A/N – Happy Valentine's day everyone!
A storm rolled in off the Atlantic, and for a few days a blustering wind howled through the trees to rattle the window panes of the small cottage by the sea. It seemed that it would never end, but when dawn broke on the fourth day after their trip to London, the sky was blessedly clear.
Harry watched the sunrise through the window. He was lying on his back in the too-small bed with Riddle wrapped around him, breathing slow and even into the crook of his neck. His arm was flung over Harry's stomach, a warm and pleasant weight, and their legs were tangled together.
It was the same every morning. Harry, who was the lighter sleeper, usually woke first. Although he too had been sleeping unusually well - for the first time in years he was not plagued by strange dreams, not waking in the middle of the night after a nocturnal excursion to the Department of Mysteries.
Perhaps it was the human contact. Riddle curled around him every night. There didn't seem to be a nefarious purpose behind it; apparently it was simply something he did in his sleep. It was nicer than it should have been - Harry hadn't realised just how much he had craved touch, but he drank it in like a flower turning to the sun. It made him feel grounded, more settled in his own skin.
Riddle made a little noise. Harry turned his head to gaze down at him as his eyelashes fluttered. A curl of anticipation lit in Harry's stomach as he waited to see whether he would wake and slip his hand into his clothes again. But no: after a long moment Riddle just mumbled into his neck and went back to sleep.
His face looked different without its omnipresent smirk. Younger somehow, soft and angelic. His hands hadn't roamed since that first night.
Harry stared up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. It was frustrating, but he had to admit, if only to himself, that he couldn't stop thinking about what they had done together in the long grass.
What it had felt like.
What it would have been like if he'd let Riddle keep touching him, that first time he'd tried. Curiosity had always been his weakness, and now Harry was burning with it.
Well.
Curiosity and arousal.
He was hard all the time - he seemed to spend half his life sneaking to the outhouse. And when he closed the wooden door and leant back against it and touched himself, all he could think about was Tom. Tom and his dark eyes and his quick, cruel smile and his clever hands . . .
And Riddle knew. That was the worst thing. Harry was certain that Riddle knew exactly what he was doing in there, because every time Harry returned, red-faced and panting a little, he was greeted with a smirk and a smug enquiry about what could possibly have taken him so long.
But what Harry didn't understand was why Riddle wasn't pressing his advantage. Why hadn't he tried anything since their fight?
Oh, he still touched Harry plenty, enough to drive him mad, but his touches were all light and innocent, and if his dark eyes lingered, they always flicked away when Harry caught him looking. Harry knew that he hadn't lost interest though, because he kept changing his clothes in front of him, and 'forgetting' to wear a shirt to bed, and leaning against the kitchen counter in a way that emphasised he long, lean lines of his body.
Harry wasn't being paranoid.
He was doing it deliberately.
. . . But Harry couldn't ask for it. He just couldn't. It would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for, the worst, most humiliating thing in the world—
Next to him, Riddle stirred again and nuzzled at the shell of his ear. His fingers tightened in Harry's shirt.
Torture.
"Do you fancy a duel?"
Riddle had finished clearing the table after lunch. Harry was sat sideways in the single armchair with his legs over one arm and his back against the other. The new book on Magical First Aid was open on his lap. He was reading not out of any particular interest for the subject, but simply because he thought that one of them should know how to heal.
At Riddle's words, he looked up from the page. The other boy was standing over him, twirling his new sycamore wand between his fingers, clearly itching to try it out.
"I'm fine thanks," Harry said, just to make Riddle ask again.
"I know you're bored. You've been whining about it nonstop for the last few days."
"I'm not sure it's a good idea," Harry mused, slumping down in the chair. "It's not really fair to duel when the vow is limiting me like this."
"How is it limiting you? It only stops you from trying to maim and kill me."
Harry hummed, gazing back down at his book without seeing it. It was true that he was bored. But he was afraid that duelling Riddle would lead to them frotting on the ground again.
. . . Perhaps afraid was the wrong word.
He gave a put-upon sigh and extracted himself from the chair with what he hoped was a suitable display of reluctance. "Fine, but you can't get upset if I beat you."
"Such impudence." But Riddle sounded delighted. "I do hope you can back those words up, Harry."
Riddle led the way out into the garden. When he reached a spot he deemed suitable, he turned to Harry. "We'll have to take care not to get too far away from each other to avoid triggering the bond."
