Curfew Violations

-v-

19th Violation

-v-

Following the celebration of his birthday that Saturday, Harry's life became temporarily dictated by a kind of intermitted droll regularity.

He'd wake up (thank god) every day, the nurses would come in—read his charts and check all his vitals, before proceeding to strip and sponge him down lying in place on a bed mat—until he was embarrassed and squeaking just everywhere.

After that (horrible) experience, Harry would eat a light nutritionally infused bowl of (nondescript) hospital mush (he only assumed it might be cream of wheat or some closely related derivative), before taking more supplementary vitamins and medication which he then allowed to sit on his stomach until the nurses and his doctor deemed them sufficiently absorbed.

All this happened from eight thirty in the morning until noontime, where things got…interesting.

On Sunday, Tom (his Tom who'd vowed to be there as often as possible for Harry's recovery) hadn't been able to be on site…due to unforeseen circumstances Harry wasn't privy to.

Tom had actually left a message with the hospital staff—to be delivered to Harry upon his boy's reawakening, after his late Saturday night departure and before official visiting hours the next day, which in no uncertain terms said—something urgent had come up which demanded he be away presently, but that he would see Harry again (effective) Monday afternoon.

Harry had been rather crestfallen to hear the relayed message…but in fashion of a true patient, he merely smiled and bore with the disappointment as he was drawn into a routine which soon became his life's bane…excluding a few fondly marked apertures.

But back to the interesting bit—his physical therapy, which his doctor wanted him to begin with on a light regimen as soon as possible to get his muscles back in properly working order.

Assisted by another set of nurses (not those sponging bastards), Harry was leveraged from his bed—hooked to an IV pole for the time being, on legs shaky as a newborn fawn.

For one harrowing moment upon standing, he'd lurched forward and nearly overbalanced both of his nurses alongside himself with his sudden, ill-advised movements—where he attempted to not be an otherwise partially dead weight between the two (rather aged but sturdy) women.

Mortified at his lack of control over his legs, and clumsily straightening his precariously perched glasses on his nose (because he'd apparently slept in them)—Harry had proceeded to cling to his supports as he stuttered through profuse apologies—to which his nurses had only laughed good naturedly as they righted him and waved well away, with assurances that ('You barely weigh a thing sweetheart,' and 'We'll fatten you up here at Mungo's—just you wait.').

Looking back—Harry was rather glad he'd been essentially prone the entire time Tom had been with him upon his initial awakenings.

Having the other poised and strong young man see him falling on his face and moving like a fish on land would have been…unsettling.

He had always been a rather poor sick person, the scant few times he'd been bedridden with things in the past; and Harry did think it prudent of him to at least be able to stand upright before Tom showed up again Monday.

And yes…he remembered Okaying Tom's presence throughout his therapies…that didn't mean he wanted to appear unnecessarily inhibited to the point of being (quite possibly) laughed at, though.

He really should be thankful he had at least a day and another morning before Tom was scheduled to arrive. No matter how even in his relief…contradictorily phantom aches kept cropping up within his chest area, whenever he thought about having to wait for the next time they saw each other.

It was more than mildly ridiculous—the way he felt.

He hated being so weak. He hated having no ability to seek Tom out himself or even handle himself on his own right now…without face-planting, unaided.

Also…he knew the guy still had school, no matter how readily he was making himself available…to Harry. Harry should stop being so…whatever this was—and just get on with the important business of his recovery.

Surely, if nothing else—the time he was being granted alone would allow Harry to make some positive strides out of Tom's enticing presence to become a (rather less pathetic) presentable version of himself as a patient.

Speaking of presentable…Harry paused on the threshold of the room, leveraged by his two nurses and the IV pole—in order to request use of the bathroom facilities before attending his first physical therapy session.

When they turned him around to the in-suite bathroom and then both tried to follow him into it for the purpose of his continued stability and overall safety, Harry balked and haltingly requested ('P-please…I w-would l-like s-s-some…pr-privacy…if y-you c-can. J-just o-one of…y-you then...')

