m not one of your politician friends, Tom.”

Tom gives her the shy smile he practised yesterday. “Technically, I think you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but the ire ebbs. She’s pleased: Granger doesn’t make friends easily. “Fine,” she says, turning and striding towards the lifts, “But be nice, else I’m kicking you out.”

Tom grins.

This time, Granger floos ahead to give the others warning. A few moments later, Tom follows her through.

The cottage kitchen is just as he remembers, with the array of stained tea towels and mismatched mugs, though fake cobwebs now dangle from the rafters and there’s a carved pumpkin on the table. It winks at him. Weasley (Ron) is there, and Harry too; he gives Tom a cautious look that immediately interferes with Tom’s plan to stay calm and collected. The hollowness creeps back in.

“Do you like risotto?” Harry asks after Granger hangs his cloak over the back of a chair. It takes Tom a moment to register the question.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to cook it?”

“Not exactly.”

“I can show you,” Harry says. He’s nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but he’s talking, and isn’t staring at the floor so it’s progress.

Briefly, the four of them make idle chatter. Mostly, Granger and Weasley talk as Harry gathers ingredients and Tom stands around awkwardly. He’s never been so aware of the space his body takes up. These ceilings are much too low.

Once Granger seems satisfied Tom’s behaving himself, she says brightly, “I’m going to get changed out of these work clothes,” and makes for the door.

“Good for you,” says Weasley, wrestling with a packet of biscuits.

The look Granger shoots him is withering.

Sensibly, Weasley abandons the biscuits on the countertop and mutters, “Oh, yeah, need to, um, iron my hat,” then scuttles after Granger.

Finally, he and Harry are alone.

There’s an odd sort of tension in the air, heady and thick. They’re watching each other, curious, careful, waiting to see who makes the first move.

It’s Harry. He backs toward the door and pulls it to, then casts a quick silencing charm, all without taking his eyes off Tom. It’s strange, but Tom enjoys the unconventional, and the silencing charm is prudent given how much of a nosy snoop Granger is.

Harry’s holding his wand.

“Hullo,” says Tom, softer. It isn’t the most interesting thing to say, but it’s the only word his brain supplies.

Those eyes are so lovely, gazing up at Tom. Swirling, green pools tinged with caution.

“Expelliarmus,” says Harry.

Tom’s wand clatters to the kitchen floor, rolling to a stop by Harry’s socked feet. He doesn’t bend to pick it up, he stays frozen, wand pointed at Tom’s chest.

“Let’s talk about this like adults,” Harry says.

“Yes,” Tom agrees. He wasn’t the one who’d cast a spell. Normally, being disarmed would irk him, but Harry looks so beautiful that Tom might be able to forgive him. Just this once.

“You’ve been following me.”

“I… have,” says Tom. Lying would get them off on the wrong foot. Besides, isn’t stalking romantic? Tom’s read that in a book somewhere. “How did you know?”

“I’m an auror. Training to be an auror. And you weren’t very subtle.”

Tom frowns. “Yes I was.”

“Not really. Um, Hermione says you don’t like coffee.”

“Oh.”

They watch each other. Harry’s still on edge, still griping the wand. Perhaps this is how he best communicates? He is most confident when he fights. It’s an odd quirk, though not a bad one. Tom can get used to it.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry says. “As long as it was a, y’know, a one-time thing. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Tom smiles. He doesn’t think stalking is against wizarding law, not if Harry isn’t kicking up a fuss about it, but it’s nice to hear Harry’s willing to keep his secrets. Tom has lots of secrets.

“I appreciate that, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry says, the wand lowering ever so slightly. “So, you’re going to stop following me?”

“I don’t know that I need to anymore.”

“No,” Harry says. “No, you don’t. I promise.”

Tom smiles again. There’s still that hollow feeling, that… fear that Harry might run away screaming the moment he peeks behind Tom’s many masks, yet now there’s something else too. A sapling, growing in the darkness, struggling for the light.

Hope.

Harry wets his lips. Tom wants to kiss them.

“I just…” Harry says. The wand lowers further. “I just don’t understand how you found out.”

“I suppose you weren’t very subtle,” Tom says, repeating Harry’s words from earlier. It’s meant to be a joke, but Harry’s face falls. Quickly, Tom backtracks. “No, I meant - I didn’t realise that you… uh, Granger told me.”

That doesn’t work at all. Harry turns ashen. “Hermione told you?!”

“I suppose that is her first name.”

“Fuck! But I didn’t tell her! I swear! And why would she-”

“Harry, it’s okay,” Tom says, stepping slowly towards him. “You don’t need to panic.”

Behind his glasses, Harry’s eyes are very wide. He presses back against the door. Tom doesn’t entirely understand why.

“I’m glad she told me,” Tom says, using his best calm voice, taking another step closer. “I was going insane, I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Harry quickly says. “I wanted to talk to you about it. I wanted to understand. I didn’t tell Hermione, I promise. I don’t get how she found out. I’ll convince her not to go to the aurors.”

Tom’s so close now he can reach out and touch Harry, tuck a stray strand of black hair behind his ears, press a finger to his pink lips. His brain still isn’t working properly - he knows that because it takes him far longer than it should’ve done to realise he has no idea what Harry’s talking about.

He pauses. “The… aurors?”

Harry nods. “We can figure everything out.”

“Is… Is this about the stalking?”

“What?” Harry asks. He looks as confused as Tom feels. “Um, no… I mean, I won’t mention that either! I followed you around too, so it’s only fair.”

“You did?”

Harry flushes. It’s very charming, how the pink stains his neck. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t a danger to anyone else.”

Harry’s looking up at him with those bright, pretty, earnest eyes. It gives Tom pause. “Why would I be a danger?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry says, laying a hand on Tom’s arm. The touch shoots warmth along his veins and he shivers. “Sorry!” Hastily, Harry removes the arm and tucks it in the space between his back and the door. His other hand still holds the wand, Tom can feel it pressing into his abdomen.

Harry wets his lips again. “It’s just… from my perspective… I didn’t know why you did what you did and whether you’d do it to anyone else… I’ve felt a similar way about my aunt and uncle before - not that I did… that. But I think I understand why you did and… if you ever want to talk…”

Very, very softly, Tom asks, “What do you think I did, Harry?”

Harry swallows. Tom watches the bob of his throat.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“I think I have to,” Tom breathes.

Up close, Harry’s so beautiful. Tom can count every eyelash, can watch every breath fall past his lips, can smell tea clinging to Harry’s soft, woollen jumper; tea mixed with something sweet and spiced.

“I know you killed your father.”

Tom freezes.

And then, he panics.