Harry nodded. Riddle raised his wand. "Incendio!"
A tongue of fire leapt from the tip. Harry took a hasty step backwards, but it soared past him and around, burning the outline of a large circle into the grass.
"Whoever steps outside the line forfeits automatically."
Harry rolled his eyes at the unnecessary dramatics, but nodded anyway. He took a place near the centre of the circle, opposite Riddle, and twisted his wrist to make his holly wand drop out of his sleeve and into his hand.
"And now, we bow," Riddle said easily, twirling his wand again in anticipation.
"Bow to death, Harry."
Voldemort's high cold voice echoed in his head. Harry was thrust back into that night in the graveyard - alone, surrounded, his blood flowing like ice in his veins as Voldemort toyed with him, tortured him for the amusement of the encircling Death Eaters. He still clearly remembered the firm press of Voldemort's magic on his spine, forcing him to bend . . .
"Yeah, no thanks."
Riddle frowned. "Why not?" he asked, perplexed. "This is how things are done. It's traditional, like shaking hands before a chess match."
"There's no audience. If you want to fight, let's fight."
"What's got you in such a snit? Honestly Harry, keeping up with your mood swings is killing me."
As if Riddle could talk about mood swings. Rather than debate any further, Harry raised his wand and cast a Disarming charm.
"Protego!" Riddle cried, and a light shimmer formed in the air around him. Out of the sharp, downwards parry of the shield charm, his wand rose into a curse, as if the two spells were a single motion, thoughtless and effortless.
Harry ducked, then had to block a second spell. The third shattered his shield, so he threw himself to the ground and rolled. He cast a stunner even as he was scrambling back to his feet, but Riddle shielded again.
Harry waited for Riddle to attack. But the other boy was standing completely still. His head was cocked to the side - the gesture he always made when he was curious about something.
"Impedimenta!" Harry cried.
Riddle wordlessly conjured another shield.
"Expelliarmus!"
Blocked.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Blocked.
Obviously this wasn't going anywhere. Harry lowered his wand, annoyed. "Do you want to fight or not-"
"It's like you've never been taught how to duel," Riddle interrupted. His voice was puzzled. "The basics are there - you cast quickly and accurately, and your spells are powerful, but you know absolutely nothing about tactics."
Harry scowled. "I held my own against Voldemort last year!"
"You told me that was because your wands malfunctioned."
"I did okay even before that happened!"
"I'm guessing there was a lot of running and dodging involved in that encounter?"
Harry didn't appreciate the sarcasm. It had been good running and good dodging. "What's wrong with that?"
"Being able to dodge isn't wrong - some spells, such as the Killing Curse, can't be shielded against. But it almost always puts you in a weaker position and leaves you open to the next spell. You need to rely more on your magic and less on your reflexes, however impressive they may be." Riddle tapped his foot, getting into teacher mode. "But your biggest problem isn't your defence - it's messy and unconventional, but still broadly effective. Your offence, however, is abysmal. You don't know any spells that are powerful enough to break through a well-cast shield, so a competent wizard could just stand there and shield indefinitely, as I just demonstrated."
"I killed that Basilisk of yours," Harry reminded him. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"Yes," Riddle acknowledged, "but the way you fight is so . . . inconsistent. You rely entirely on your instincts. You don't plan, you just react. Is there not a duelling club in this time?"
Harry scuffed his foot on the ground. "My second year Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher tried to set one up, but then he was kidnapped by pixies a week after the first session. He turned up months later in the Forbidden Forest and got sent to St Mungo's. I think he's still there now."
"Kidnapped by-" Riddle began, frowning in bewilderment, then decided not to press further. "But surely, someone must have taught you?"
"Well," Harry said, red-faced, "how about you tell me now and we'll work it out from there."
Harry, had been expecting extreme smugness from Riddle at being asked to teach and was not disappointed. The Slytherin preened for some time, but became gradually less intolerable as he got into the flow of lecturing and demonstrating.
"It's important to know a range of spells. You can't just rely on things like Stunners and Disarming Charms - actually, you shouldn't really be using Expelliarmus at all during a duel if you can't cast it wordlessly."
"Why not?"
"It's five syllables long, and the wand movement is complicated. You could cast two other, stronger spells in the time it takes you to cast one Disarming charm. Now, the Cruciatus curse," Riddle continued, smiling dreamily at the mention of his favourite spell, "has only three syllables, will break a shield if cast well, and is highly debilitating if it hits."