The older of the two nurses acquiesced and elected to wait outside the bathroom door, whilst the younger nurse followed him on into the facilities and politely averted her eyes—still hovering always in reach of him as he used his IV pole like a crutch and bumbled unsteadily about.

He went ahead and used the toilet—avoiding the true goal he had in mind with an unusual hesitance…for as long as possible—examining the rather spacious bathroom's fixtures with some actual interest in the meanwhile.

There was a roomy, clear doored shower—as well as a long, wide bathing tub with specialized seating affixed into its depths and on the outside (he presumed this was for patients unable to stand for long periods in the shower, who also required monitoring).

Unfortunately, he supposed he fell amongst that category…as he could feel his legs straining beneath even his (slightly diminished) body weight.

It was with great care that he leaned in to flush the toilet—before righting himself, and moving to wash his hands at the double sinks…over which hung a wall encompassing mirror, reflecting half the bathroom and his own visage back at him.

Harry felt reluctant to meet the eyes of his reflection, as he was sure he must look like crap…if his instability and general frailty were any indicators of his current physique…

But Tom hadn't minded kissing him…or touching him…so perhaps he was being a bit overdramatic…

Harry raised his gaze slowly to the mirror as he turned off the tap, still holding the IV pole in a death grip and trembling slightly. He didn't know what he'd been expecting to find…obviously his hair wasn't as wild and thick as he was accustomed to, because he could feel an inordinate amount of airiness on his scalp.

But…he didn't look…too bad.

Merely like a (slightly) banged up in the head, brittle boy…with startlingly green eyes framed by thin rimmed glasses, and bandages encircling his forehead. His hair was significantly shorter, but it was growing back well.

There were no bald patches from the surgery that he could see at least. Harry was relieved.

On the whole…he did appear somewhat rested, if not listless. Considering all the time he'd been unconscious, he wouldn't say that was a huge shock.

His body was swamped in the hospital gown with nothing underneath. And Harry froze, feeling the breeze on his nether regions…but it was freeing, and convenient he supposed.

Huh.

Most people would probably raise issue with being kept naked underneath what was essentially a shapeless sheet.

Harry decided he wouldn't think about comparing the feeling to wearing a dress, but still wondered…if this was what girls in skirts felt like that made them shake their hips so readily—swishing and strutting all over the place…and what was this train of thought?

Blushing lightly in remembrance of the ease of access which Tom had had beneath that same gown, Harry nodded slightly to himself in the mirror, before clearing his throat and letting the patient nurse know he was through.

She held him steady by his free arm and around the waist, and together they exited the bathroom.

Ah well…what was life if not the accumulation of simple pleasures in sad situations.

His head gave a muted twinge, and Harry winced as he moved in unison with the both of his nurses—traveling slowly down the hallway and wondering internally…just how could he have been so clumsy as to fall down a whole flight of stairs anyhow?

Also…he was still hoping (rather optimistically) that this first session without Tom—would have him used to standing on his own, at the very least…even if that may be asking for a bit much at this time (he was already breathing more heavily than he ever used to). But he so didn't want to literally fall at Tom's feet the next time they met…so to his optimism—he stubbornly clung.

Although…the stray thought came to him—he might not mind falling so much if the other carried him again…

And just where was that coming from?

Far as he could recollect, Tom had never carried him before. Had he?

Harry scrunched his nose and frowned slightly, as the ache in his forehead intensified until he was groaning aloud, drawing the attention of his nurses.

"Breathe dearie, we're almost there. Try not to think too much. The doctor says you should let things come back to you naturally and not try to force anything."

The younger nurse followed up the older nurse's words with her own observations, "Head injuries are a nasty business. You always wind up wanting to dig through your skull and pull everything up immediately in the aftermath. Try and resist the urge. It'll only hurt your recovery and make things take longer."