Chapter Text

Tom takes Harry by surprise, grabbing the wand jammed between them and cruelly twisting it free of his grip. It’s an advantage Tom needed because already Harry is hooking a leg around his own, ruthlessly shoving at his shoulders to twist him off balance.

Tom stumbles, one hand clutching for Harry’s waist, the other tightening around the wand and, as they fall together, Tom apparates them.

Home.

It’s the first place he thinks of. They land in a heap on Tom’s grimy carpet, a tangle of limbs and fuck - Tom’s hand hurts like hell. The wand slips from his grip. Did he splinch-

Already Harry’s squirming, fighting like a caged animal with teeth and nails, and Tom’s forced to try and pin him. Though Harry’s technique is better, Tom’s taller and stronger, plus he knows a little wandless magic: ropes curl around Harry’s wrist, yanking it to the floor.

Harry snarls. There’s a jolt, magic flashing through Tom’s veins, contracting his muscles, limbs spasming. The pain isn’t unbearable, but it’s unexpected and he cries out.

“Sorry!” Harry gasps, even as he’s kicking Tom off him, scrabbling under the sofa for the wayward wand, one hand still roped to the ground.

If Tom enjoyed watching Harry duel, fighting him is something else. Inspired, he yanks Harry’s ankle, sending his own magic coursing through Harry’s leg, eliciting a yelp and a kick, though Harry’s fingers still stretch for the wand. Tom dives, hand closing around Harry’s, and pain shoots up his arm.

There’s a lot of blood. It’s a brilliant red, painted over his and Harry’s skin like an abstract landscape of a dying sun. Then, Tom realises that he’s missing a finger: the index on his left hand.

Harry realises too.

“Fuck!” he exclaims. “Are you o-”

Tom grabs the wand first and stuns him.

Harry falls limp.

Holding the wand hurts. It doesn’t sit right without the index finger, and the hilt is slick with blood. Panting, Tom switches the wand to his non-dominant hand and glances down at Harry.

He lies face-first on Tom’s blood-stained carpet, one wrist tangled in fraying ropes. This is… not good.

Panting, he collapses at Harry’s side, back against the sofa, staring at the unconscious man beside him. He doesn’t like the ropes, so Tom vanishes them – it takes effort, Harry’s wand struggling against him. And then… Harry’s messy, black hair is right there. Tentatively, he touches a strand; it’s soft, softer than he thought. Tilting his head back, one hand in Harry’s hair, his breaths steady.

Pain.

Ah, yes. His finger.

Wincing, Tom peeks at his injury.

The finger’s cut clean just below the knuckle, and blood spurts from the wound, making Tom queasy: he hates blood. When he disposed of his family, he used the killing curse. Simple, quick, clean.

And, somehow, Harry knows.

Tom moves suddenly, stumbling to the kitchen, to the bottled murtlap on the shelf behind Harry’s Gryffindor mug. He dumps the whole thing into a bowl and submerges his hand, hissing through his teeth. It soothes instantly and Tom leans on the counter, head falling into his other palm.

He has to go back to Harry’s kitchen, and soon. His wand and cloak are there, his finger too. Granger would kick up a fuss about waylaid body parts.

Also, he just kidnapped Harry.

(Accidentally).

He can see the sleeping man from here, sprawled awkwardly on the floor.

Tom’s father, dead.

Harry knows.

How, Tom doesn’t understand. He’s never told a soul about them: his muggle family. ‘Three muggles’ - that’s all the Daily Prophet published in their tiny, three sentence article. ‘Three muggles’ - that’s all the incident report Tom had stolen during his ministry internship had said.

Wizards didn't really care about muggles.

They’d thrown his uncle in Azkaban and called it a day.

… Azkaban.

Harry’s been there, hasn’t he? One of his auror field trips earlier this month. But Tom performed such a good memory charm on old Morfin! His uncle wouldn’t snitch, and no one would go digging around in that mad codger's brain unless they knew what to search for.

Harry must’ve figured it out some other way.

Perhaps the how isn’t relevant.

What is relevant, reflecting on their conversation in the kitchen, is that Harry’s known for a few weeks minimum and he hasn’t told anyone, not even Granger or Weasley. It’s something, at least. Or, it would’ve been something, if Tom hadn’t just fucked everything up.

How can Harry forgive him now?

He removes his hand from the bowl, wincing as the pain jolts back. First things first, he needs his wand.

Using Harry’s, he apparates (carefully!) back to the cottage kitchen. There’s no Granger or Weasley yet, but it’s only a matter of time. He summons his wand from under the fridge and gathers his cloak from the chair then looks hastily around for his finger. Nothing. The summoning spell doesn’t work either, even after switching back to his own wand.

There’s a flash of ginger in his periphery.

Tom spins to spot that devilish orange cat sitting on the mat by the back door, tail flitting to and fro as it eyes him in amusement. Blood smears its whiskers.

“Fuck you,” Tom tells it. He considers murder, the thing would deserve nothing less for its sin of consuming Tom’s flesh. The killing curse, a transfiguration, and no one would be any the wiser.

Footsteps on the stairs. Tom glares at the cat; its pink tongue licks its lips. “One day,” Tom promises. He means it.

Footsteps in the lounge. No time. He conjures a quill and parchment and, unable to write without his finger, charms the quill to hurriedly scratch, ‘Going to Tom’s – see you at the party’. He doesn’t know what Harry’s handwriting looks like, so takes his best guess at generic, untidy, boy scrawl. Then, he vanishes the blood he's dripped onto the tiles, and the blood smeared on the cat’s mouth and apparates just as the footsteps reach the door.

Bless Harry for his forethought with the silencing spell.

Back in his own kitchen, Tom dives for the murtlap bowl, sighing in relief as his wound sinks beneath the oily, bloody surface.

Tom thinks. Hard. There’s an hour until the Halloween party, until his promotion announcement. He can’t skip it. Harry can’t either - his  friends will expect him there. Granger won’t be happy with that note.

Tom thinks she won’t be happy with that note. Is Harry the type to rush off to attractive strangers’ houses after a five-minute conversation?

Is he?

Tom doesn’t know. He eyes the sleeping man, jealousy curling in his stomach. How many people has Harry dated? How many has he slept with? Then, a realisation:

Harry doesn’t fancy him.

That’s just what Granger assumed from Harry’s agitated, avoidant behaviour. Granger was wrong! Tom’s earlier assumption – that Harry hated him – had been correct. Or, closer to correct than Granger’s guess. Tom was good at reading people. He knew it!

His triumph at being right does nothing to offset the hollowness.

Why does he feel this way when he believes Harry likes him and feel this way when he believes Harry hates him? It’s horrible. He misses the blankness of his emotions before this whole mess started.

