The Dark Tide's Pull ch. 10
*Author's Note: Thank you every who has been following along with this story! I really appreciate hearing from you guys, and I hope you will enjoy this most recent addition!*
"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up."
― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones
Darkness settles all around Tom, cloaking him from sight. The night is familiar, comforting. Tom is used to the night. It's the time when the school is his, his and his gang's. Right now he needs that comfort, needs to feel powerful and in control. Too many things have gone wrong today. He can feel the anger simmering in his chest, ready to boil over at any moment. It's all he can do to keep himself in check. He needs an outlet, someone to take all this horrible rage out on. Until he lets it out, he won't be rid of it, and he needs to be rid of this feeling. It feels different than the fury he's used to, thinner, like a tightness in his chest and throat. His eyes are even stinging with its strength. Tom really needs this feeling to go away.
All around him, familiar masked figures hurry to keep up. Tom is practically running now, jogging through endless stone hallways in the search of some student out of bed to torment. Tom needs to hurt someone, needs to know that someone else out there is hurting more than he is right now. To control someone else completely, to have them begging you for release: Tom must have that feeling. He has to bring someone else lower than him.
Harry had been such a fool today. That ignorant brat had not only completely ruined any chance Tom may have had of joining Grindelwald in his noble quest, but he had also put them all at risk. More importantly, Harry had put himself in danger, and with himself, Tom's horcrux. Why his future self had chosen to make such a reckless, stubborn boy the carrier of his soul Tom has no idea. One of the most important parts of manipulating other people is to know when to keep one's mouth shut. Tom knows this all too well. There are so many things that he would like to say to all the simpering, ignorant fools he interacts with on a daily basis, so many times he just wants to tell them all to shut the hell up and leave him the fuck alone. But he can't. Here, at Hogwarts, Tom is just the friendly, mild-mannered prefect: the one everyone likes and respects. Tom the prefect can't tell everyone to fuck off; he just has to grin and bear all of them hanging off of him like adoring fans. Only at night, behind the cover of his mask can Tom really show his true self. There's nothing more freeing than anonymity: nothing. At night Tom can leave even his very name behind. At night, Tom Marvolo Riddle is no more; only Lord Voldemort remains. And right now Lord Voldemort is very angry.
Why couldn't Harry have just kept his big mouth shut? Things had been going so well. It had taken Tom's reputation years to spread far enough for Grindelwald to hear of it. Years. And now all of that effort has gone to waste. Not that Tom wanted to serve under anyone, not even someone as powerful as Grindelwald, but it would have been worth having to put up with playing the loyal servant for a while to learn what Grindelwald knows. Tom would've only had to pretend for a while, and Tom knows how to be patient. Eventually, when Tom had learned everything Grindelwald has to teach, he would've killed the older man and taken over command of his vast army of followers. It would have been so simple. Just a little patience, and Tom would've had everything Grindelwald possesses, would've been even more powerful, even more feared. Now that possibility is gone. All because of some temperamental teenager. A teenager with part of Tom's soul nestled inside him. A teenager who could've died mere hours earlier if Tom hadn't interfered. For a moment, the cold, thin feeling in Tom's chest grows.
"We should check up by Gryffindor Tower, my lord," suggests Lestrange tentatively from behind Tom. "They're the only ones cocky enough to sneak out at night nowadays." Lestrange knows that it's a risk to say anything to his master when Voldemort's in this foul of a mood, but they've been stalking the castle for over twenty minutes now without finding anyone. If they don't find someone for the dark lord to torture soon, then he'll start taking his anger out on them. It's worth risking saying something to keep that from happening. Better some foolish Gryffindor than them. Luckily for Lestrange, his gamble pays off as Tom silently changes directions, striding off towards Gryffindor tower.