"I'm not interested in learning how to torture and kill people, thanks. Teach me something that isn't Dark."
"It's not only Dark magic that can kill - a well-aimed Severing charm can be lethal."
But Harry was resolute. Riddle sighed in disappointment, but eventually began teaching him a new spell that would puncture a shield. He stood very close to Harry to guide his hand through the motions, his fingers lingering for far longer than was strictly necessary, until Harry was red-faced and stuttering.
The next duel went much better, although it could just have been because Harry was getting the hang of how Riddle fought. He was still breath-taking to watch - his long, gangly limbs deceptively graceful. He was obviously a very practised duellist; his wand never stopped moving - it flowed from a Knee-Reversal hex straight into a jinx with a Tarantallegra on the tail.
Harry laughed, dodged, then yelped in surprise and fell when the Dancing Feet spell hit him. Riddle got him with the counter-charm a few seconds later and Harry sprung back up, circling the edge of the boundary line.
"Perfringo!" he cried. It was the spell he had been taught, and it worked - Riddle's shield burst like a balloon. He followed it up with a Stunner and made Riddle duck for once.
The grass was swaying in the breeze that came on the tail end of the storm. His wand-arm was singing with magic; Harry felt so alive, caught up and swept away in the fun of the moment and knew that Riddle did too - his eyes were bright and wild, and his handsome face was flushed with exertion.
He was beautiful.
Harry shivered despite the warm day as his mind travelled back to the last time they'd duelled. Riddle's eyes snapped to his, as if he had felt the change in his mood.
The tempo of their fight increased until there was hardly time to think. Harry dodged a blue-white spell that he didn't recognise and sent a Conjunctivitis curse in return. Riddle's eyes were hungry, but Harry wanted to win – his pride had been hurt by their earlier duel.
An idea bloomed in his mind, and, grabbing the first happy thought that came to him (Sirius running after the Hogwarts Express, barking like mad), he cried "Expecto Patronum!"
Riddle startled and froze like a deer in the headlights as a massive silver stag erupted from Harry's wand and barrelled towards him. But rather than hurt him, it passed harmlessly through him and cantered around them in a wide circle. Harry dashed forwards though, and for once it was Riddle on the back foot, Riddle struggling to cast a proper shield under the onslaught.
Adrenaline surged through Harry's veins as he cast spell after spell. There was a wide grin on his face – he wanted nothing more than to tackle Riddle to the ground and just—
-And just what?
Was he going to hold Riddle down, straddle him and rock against him until they were both gasping? It was one thing for Harry to be the unwilling, protesting target of such actions, but it would be something else entirely for him to initiate them.
No . . . if Harry wanted that, he had to lose . . .
"Flipendo!"
Harry saw the spell coming, and there was perhaps a moment when he could have dodged or shielded.
But he didn't.
His feet went out from under him and he landed in the grass on his back. He fully expected Riddle to follow him, to land on top of him and pin him and claim his prize-
But the Slytherin just stood over him, staring down at where he lay sprawled out in the grass. The edge of a smirk curled his mouth.
"Stop playing around, Harry. How are you ever going to learn if you don't take this seriously?"
What?
Harry gaped up at him. He was already half hard.
"What were you expecting to happen?"
But Riddle knew exactly what he had been expecting. In a moment of horrified, frozen clarity, Harry realised what he was doing.
It was all a mind game.
Riddle had pushed and pushed and pushed, and when he finally got what he wanted, he backed off. He was going to force Harry to make the first move.
The Slytherin offered him a hand up, chatting amiably all the while. "Was that a Patronus? I've never seen one in person before. It's very impressive - has it always been a stag?"
Harry just stared at the outstretched hand in numb horror.
Night fell, and Harry stood outside the door to the bedroom they shared, taking deep, calming breaths.
He didn't have to. He had lived without sex his whole life. Doing it with Riddle was completely unnecessary and dangerous besides. He could wait. In his future, there was some nice girl with soft curves and long shiny hair. Someone kind and gentle, and not at all like Riddle, with his sharp angles and eyes and smile.
Harry nodded to himself. Yes, he would wait.
But, a sly little voice said in his mind. It already happened once. The damage is done. Does it really matter if it happens again?