What to do? He can’t imperius Harry – he’s an auror (in training); he can throw off the curse, Tom read that in his file. He could kill Harry... No. That’s not an option. It hurts, the thought of those flashing, green eyes dimming. No, not that. Harry’s his. Tom could obliviate him. That might work, depending on how long Harry’s known Tom’s secret. Obliviates are complex things: the more one’s thought about something, the more damage is done when it’s torn from their mind.

But... Tom is talented at the mind arts. If anyone can do it, he can.

It’s decided then. He’ll obliviate Harry, carefully. He can’t turn his future husband into a vegetable. It’ll take a long time to tease apart the memories and edit them – hours – so he’ll have to do it after the party. Perhaps in the process he can subtly suggest to Harry’s mind what great marriage material Tom is, then he can ask Harry out next week to guaranteed success.

Excellent. Tom makes the best plans.

He summons dittany, bandages, and tape from his potion’s cupboard and gets to work on his finger. He’ll cast an illusion tonight and see about regrowing one over the weekend. There’ll be a spell or potion for that somewhere. Or he could make something up. He’s talented like that.

Done – the pain numbed and bleeding stemmed – Tom wanders over to Harry and looks at him. Leaving him face-first on the floor feels wrong, so Tom levitates him onto the sofa. He pauses, then tucks a cushion under his head. Then he conjures a blanket. Then he removes Harry’s glasses and duplicates them, placing the originals on the coffee table and the copy in his pocket. Now it just looks like Harry’s sleeping.

Perfect.

Tom sits on the floor and watches him a while. There’s something peaceful about the slow rise and fall of his chest, something that tugs on Tom’s insides, something that makes him feel worse.

In his bedroom, he changes slowly, part of him tempted by the idea of grabbing Harry and apparating somewhere nice, like the south of France, his plans for world domination be damned. Since when had Harry become more important than them?

Tom’s single-minded obsessions. His greatest strength and weakness in equal parts.

He doesn’t wear a ridiculous costume, just an expensive set of black dress robes with black boots. Harry’s wand he tucks into an inside pocket.

In his potions’ cupboard is a bottle of polyjuice, stored for special occasions just like these. Gently, Tom plucks a hair from Harry’s head and adds it. The thick liquid fizzes, turning a brilliant, sparkling gold. Of course it does. It’s Harry.

While he’s there, Tom checks Harry’s pockets. Old sweet wrappers, tissues, his ministry card, and a pocket knife. There’s a small magical signature coming off the knife, so Tom places it on the kitchen counter, far out of Harry’s reach. He conjures a thin, metal chain around Harry’s wrist, magically securing the end to the floor. Hopefully, Harry’ll sleep until Tom returns, but stuns last a variable amount of time depending on the person and strength of the spell, and Tom doesn’t want to take any chances.

As a final thought, he rummages through his cupboards and fridge. There’s not much, but he finds a banana, a box of energy-boosting granola, and leftover tomato pasta from two nights ago.

Tom places them all within Harry’s reach, in case he wakes up hungry.

After one last look at Harry, he floos to Malfoy Manor. Narcissa Malfoy’s in the grand entryway adjusting the clasp on her embroidered, deep green cloak. She doesn’t look all too surprised to see him.

“Draco?” Tom enquires.

“In his room.”

Tom heads upstairs without breaking his stride.

Noises emanate from the younger Malfoy’s bedroom. Giggling, mostly. Still, Tom doesn’t bother to knock.

When he enters, Daphne Greengrass leaps up from the pouffe by the fire, butterbeer in hand, scandalised. Her and Malfoy are both fully clothed, so Tom hasn’t walked in on anything too personal, but her expression is justified given Malfoy’s engagement to Pansy Parkinson.

“Get out,” he tells the girl, and she wastes no time in obeying.

“Sorry,” Malfoy mumbles when the door swings closed. Though him and Draco are closer in age, Tom much prefers Lucius; Draco is unhelpfully fearful.

“As long as it doesn’t leave our circle, I don’t care,” Tom says. He holds out the polyjuice potion. “Drink this.”

It’s a testament to how well he has this family wrapped around his finger that Malfoy swallows dutifully, not questioning a thing. The sight of Harry before him is a drastic improvement.

“Um…” Malfoy says, catching a glimpse of himself in his mirror and squinting. Tom hands over the duplicated glasses. He has some a vague recollection that Malfoy and Harry didn’t get on all that well at school. It doesn’t matter now.

“I’m going to imperio you,” Tom says, “So you don’t mess anything up.”

“Right,” says Malfoy. With the imperio, he stops shaking and is a lot more tolerable. Just in case Granger gets to him for an interrogation, Tom gives him Harry’s wand.

The Malfoy-Harry trails him through the fireplace to the bustling ministry, archways decorated with orange and black streamers, shimmering cobwebs adorning the black tiles. Tom doesn’t want him there for so long that Malfoy somehow puts his foot in it, but it’s important he be seen by Granger and Weasley. Luckily, Tom’s witnessed many of his old Hogwarts acquaintances enter relationships and he understands that these early moments lean towards obsession and infatuation. He doesn’t think it’ll look too suspicious if Harry stays close, and if they leave together early.

Though… perhaps he shouldn't stay too close? Should he make people think they’re together? What if any stray friends of Harry's bring this party up to the real Harry after Tom’s obliviated him? And that’s not to mention that he hasn’t spoken with his Death Eaters yet.

Of course, they’ll respect Tom’s choice of spouse either way (except Bella, perhaps), even if Harry does fall into the ‘blood traitor’ camp. Tom won’t give them another option-

Hang on. Fuck!

Granger and Weasley.

They’re a problem.

A big problem.

They will definitely, most absolutely bring this evening up with Harry! Why didn’t Tom think about this? Will he need to obliviate them too? He could kill them? (Harry might not appreciate that). Why are none of his plans working? The atrium is filling up with colleagues and acquaintances and enemies (he spies Dumbledore across the dance floor) and Tom’s committed so many crimes he could live out his life in Azkaban thrice over. He stole ministry documents, he’s used unforgivables, he’s kidnapped Harry and chained him to his floor!

(Of course, Tom’s done two of those things before - it’s not the morals he’s worried about, it’s that he’s usually so careful). He has his whole political career mapped out-

“Tom, there you are, my boy! Are you feeling any better? You still look a bit peaky-”

Fudge. Tom tries to smile at him, tries to nod along, to offer platitudes and niceties, to explain that even powerful wizards like him get the flu once in a while, but it’s like every thought comes out scattered, spaghetti sieved through a colander, and he’s not thinking straight because he doesn’t know what to do about Granger and Weasley, and who are these people he’s with, and where did Malfoy-Harry go?