Tom's feet maneuver through the castle on autopilot, his thoughts elsewhere, still focused on what could have happened back in the Shrieking Shack earlier. He can see the cold fury etched on Harry's controlled features, can see the victory flash in those emerald eyes as Grindelwald's face distorts with rage at the younger boy's words. Then he sees Grindewald's wand flash through the air, too fast for Harry to get his own wand up in time. He sees the older wizard's mouth move, saying fatal words, killing words. What if Tom hadn't been fast enough? What if Grindelwald had managed to finish that deadly incantation? Tom can feel his heart quickening in his chest, his pulse throbbing hard in his neck. In Tom's mind, memory transitions into imagination, and a green jet of light shoots through the air, catching Harry straight in the chest. Harry's vibrant green eyes have just enough time to widen in shock, and then he's falling. In Tom's mind's eye, Harry lies crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Just like the Riddles after Tom killed them, this imagined version of Harry shows no sign of what killed him other than the surprised expression on his face. Suddenly Tom's throat feels tight, as though there's a lump stopping it up, and his eyes are stinging. It's not a feeling he's familiar with. He must just be shaken at the idea that his only other horcrux, his only tie to immortality, could have been taken away earlier. After all, why should it matter to him if Harry dies? The boy is just a liability. The only reason Tom cares about him at all is because Harry carries part of his soul inside him. That's it.
Tom is so wrapped up in this cycle of thoughts that it's only Nott's urgent hand on his shoulder that alerts him to the fact that there are voices in the corridor up ahead. Not students' voices either. No, one of those voices belongs to Albus Dumbledore. Tom freezes, suddenly horrified with himself. How could he be so careless, so absent minded? He had been so caught up in his own morbid thoughts that he had nearly walked their group right into the one man who suspects him. Tom quickly flaps his hand at the boys behind him, motioning for them to go back. Carefully, moving as quietly as possible, the boys tiptoe backwards, eyes fixed on where the voices are drawing ever closer. Then, the voices are suddenly too close. Obviously the men are just about the round the corner, and Tom's masked group will be stuck out in plain sight. Quickly, Tom turns around, waving his wand in a desperate last resort. The group of Slytherin boys shimmers for a moment, then disappears as Tom's disillusionment charm kicks in. It isn't perfect; if someone came close enough and looked hard enough they might see the faint outline of people in the air, but from far away the spell should hold.
Albus Dumbledore and the Herbology professor Herbert Beery round the corner, chatting to each other amiably. Luckily for the group of hidden Slytherins, Professor Beery begins to head up the hallway in the opposite direction from their invisible forms. Dumbledore is about to follow him, but just before he would've turned his back on the group of boys he pauses, seeming to sense something. His long face frowns, crinkling into a mass of lines as he begins to turn back in Tom's direction.
"Albus?" calls Professor Beery, beckoning Dumbledore to follow him. "Come on; I really need you to help me out repotting these Bumbulous Blinghorns. If we don't move them soon enough, they'll start fighting one another for space, and heaven knows we don't want that to happen! It would be a blood bath!"
"Right, yes," says Dumbledore slowly, squinting suspiciously right at where Mulciber's large form is currently hidden. He gives the spot one last curious look, then allows Professor Beery to drag him away down the corridor. Tom waits until the two men have completely vanished from sight, then lets out a long, relieved sigh. Tonight just isn't his night. He could swear that Dumbledore sensed his disillusionment charm. That man really is too perceptive for his own good. He's the only person in this castle, maybe even this country who poses a real threat to Tom in his rise to power, and Tom knows it. He can't afford to cross that man, not yet at least. Maybe, warns a small part of him, not ever.
"That's it for tonight," mutters Tom to the group of frozen Slytherins, removing the disillusionment charm with a tired flick of his wand. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to stay out looking for victims if you'd like, but I'm done for the night. If you do choose to stay out then I'm placing Nott in charge." Nott nods at Tom solemnly, accepting the responsibility and trust Tom has just placed in him. It's a great privilege to be put in charge like this; it means that Tom has faith in him. Tom breaks off from the group without another word, moving rapidly back towards the dungeons. The shock of that close call with Dumbledore has dissipated his anger, leaving him with nothing but chilling fear. Suddenly, Tom just wants to see Harry's peacefully sleeping form. He wants to know that the other boy is safe in Tom's bed, that Tom's soul, Tom's immortality is safe and sound.