Harry chewed on his lip at the tempting thought. When they parted ways at the end of the summer, Riddle to some distant corner of the world and Harry back to his friends and godfather and Hogwarts, they would never see each other again.
Riddle would just be his dirty little secret . . . and when he grew up, if he grew up, the memories would dim. The cottage was its own little world, remote from everything and everyone he had ever known.
And after all, the nice girl in his future did not need to know about Riddle.
The candle was burning on the nightstand. Riddle was already in his customary spot, lying on his side with his back against the wall. Harry hesitated, then blew out the flame and slid into bed.
Facing Riddle.
It was like time had slowed to a crawl. Harry felt every millisecond viscerally, like grains of sand slipping through his fingers to the point of no return. For as long as Riddle didn't acknowledge it, it was reversible. Harry could turn over, blame it on tiredness, stupidity, anything-
"What happened to never again?" Riddle asked, quietly, teasingly.
"I'm not doing anything," Harry breathed. The bed was narrow. They were so close that Harry didn't know what to do with his hands. He laid them innocently on Riddle's chest.
"It's difficult not to take this as an invitation."
"You can take it however you want," Harry said, then realised how that had sounded. He gathered his courage and continued on regardless. "I'm your prisoner. I can't stop you."
"You are so greedy, Harry." Harry couldn't see the smirk, but he could hear it in Riddle's voice. "You just want to have your cake and eat it too. You want to be able to go back to all your precious, innocent friends and be able to say, 'None of it was my fault. It was all Tom; he took advantage of me. I didn't want it.'"
"None of it is my fault," Harry hissed. "This is all because of you. If you hadn't - I would never have-"
He trailed off, still unable to voice it. His face was very red. He was glad Riddle couldn't see.
"Is that so." He felt the bed shift, then gasped as a fingertip ran teasingly up the length of his cock. "Is this my fault too?"
The sensation was dulled by the fabric in between them, but even the featherlight touch was enough to make Harry squirm helplessly. He was hard. How long had he been hard?
"Yes," Harry whispered hoarsely. "Your fault."
Riddle's finger left his cock. Before Harry had a chance to mourn its loss, it hooked into the waist of his pyjamas and pulled them down at the front until he was completely exposed.
Then a hand.
Tom was touching him. Tom was running his fingertips leisurely up and down his cock, sending ripples of pleasure through his body.
Harry's heart was beating out of his chest.
But Tom didn't seem to be in a rush. His other hand crept over his hip, and then, to Harry's utmost mortification, gave his bum a firm squeeze. It was lewd. So lewd. His hips stuttered forwards despite himself as he let out a startled gasp.
"Eager little thing, aren't you?"
How dare he. Harry snarled at him, but before he could form words, Tom's palm, slick now with precum, finally closed around his length.
It was pure, electric pleasure. His hands fisted in Tom's shirt as he set a slow pace, his thumb caressing Harry's slit on each stroke –
But he wasn't even trying to get him off. His touch was still too slow, too light, and when Harry jerked forwards, seeking a firmer grip, his hand slackened. Harry groaned in frustration and twisted his fingers tighter to stop himself from wrapping his own hand around Tom's, from forcing him to do it properly.
"Is there something you want, Harry?"
Smug, always so smug, but there was a breathless note in Tom's voice. Was he hard too? Harry needed to know. He rocked forwards, firmly this time.
Oh god, he could feel him-
Tom gasped, and his hand finally, finally tightened on Harry's cock, pulling a choked groan from his lips. Then fabric rustled as Tom pulled his own cock out and surged forwards. He pressed close and wrapped his hand around both of them.
Harry burrowed his face into his neck to muffle the needy sounds he was making, even as he bucked desperately up into the hot, tight grip encircling them. He felt hot and shivery all over, pulled tight like the string of a bow. The world narrowed down to Tom, Tom and what he was doing. He thrust forwards one last time and came with a long, low groan.
Dimly, he heard Tom moan as he felt Harry's cock pulse in his hands. He didn't let up though, he kept on stroking them until he came himself while Harry lay there, panting and overstimulated, pawing at his chest in a half-hearted effort to get away.
The aftermath was wet and vaguely uncomfortable. Tom cleaned up – and if Harry could learn any wandless spell, it would be that one – and then petted him the way someone might pet a cat. Harry could tell he was very pleased; the smugness was practically radiating off him. Harry tried to scowl, but the expression kept slipping off his face.