Subtly (perhaps it's not that subtle), Tom cranes his neck, trying to spot the familiar crop of messy, black hair as Fudge introduces him to two of the elder members of the Wizengamot, Fawley and Selwyn, even though Tom’s met them before, charmed them over dinner and drinks in magnificent halls. Not that Fudge knows that.

Reaching for his mental link to Malfoy, he finds it gone. He’s lost focus and the imperio has dropped. When did that happen? Who gave him this goblet of mead? It doesn’t sit right with his missing finger.

Is his illusion still up?

He chances a glance down as Fudge states importantly that he’ll be making his Halloween speech in half an hour, winking at Tom. The illusion is gone too.

Has anyone seen?

Surreptitiously, Tom shifts the goblet to his other hand, sliding his injured one into his pocket. He needs to recast it.

Promising Fudge he’ll be back in time for the big speech, Tom excuses himself, beelining for the bathroom, squinting left and right to search for Malfoy-Potter.

“Tom!”

Granger. He almost bumps into her.

“What happened? Is Harry around?”

“He’s here somewhere,” Tom says, trying to keep his voice steady, to not panic. Malfoy was a good enough liar not to give the game away… right?

“Are you two… did you talk?”

She’s wearing a frumpy, burgundy robe adorned with white ruffles and she looks ridiculous.

“Yes,” Tom says, then, to distract her, “Who are you dressed as?”

“Can’t you guess?” She doesn’t give him time to answer - not that he wants to. “I’m Artemisia Lufkin!”

“Ah. Obviously. Excuse me…”

He pushes past her.

Granger. Confused and suspicious.

She’s going to find out.

She’s going to get him fired, and then sent to Azkaban. Everyone will know about his muggle family; what Tom did to them.

(Tom can avoid Azkaban, of course, but his political career will be over, he’ll have to take a different tack). The past three years, three careful, tedious years, will be for naught. A waste.

The bathrooms are busy too. Tom finds an empty stall and locks himself in.

Recasts the illusion with shaking hands.

Deep breaths.

He’s clever and powerful and so, so smart, he can think himself out of any situation. He just needs to clear his mind and thin-

Love potion.

His eyes snap open. See? He just needed to trust in his genius.

He doesn’t have one at home - what use would he, Tom Riddle, have for a love potion? He’ll brew his own later; tonight, he knows where to find one.

Feeling much better, he strides from the bathroom, even pausing to compliment Ms Edgecombe on her Nosferatu outfit. By some miracle of Merlin, he finds the Malfoy-Harry pressed awkwardly to the wall in the atrium, the large space now housing the deafening Siren Sisters and many twirling witches and wizards. For some reason, Malfoy’s changed cloak, the hood up, eyes scanning the crowd.

“Draco,” Tom says into his ear, and the boy jumps. Weasley (Ron) has spotted them from across the room. He waves cheerily. “Go home, wait out the transformation. You’re no longer needed.”

Tom makes sure to smile his best smile at the false Harry and touch his shoulder so any onlookers know they’re dating now – it’s surprisingly easy to smile at Harry – then strides to the fireplaces, floos up to the surface entrance, and apparates to Knockturn Alley.

It’s Halloween so naturally Moribund’s Maladies is closed – everyone’s off celebrating – but it’s not like Tom was planning on paying anyway. He modifies the wards and steps into the pungent interior of the contraband potions shop.

The love potions are kept in a dusty, locked cabinet behind the counter. Even in Knockturn, they’re considered dangerous. Tom unlocks the cabinet with ease and takes two doses; they’ll last a week or so which’ll give him time to brew his own (better) potions.

He uncorks them. There’s that musky parchment scent – the one that reminds him of libraries and the heady rush of dark magic – and... there’s something else too. Rich and homely: milky tea. And something sugary: treacle.

Harry.

Tom pauses. The hollowness expands. The change in smell shouldn’t surprise him. Despite their name, love potions aren’t really love potions: they spawn desire, infatuation, obsession. Tom is obsessed with Harry.

He shakes his head to clear it, then adds one of his hairs to both potions and half-runs home. Treacle and tea linger on the air.

He could’ve apparated, but it’s not far, and he doesn’t want to wake or startle Harry. And... perhaps he’s delaying the inevitable. The love potions aren’t a long-term solution – he can get Harry to fall for him, Tom’s not his mother – they’re only to smooth over this bumpy transition period. Harry will be his, actually his, soon.

Tom knocks. There’s no reply so Harry’s probably still stunned. He opens the door, and strolls-

Harry’s gone.

Tom rushes to the (now destroyed) sofa, his food offerings untouched. The chain is cut clean through. That penknife he put on the kitchen counter is gone too. As Tom expected, Harry can’t wandlessly summon, but as Tom didn’t expect, Harry can dismantle his coffee table, shove one leg into a sofa cushion and use that to hook the penknife.

It’s a very muggle solution.

Tom should’ve expected it. Harry was raised with muggles, after all.

And how did that penknife cut through his chain?

All the panic Tom worked so hard to contain comes flooding back. His bedroom door is open too, as is his wardrobe.

Tom stares, and then (for the first time in his life) feels like a fucking idiot.

Why would Malfoy have changed cloak?!

He apparates back to the ministry. The party’s in full swing and the music is loud. People keep trying to talk to him and Tom ignores them, even though Fudge’s speech must be in less than five minutes, frantically scanning the dancing witches and wizards, searching, searching.

There! He’s with Granger and Weasley by one of the many tables heaving under crisps, pumpkin pasties, and treacle tart. Tom beelines for them, not pausing even when he bumps into Umbridge, sending her tottering, wine sloshing, straight into Mafalda Hopkirk.

“Harry,” he says, fingers closing around the man’s bicep – around the dark cloak he now realises is his. His hand hurts but he swallows the pain.

Harry looks up at him and his green eyes are very wide. He’s afraid. Tom’s made him afraid.

Weasley grins, like he knows their secrets. “Where did you two run off to earlier then?”

“Um,” Harry says, glancing at Tom.

He’s not a good liar. It’s fine, Tom’s good enough for the both of them. He smirks at Weasley. “You don’t really expect a response to that, do you?”

It’s light and casual and easily good enough to convince Weasley they had sex, except, Harry’s making the most obvious alarmed expression. As Weasley frowns like an idiot, Tom tightens his grip on Harry’s arm, pain spasming through his hand. Doesn’t Harry understand? It’s better for everyone that he play along. Tom’s a bit disappointed, he thought Harry smarter than this.

Smile tight, Granger says, “Tom, can I speak with you a moment? Work thing, sorry.”