Tom descends through the castle at a run, only removing his mask once he's safely ensconced in the Slytherin common room once more. Silver melts from Tom's face, revealing sharp, handsome features. Now, he's Tom Riddle once more. Tom takes the steps up to his room two at a time, not bothering to hide the panic beginning to thrum in his chest since no one is around to witness this weakness. Tom only stops once he's outside the door to his room. Here, Tom takes a deep, calming breath. Then, he carefully inches the door open, trying his best not to wake the room's sleeping occupant. Tom pauses for a moment in the open doorway, listening carefully to the still room. Then Tom catches the faint sound of Harry's slow, rhythmic breathing, and he finally begins to feel safe once more. Harry is safe; his soul is safe. Not that there's any reason that Harry wouldn't be, it's just, well, it's been a long day.
Tom slips into the dark room, easing the door shut as quietly as possibly behind him. Pale fingers untie Tom's dark cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a messy heap. Then Tom's shirt follows suit. Shiny, black shoes are kicked off to land somewhere unseen in the room's comforting blackness. Socks quickly follow. Finally, Tom's pants join the pile on the floor, leaving the boy in nothing but his boxers. Tom tiptoes across the floor until his searching fingers feel the soft duvet on his bed. He peels back the blankets and slithers beneath, instantly feeling the heat of the bed's other occupant radiating onto his chilled flesh. Tom sighs, curling into that comforting heat. He scoots forward into that warmth until his chest makes contact with the smooth curve of Harry's back. Tom curls around the other boy, nuzzling his nose into the fine hairs on the back of the other boy's neck and tucking his frozen toes beneath Harry's warm feet. He sighs again against Harry's skin, wrapping his pale arm around the brunette's slim torso. It's oddly comforting to hold the other boy like this, almost… tenderly. This boy is his, is bound to him more strongly than any other two people are connected. Clutching his horcrux to him like this makes Tom feel safe, secure. He's not used to gaining that feeling from another person like this. It's odd, different, but not necessarily bad.
"We've talked about this," murmurs a sleepy voice from the darkness. "You're supposed to ask before touching me." Harry's voice is low and gravely, sleep still clinging to each soft word. The words are chiding, but there's no real anger there. Tom just clutches the boy tighter to him, pressing his hips into the other boy's behind.
"You shouldn't have said that to Grindelwald earlier," is all Tom says in reply, ignoring Harry's statement. For a moment, Harry just lies there silently, neither accepting Tom's embrace nor rejecting it. Then, whispered words slither through the darkness.
"You don't have to worry about Grindelwald," states Harry. "He won't be a problem much longer. By my time he's nothing. There's only you. In my time, Grindelwald is nothing but memories. Your reign will be so much more. People will fear you so much that their fear of Grindelwald is gone, eclipsed. He isn't half the dark wizard you will be, Riddle." There's no emotion in these words, no anger or excitement or fear. They're just facts, just true. Voldemort is so much worse than Grindelwald, his legacy of terror so much greater. Even though Harry finds Voldemort's acts despicable, even he must admit that those acts took a unique wizard, a unique power. For a second, Harry remembers how Olivander described Voldemort when Harry first bought his wand. Olivander had turned Harry's wand over and over between his wizened fingers, seeing not it, but its twin. The old man's voice had shook with both fear and admiration, his blue eyes glazed over in what could only be described as wonder.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It's not always clear why. But I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible! Yes. But great."
Tom says nothing in response to Harry's statement, simply processing the whispered words. Then cool lips press against Harry's neck and pale fingers creep down Harry's chest to the top of his pajama bottoms.