She’s clever, trying to split them up. Much too obvious though.

“I’ve had some alcohol, G- Hermione. Can’t we discuss this on Monday? Or owl me tomorrow if it’s urgent.”

“Right,” she says, face set, eyes narrowing.

Ah. Tom never ignores work things. Time to play it up. He slides his hand down Harry’s arm, intertwining their fingers. One of Harry’s brushes his bloodied, bandaged stump and Tom inhales sharply, clutching Harry tighter as he tries to pull away. He twists towards Harry, kissing the top of his messy, black hair to hide his pained expression, inhaling expensive, citrus aftershave.

“Sorry,” Tom says to Granger, “I’ve been so preoccupied of late. I don’t mean to neglect my work. I assure you I’ll be back to normal on Monday.”

“Consider me assured,” Granger says thinly.

Weasley glances rapidly between them, confused.

“I promised to introduce Harry to Ludo Bagman,” Tom says. “They’re in the midst of organising the match schedule for the upcoming Quidditch season and he may be able to procure priority season tickets-”

“Oh, cool!” exclaims Weasley, confusion forgotten. “Can you introduce me too? Hermione’s never offered.” He shoots her a glare.

She’s too busy frowning suspiciously at Tom to notice.

Before Tom can answer, Harry says quietly, “I’d just like to go with Tom...”

“Oh... right,” Weasley says, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, fine...”

Harry tugs on his hand.

“Are you sure, Harry?” Granger asks. She’s so nosy.

“Yes,” he says, louder this time. He tugs on Tom’s hand more insistently and Tom follows, leaving Granger and Weasley confused. He feels a bit confused too.

The song’s drawing to a close. There’s Umbridge again, right in his face.

“Cornelius is expecting you by the stage,” she simpers. “Congratulations, Tom, you’re the perfect choice for Junior Undersecretary. I told Cornelius myself - I said, ‘just you wait and see, that young man’s going some-‘”

“A moment,” Tom says tersely, cutting her off, anxiety gnawing his insides. Any second Harry could open his mouth and spill Tom’s secrets and his entire empire, built brick by brick, could topple.

Ignoring her protests, he barges past her - it would take less than a minute to shove the love potion down Harry’s throat, then he’d find Fudge, accept the position that was his, the next step on his ladder to total ministry control.

Harry leads them away from the atrium, towards the darkened, emergency staircase. There’s a snogging couple – Abby Trunlow from the Department of Magical Transportation and Eric Munch, one of the security guards. They squeak and rush out – Abby’s married, so Tom files that information away for safe-

Harry yanks on his arm, going on tip-toe to whisper into Tom’s ear as the song comes to an end, “What’s going on?!”

In a flash, Tom has his wand to Harry’s chin, backing him into the stairwell. He doesn’t mean to be aggressive – it’s just a precaution. Their last encounter did end in a fight, and that was before Tom chained him to a sofa. Holding the wand in his left hand is painful, so Tom switches to his right.

“You’re the one who wished to speak alone, Harry. You tell me,” Tom says, fumbling in his pocket for the potion.

“Harry?” Harry repeats. “It’s me! Draco!”

Tom stares at him.

“What?!”

“I swear, it’s me-” he starts, and Tom immediately both believes him and feels a rush of gratitude because he knew his betrothed-to-be wasn’t an idiot.

He steps back, any desire to be close evaporating. “Why are you wearing my cloak?”

If possible, Malfoy’s eyes widen further. “This is yours?”

“Yes,” Tom snaps. “What’s happened? Where’s Harry?”

“He attacked me!” Malfoy-Harry exclaims, gesticulating in that very Malfoy-way. “I lost you and the curse dropped and I- I hid in the bathroom because I didn’t want to say anything wrong, but Potter followed me in and caught me off guard and he- he took his wand and told me to wear this cloak and go find his stupid friends or else he'd jinx me. I don’t understand why...”

He rambles on, and despite it all, the sound of the Siren Sisters welcoming Fudge on stage, Tom’s relentless anxieties, his world collapsing, Tom grins wildly. This is his Harry. Clever, unpredictable, powerful.

“... And he disappeared under that stupid invisibility-”

There’s a whoosh of air.

Tom throws up a shield just in time. Using the wrong hand, his angle’s off and it doesn’t cover Malfoy. The pureblood submits to the stunner, keeling over. It’s not much of a loss.

Tom whirls around, eyes darting around the empty, black stairwell, trying to tune out Fudge’s drone and listen. “Harry...” he says softly, heart beating fast. His palms feel clammy.

There’s a noise a few steps up from the atrium landing. Tom sweeps the area with an aguamenti, eyes straining to catch the point where the water hits something solid-

He spots it, but Harry knows his position’s compromised: there’s the flare of a spell and Tom’s on the defensive, shielding. He needs to get this away from the atrium, away from Fudge, away from the life Tom worked so hard to build, so he backs down the steps toward Level 9 as jinxes and hexes fly at him, bright, unrelenting. If he breaks the shield for an instant he’ll get hit.

Distance grows. The stairs end. He can’t hear Fudge anymore, and Tom’s so caught up in the fight, the thrill of it magnificent, that he doesn’t care about the stage, the speech. How could politics be better than this? How could anything be better than this?

There’s a door at his back. Tom retreats through, slamming it closed, magically locking it, waiting.

It doesn’t hold Harry, of course. The instant it opens, Tom conjures a torrent of glowing, yellow paint. Harry shields, deflecting some but not all; splatters coat the hem of his invisibility cloak. Tom presses his advantage, firing off a number of curses.

Harry doesn’t block like Tom. Instead, he leaps and dodges out of the way, dancing himself into the open in a swirl of yellow paint. It’s a smart tactic: many of Tom’s curses would burn straight through a shield. Besides, Tom’s accuracy isn’t the best tonight.

He tries something else. Ropes spring from his wand, whipping down the long corridor towards the human-shaped smudge of paint. A tree springs up between them, growing from a sapling to a thick trunk faster than Tom can blink. The ropes snag on its branches.

“Stop!” Harry cries as Tom blights the tree, its leaves falling free, its bark splitting until the whole things turns to grey dust. “Can’t we talk?”

It’s a trick. It’s what Tom would do, in Harry’s position. Catch him off guard, then attack.

“Take your cloak off,” Tom says.

There’s a pause, then Harry’s head appears in space. He looks beautiful, flushed and panting, wild. Tom’s never wanted to kiss anyone as much as he wants to kiss Harry right now. He wants to hold him. It’s a hunger, a need.

He strides forward and Harry leaps back, transfiguring the tiled floor to mud. Tom’s feet sink a few inches and he stops.

Harry’s hand and wand stick out of the cloak. They point at Tom’s heart.

“You want to talk?" Tom asks, wand pointed back in turn. "Tell me how you found out."

"Okay," Harry pants. "Okay. My aunt," he says, which is not what Tom expects. He continues, words falling in a rush:

“She’s, uh, nosy. She read about it in a muggle paper and I recognised the name - your name. Maybe you don’t remember, but I was a few years below you at Hogwarts.” He catches his breath. “I- I thought Morfin did it. He’s your uncle, right? Marvolo - that’s your middle name. I thought maybe you didn’t know. The Daily Prophet never published the names of the muggles who died. I’m an orphan - like you - and, I - I guess I would’ve wanted someone to tell me.”

“Yet, you did not.”

“No.” His voice shakes, but his wand hand is steady and his weight’s over the balls of his feet, anticipatory. “I talked myself out of it. You’re quite, uh, intimidating. And you know so much, I thought, surely, you already knew and you’d hate me for overstepping.”

Tom only stares, so he says:

“Dumbledore. He’s a, er, family friend. Over time, I sort of heard things. About you. Things that made me wonder. Then when you and Hermione started working together, the way she described you... The people you’re friends with, some of the things they’ve done. In the auror office, people talk. And, then, a few weeks ago-”

“You visited Azkaban.”

“It was a very good memory charm!” Harry quickly says, the words freezing Tom’s insides. “But time and exposure to dementors can warp them; plus, I knew what I was looking for.” He pauses. “I’m sorry – I – I should’ve left it alone.”

“You should’ve done,” Tom says, mechanical, mind whirring.

“I swear,” Harry says, and there’s a hint of panic in his voice. “I don’t know what Hermione said, but I never told her! I get what it's like to have a difficult family. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Tom doesn’t think it’s a lie, but…

“Is that still true?” He asks. He wants to be closer, he wants to feel Harry’s hot breaths on his throat. “After-”

“After you chained me to your sofa?”

“Yes,” Tom says. “After that.”

Harry takes a shaky breath. “I... I don’t know.” That’s the truth. “Why did you do it?”

Tom wets his lips. “I panicked.”

It’s like a molotov cocktail breaks. There’s that green fire Tom saw in the canteen, roaring to life.

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Harry yells. His blazing eyes are trained on Tom’s wand; Tom wishes they’d focus on his face instead. “Stop lying and just talk to me - you already knew! You knew I knew about your family. That’s why you were following me!”

“No,” Tom says. “It wasn’t.”

Harry grits his teeth. “Right. Sure. So you stole my auror record for some leisure reading, then? Makes perfect sense. You just left that on your coffee table, by the way!”

“I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“I was a guest?!”

The conversation is no longer going the way Tom wants, and in the dim light he can’t see Harry’s face properly when they’re so far apart… he vanishes the mud.

The instant his wand moves, Harry’s shooting off spells again and Tom’s forced to shield. Tom gains ground: though Harry’s quick, Tom’s shield is strong, and Harry doesn’t seem to know any of the dark curses that can shatter them. One day, Tom’ll teach him.

A brilliant wall of fire erupts between them. It’s captivating magic, Harry’s magic, but it blocks Tom’s line of sight. He charms the scorching flames, turning them a glowing silver, and steps through. Their warmth tickles rather than burns.

Harry’s backed up against the wall, mouth set into a firm line, wand flashing.

Heart beating fast, over the roar of magic, Tom shouts, “I like you!”

Harry’s about to cast a spell – he freezes. “What?!”

The towering sliver flames shrink to a thin line at a flick of Tom’s wand, bathing the tiled corridor in a soft glow.

“I...” Tom tries. It’s a lot harder in the quiet, and Harry’s staring at him with those lovely, wide eyes. He swallows. “Why I followed you. I... like you.”

Harry just stares.

“Perhaps I didn’t go about it-”

“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” He shouts, a flush seeping over his neck.

“No,” Tom says quickly. “I mean, you’re not as clever as I am, but that’s o-”

“Oh, piss off!”

Harry’s wand arm lowers ever so slightly as he huffs, and Tom battles his instincts not to restart the fight, to exploit Harry’s distraction, to win. Instead, he goes against every screaming nerve in his body and does something stupid, because he just wants that suspicion clouding Harry’s face to go away.

He throws his wand at Harry’s feet.

Immediately, Tom regrets it and considers diving after the clattering wand, but that would expose his back, so he stays rooted to the spot and takes a steadying breath, meeting Harry’s eyes. He’s so pretty, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to his forehead, his lips parted, panting in exertion.

“Do...” Tom wets his lips. “Do you want to marry me?”

“No!”

“Oh,” Tom says.

Harry kicks his wand away and strides closer, hesitating just outside of Tom’s reach; he’s learnt his lesson from the kitchen. “Can you stop making fun of me?”

“I... I’m not making fun of you,” Tom says.

“You are! You convinced Ron and Hermione you were acting so creepy because you... fancy me or whatever but I know, Tom! I know you were following me because I know what you did to your family, so just cut the crap and we can talk frankly and you’ll see that you don’t have to... kill me or kidnap me or anything. I’ll keep your secret, I just need to know you won’t hurt anyone else!”

This is a unique problem for Tom. Usually, he lies and people lap it up. Never has he told the truth and had someone not believe him.

“Harry,” he begins, unconsciously shifting closer.

Harry takes a step back. Tom follows.

“Before this evening, I had no idea you knew about my father. You said yourself that you didn’t understand how I could’ve found out-”

“-You said Hermione told you!”

“No,” Tom says, trying not to sound impatient. “She doesn’t know. Do you really think she would’ve let us leave together if she knew?”

“I… suppose not,” Harry says.

“Right. Granger told me that you fancied me. I suppose that was a mis-”

Harry turns bright red. “She told you that?!”

“Yes. I thought you hat-”

“That traitor! I can’t believe her!”

“You... can’t?”

“I suppose that’s why you’re making fun of me then? She thought you liked me so told you I’ve had a crush on you basically since I was a first-year. God, why is she always meddling?”

Any other day of the week and Tom would jump on the opportunity to complain about Granger sticking her large nose where it doesn’t belong, but his brain gets stuck on the first part. He meets Harry’s blazing gaze, and for once they’re on the same page.

“You didn’t know that,” Harry says.

“She just said you like me now.”

“Right,” Harry says, running a hand through his very messy hair, reminding Tom how soft it feels. At least he seems to have forgotten about aiming his wand at Tom. “Yeah, cool.”

“What do I have to say to convince you I feel the same?” Tom asks. He moves closer. This time, Harry doesn’t back away.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just don’t get it – if you liked me, why didn’t you just ask me out? Did you think I’d say no?”