"Let me touch you," says Tom. The words could be interpreted as a command, but Harry knows that there's a question there. These words are Tom's way of respecting him, of following Harry's insistence that he ask first.
Beneath the darkness, Harry rolls over to face the man who will one day try to kill him.
"No," he says solemnly, then full lips descend on his. Tom's lips are surprisingly soft against Harry's, his tongue surprisingly gentle as it presses into his mouth. Tom's hands go to Harry's shoulders, carefully but forcefully pushing the other boy flat against the bed. Tom settles on top of Harry, swinging his leg over the other boy's narrow hips so that he's straddling him. Harry can feel Tom's rapidly hardening cock against his thigh as the dark wizard's lips move down to his jaw, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. A wet tongue traces Harry's neck, settling on his fluttering pulse. Fingers pinch at Harry's nipples through his pajama top, tugging them into hard peaks beneath the soft fabric. Tentatively, Harry's hands reach up to settle on Tom's hips above him, reluctantly making him an active participant in this event.
In the dark, Tom's hands slide down Harry's sides to settle on the top of Harry's pajama bottoms. Tom raises his hips off of Harry for a moment, tugging Harry's pajama bottoms down slightly onto his thighs, exposing Harry's half-hard cock to the cool night air. Tom doesn't bother taking his own boxers off, instead just pulling his erection free through the long slit in the fabric meant for such ease. Hips descend upon Harry's own, and a smooth erection is grinding against his own. The rosy skin of Tom's cock is velvety against Harry's, and the resulting stimulation causes Harry's fingers to tighten around Tom's sharp hip bones. For a minute, Tom just continues to rock against Harry, rubbing their erections together tantalizingly. Then Tom pulls back, his fingers reaching down to circle Harry's puckered entrance. Harry can hear the other boy's ragged breathing in the air, can practically feel the boy's excited anticipation as that finger begins to press into Harry's tight flesh. Then Harry's hand is curled tightly around Tom's thin wrist, keeping the other boy from pushing any further into him.
"No," Harry says firmly. "You don't get to fuck me, Riddle." For a moment, Tom just sits there, his fingertip still encased in the tight heat of Harry's body, fury at being denied shuddering through him. People do not get to tell Tom no. Tom is to be obeyed. He is Lord Voldemort, soon to be the greatest dark wizard of all time. If he wants to fuck someone, he will. But then the moment of proud fury passes, and Tom pulls his finger free, moving his hand to Harry's cock instead. Tom gives the hot flesh a few contemplative strokes, seemingly thinking over his next move. Tom scoots forward slightly, his erection bumping against Harry's. Tom presses their hard cocks together, wrapping both of his hands around them and beginning to stroke them together firmly. Harry groans at the sensation, his toes curling slightly against crisp sheets as he starts to feel the beginnings of his orgasm curling in his stomach. A minute later has them both spilling their seed onto Harry's chest, staining his pajama top with damp splotches. Tom releases their withering erections, sliding off of Harry to lie on the bed next to him.
"Scourgify," murmurs a voice in the dark, and the semen on Harry's clothes vanishes, as though it was never there, as though Harry had never had any kind of sexual contact with the man who will someday kill his parents and countless others. As a pale arm curls possessively around Harry's chest and a bony cheek nestles into the crook of Harry's neck, Harry suddenly remembers Sybill Trelawney's harsh, cold voice as she pronounced Harry's fate.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. … Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. … The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"
Harry wonders if this moment is part of that prophecy, if lying here in the cool blackness with the dark lord pressed against him is all part of the plan.
Somehow, Harry doubts it.
*Author's note: A little dirty fun for you guys. ;) Poor Tom, starting to care about someone for the first time is hard. I hope you guys liked this chapter! Please review with any feedback or requests you may have. Also, as I already have the rest of this story planned out, I've started to think about my next TMR/HP story. If you guys have any requests for what story I should write after this one, please just let me know and I will definitely keep it in mind. Thank you all so much for reading!*