Tom cocks his head. “No, I knew you’d say yes.”

Harry snorts.

“You would've. I’m very attractive, and charming.”

“You haven’t been all that charming with me.”

“You... scramble my head,” Tom admits, and Harry frowns.

“So… why didn’t you ask me out?”

It’s not a question Tom wants to answer – he can feel the deep hollowness inside, that little spark of hope burning in its centre. Instead, he asks, “Why are you so determined to believe I can’t want you?”

Harry swallows, Tom watching his throat bob. “That’s... that’s obvious.” He gestures between them. “You’re, y’know, Tom Riddle, and I’m... me.”

Ah, Harry’s confidence problem.

“You have low self-esteem.”

“Alright,” Harry says, looking away. “You don’t have to put that quite so bluntly.”

“Harry,” Tom says, closing the last of the space between them, tucking a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. He feels Harry shiver, like he wants to pull away and lean closer all at once; it’s thrilling. “You’re…”

There are so many things he wants to say. That Harry’s volatile, exhilarating, that he pulses with life, that he makes Tom feel like he did when he was five, sitting alone in the orphanage garden watching a little, green snake slither out of the grass. That knowing Harry is like discovering magic all over again.

That knowing Harry makes Tom, who's never needed anyone, feel alone.

“You’re everything.”

Harry touches his arm and its like he’s holding a flame to Tom’s bare skin. “Why didn’t you ask me out, Tom?”

Tom swallows.

Harry brushes his arm again, eyes bright like he’s daring to hope. “Tell me,” he whispers.

Harry’s here. He’s real. He’s grounding him.

“I knew I could get you,” Tom breathes. “I knew I could make you fall in love with me. I knew I could have you by my side for as long as I wanted, but...”

Another breath.

“I didn’t know how to accomplish that without lying. Very few people know me, Harry, and those who do fear me.” He gazes into those vibrant pools of green, illuminated by the silver glow, speaking life into words he knows are true, even they’ve never been concrete before. “I don’t want you to fear me, yet I need you to know me.”

Part of him wants Harry to run, to leave Tom with the hollowness he can fill with pain and power. But when Harry smiles up at him, so earnest and innocent and sweet, and Tom’s heart shatters into seven pieces, he knows running was never an option. For either of them.  

“You’re scared of vulnerability,”  Harry whispers.

“I’m not scared of anything,” Tom says.

Harry just smiles. ‘Liar’ his pretty, green eyes sing. The expression fades. “I can’t promise I’ll always feel this way about you, Tom. This is only our second conversation and I wouldn’t say either of them have gone particularly well.”

“I did panic,” Tom says, “In the kitchen-”

“Okay,” Harry says. He ducks his head. “Maybe… you could apologise?”

“Is that a question?”

“Uh... it shouldn’t be. I’d appreciate an apology for the whole kidnapping thing.”

“Well,” Tom says, thinking. “At the time my actions made sense; I didn’t feel as though I had a choice. I am however regretful that they made you feel uncomfortable. I had hoped you would remain asleep until after the party.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t think that’s an apology.”

“No?”

He sighs, then pats Tom’s arm again. “It’s okay. We can work on that. You have a lot of issues, don’t you?”

“Possibly,” Tom says, “But I’m also very handsome and clever and I’ll give you the world, Harry, if only you ask for it.”

“That’s sweet,” Harry says. “Uh, I guess you should know that I stalked you for four years. At Hogwarts. And maybe a little at the ministry as well.”

Tom muses over this information. Insistent curiosity, obsession: traits they share. Tom’s not disappointed, not when he’s Harry’s obsession. A curl of delight  warms his abdomen.

“You did a good job. I didn’t realise; I thought it was only Dumbledore watching me.”

“Invisibility cloak,” Harry says. “Also this map – it doesn’t matter. How’s your hand, didn’t you hurt it?”

“Oh,” Tom says, holding up his injured hand up to the light so Harry can see. The new illusory finger must’ve disappeared some time ago and the bandages aren’t holding up well from the duel.

“Fuck!” Harry exclaims. “Shit! You need to go to the hospital!”

“It’s fine; it’s only a finger. I splinched it. I’ll grow it back over the weekend.” He smiles. “I’m very good at magic.”

“Okay,” Harry says weakly. He takes Tom’s hand and examines it; he’s not as squeamish as Tom is. Then, he presses a kiss to Tom’s palm, so lightly Tom might’ve imagined it, but Harry looks up at him with wide, nervous eyes and Tom knows he did not.

He presses closer until their chests touch, cupping Harry’s cheek with his good hand. “Can I kiss you?” He murmurs.

Harry nods.

Their lips meet in the middle.

Harry’s are warm and soft against his own, and Tom remembers that he’s not kissed anyone since he was fifteen, and that he doesn’t know how, and that books don’t help, but none of that matters because the sapling in Tom’s chest is blooming in the darkness, spilling forth golden light, and he doesn’t know whether it’ll live and grow, whether it’ll root him in place, whether it’ll burn and become nothing more than a smouldering pile of ash. It’s there now, and that’s what matters.

He’s not sure how much time passes, he and Harry pressed together, Harry’s stubble scratching his chin, Tom’s good hand tangled in his soft hair. Kissing is a lot nicer than Tom first thought.

There comes a noise: the stairwell door opening, and they pull apart.

It’s like the world stops – and not in a good way. Not in the way the world stopped when Harry kissed him. No, the world stops in the way the world is wont to do when Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore are in the same room.

Donned in a black robe embossed with glittering, orange pumpkins that clash horribly with his greying auburn hair, Dumbledore looks even more ridiculous than Granger. Granger, who’s hovering behind him, alongside Weasley (Ron), and an un-polyjuiced Draco Malfoy.

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows above his half-moon glasses, maddeningly quizzical, in a way that makes Tom want to resort to muggle violence. “I daresay you two have given me a remarkably strange twenty minutes. Are you alright, Harry?”

Harry’s frozen still, one hand on Tom’s hip; Tom doesn’t remember him putting it there, but he doesn’t ever want him to remove it.

“Uh... Yeah?" He says. "Yes. Um, all good.”

“I told you!” Weasley exclaims, grinning smugly at Granger. He’s red-faced and a little out of breath. “It was a sex thing!”

“It was not a sex thing!” Malfoy snaps. His pale, pointed face flushing, he looks to Tom for guidance – Tom who’s standing almost on top of Harry. “I mean... I don’t think-”

“Hermione thought he’d kidnapped you!”

“No!” Granger says, affronted. “Well... No, not really.”

“Not really?” Weasley echoed. “You were banging on about-”

Dumbledore holds up a hand and they fall silent. “I often find direct communication more helpful than speculation.” He smiles at the two of them in that knowing way Tom hates. “Your friends found a stunned and polyjuiced Mr Malfoy in the stairwell. He rather quickly reverted back to himself, at which point they came to find me.”

“I interrogated Malfoy,” Weasley says, looking too pleased with himself. “Remember that technique Kingsley taught us? It went really well-”

“No, it didn’t!” says Malfoy.

“Well, only because you apparently know less than we do! It would’ve worked well-” Blissfully, Dumbledore’s polite smile shuts him up again.

The headmaster looks back to them. “Care to enlighten us?”

Harry gazes up at Tom, those lovely eyes brimming with uncertainty. Tom’s mind is racing, running through a hundred different lies, each one worse than the last. He needs something. Fudge constantly owls Dumbledore for advice! If Dumbledore wants Tom out of the ministry, that could be it. He opens his dry mouth – sometimes lying comes easier if he just starts talking –

Harry touches his arm, and Tom's thoughts fade to noise. Softly, Harry says, “Trust me?”

The hollowness threatens to seep back in, to smother the light, to plunge the tree in his chest into darkness, but Harry smiles. Hopeful. Reassuring. And, jerkily, Tom nods.

Harry turns to Dumbledore, his hand slipping into Tom’s, careful to avoid his injury. “I'm sorry we worried you. There was a misunderstanding. Things got a bit... messy, but it’s all cleared up now. If you don’t mind, we’d rather not share the details. I promise you though, I’m alright.” Lightly, he squeezes Tom’s hand. “We’re alright.”

Dumbledore gives Tom a look he doesn’t know how to categorise. Evaluating, but softer. The foolish wizard’s never looked at him like that before. Malfoy, meanwhile, looks like someone’s whacked him around the back of the head with a broomstick.

“If you’re sure?” Dumbledore says.

“I am,” says Harry.

The headmaster nods. “Alright. Perhaps a brief conversation with Mr Malfoy would be prudent. Probably best to avoid giving anyone a potion unless they can fully consent.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No need for the sir, Harry, you’re not in school anymore – just some friendly advice.” His eyes do that stupid twinkly thing, visible even down the corridor. “We’ll leave you to it, then. Perhaps I'll see you next week for tea?”

"Sure."

With a smile and another nod, he sweeps off into the stairwell. Granger, Weasley, and Malfoy linger behind.

“Fudge was stomping around looking for you,” Granger tells Tom. “He’s not in a good mood.”

“I don’t really care,” says Tom. He does care. Quite a lot. Just not more than he cares about having Harry to himself, not more than he wants to press their lips together again. Tomorrow he’d do damage control. For now, he’s busy. “Tell him I’m sick.”

“Do it yourself. I’m not your messenger!” Granger snaps, though she could be, once Tom straightens out this whole undersecretary business. Which he will.

“Do you mind, Hermione?” Harry asks, giving her a pleading look. She softens.

Harry, Tom determines, will be incredibly useful. Somehow, people just trust him. Apparently, even Tom.

“What’s with the fire?” asks Weasley.

“Mood lighting,” says Harry. He can lie - not as well as Tom, but definitely not as badly as Malfoy.

“Cool.”

“You sure you’re alright, Harry?” Granger asks.

“I’m fine, promise. I’m sorry for worrying you. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Or don’t,” says Weasley, winking. Granger looks like she wants to stay and keep complaining, but Weasley drags her out and the door swings closed. Final verdict: definitely the better of the two Weasleys Tom knows.

Now there's only Malfoy, hovering awkwardly.

Tom narrows his eyes. “Obviously, I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Oh,” he says. “Yes, um, of course not.”

He’s still standing there.

“Go away,” Tom says, turning back to Harry. “We’re busy.”

“I was, er, going to give them enough time to-”

“You can wait in the stairwell.”

No further encouragement is needed.

They’re alone again. Harry looks at the closed door. “We can’t ever tell Hermione she was right,”

Emphatically, Tom agrees. He asks, “How did you know that would work on Dumbledore?”

Harry shrugged. “He values honesty. And besides, I couldn’t think of anything to say that would make the slightest bit of sense.”

“I had some ideas.”

Harry laughs. It’s a captivating sound, even if he is laughing at Tom. To quiet him, Tom threads his good hand into Harry’s hair, and pulls him close for a kiss. It’s perfect. Harry’s perfect. Maybe, come Monday, he won't have a job, but something about Harry makes him want to exist here, now.

Eventually, they part.

“I have a question,” says Tom, happy with the way Harry's hands have snaked around his waist. “Why is Nymphadora Tonks leaving you secret messages?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “I’m impressed you know about that. She’s, er, part of this group – Dumbledore’s group. I want to join, but I can’t until I finish my training. They’re hunting down Grindelwald’s forces in Europe.” He pauses a moment, “I want to know why they killed my parents.”

He says this with such a quiet, fierce determination that Tom can’t help but wrap his arms around Harry’s thin shoulders, pulling him close, resting his cheek atop Harry’s bird’s nest hair, inhaling treacle and tea. Again, he tries, “Will you marry me?”

Harry laughs into his robes. “Can you just ask me out, you idiot?”

Tom is not an idiot, Tom is very, very clever, but it’s fine, with time, Harry will realise this. (Admittedly, he’s not acted his most clever over the past month).

“Go out with me, Harry?”

“Only if you give me my mug back. I saw it on your shelf.”

“No,” Tom says. “I’m keeping it. You’ll have to move in with me if you want it back.”

“Can’t say I love your apartment. Move in with me.”

“I’m not living with Granger and Weasley.”

“You have to call them Hermione and Ron at some point.”

“No.”

“You’re not very good at compromising.”

“No,” Tom says.

“There’s a love potion in your pocket.”

“Don’t go through my pockets, just hug me.”

“This is too tight to be a hug, it’s more of a hold.”

“Hush, Harry.”

“And you’re going to need to explain why you murdered three people at some point.”

“Shh,” Tom says, kissing the top of his head. “Later.”

“Later,” Harry agrees.

For a while, they just hold each other and breathe. Harry’s smudged yellow paint onto Tom’s robes, though he finds he doesn’t mind. Lots of things that annoy him about other people are endearing when applied to Harry. It’s strange logic, but true. Love, or whatever this is, is a complex thing. That’s good: Tom’s always enjoyed complex things. After all, he is a genius.

“I’m happy,” Harry whispers into his chest.

“Me too,” says Tom. He kisses the top of Harry’s head again and swears he’ll do whatever it takes to hold Harry like this forever.

“Also,” he murmurs, stroking Harry’s soft hair. “I’m going to kill your cat.”