Listening to and taking their advice to heart, Harry delicately pushed all thoughts of Tom having carried or carrying him in the future aside…feeling the painful pressure in his head markedly lessen in response.

Very much relieved and grateful—Harry suddenly realized, he'd never received their handles. "T-Thanks…w-what sh-should I c-call…you b-both?"

"Oh—how silly of us. You may call me Molly…or Mrs. Weasley if you'd prefer." The older nurse replied.

"And I'm Pomona—affectionately known as Ms. Sprout." Harry nodded slightly and smiled at the both of his nurses in turn. "N-nice to m-meet you…b-both…M-Mrs.W-Weasley…M-Ms. Sp-Sprout."

Mrs. Weasley grinned and said, "Such a polite boy. I should like you to rub off on my sons. But I fear it's too late for all but my youngest."

Harry blinked. Ms. Sprout tittered next to him, rubbing his arm and speaking to Mrs. Weasley in amusement, "Ron isn't all that bad now. Just a little rough along the edges…nothing a proper little girlfriend couldn't smooth."

Mrs. Weasley snorted. "But what girl would have him? I do try and make him a gentleman, yet…he leaves much to be desired."

Ms. Sprout gave Harry a conspiratorial wink, "You should meet the twins. A right pair of mischief makers they are—but cordial and charming enough to hoodwink the devil."

Harry grinned slightly. "T-They a-all s-sound…v-very…i-int-teresting."

What felt like an inordinately long and tiring walk for Harry—being as slow moving and supported as he was—was in all actuality, just three doors (ten 1ft squared blocks apart each) down from his room.

Harry determinedly did not think about how much effort just moving that far assisted had taken him. It would make him cry.

"Here we are, sugar. You'll be meeting your therapist and physical advisor now. His name is Remus Lupin. You may call him Remus, as he prefers we all do."

And with that, Harry was being supported through double push doors, into an airy—high ceilinged room, with no windows but very good lighting, ventilation, and much assorted equipment; including a few spaced out treadmills with heart monitors and other machinery surrounding them, hand weights of assorted sizes, balls large and small, stationary bikes, and a few massage tables interspersed…to name the ones he recognized.

There were also shelves along the wall close to the entrance, with apparent first aid and creams and other bottled liquids for bodily application.

Further across the room, Harry spied two separate doors, one obviously leading to a split restroom for women and men. And the other which looked like an office entrance cocked wide open.

Through the opening—Harry spied a middle aged, rather comely but finely scarred in the face, well-built and healthy looking man, with a calm demeanor and smiling eyes—approaching them.

He wore a light brown version of the doctor's typical white coat, over a white shirt with no tie and darker brown slacks.

"Good afternoon, Molly and Pomona—and you must be Mr. Potter."

Harry's hand tightened on the pole as Molly and Pomona greeted the man and subsequently stepped away from him, giving enough space for Harry to (rather frightfully) attempt standing with only the pole.

On quaking legs, Harry stood looking up at Remus—who stared down at him…light brown eyes kindly assessing, drawing closer until he had Harry supported by the waist. Taking the full burden of the boy's weight easily from both hovering nurses, he remarked, "It is good that you can support yourself so well already after nearly (but not quite) a month's atrophy. This will make our time here far more productive than I had been anticipating."

"Y-yes-s-sir…" Harry murmured, holding onto the man, grateful for the sturdier support and blinking as the nurses departed, saying they'd be back for him when Remus was through and to just give them a page.

"It's been brought to my attention that you expressed your wishes for a friend of yours to be present during your therapy."

Harry nodded, and Remus kept talking in warm tones as they moved slow and steadily in the direction of the man's office. "I feel the need to ascertain once more that you are fine with your friend's hands-on involvement in your rehab. It can be a rather personal journey. I would not want you to feel uncomfortable during any of it."

Harry swallowed and kept his feet moving, leaning more heavily on Remus than the IV pole at this point.

"I d-don't m-mind…T-Tom…" Harry asserted, "H-he's g-good…for…m-my m-memory…t-too…"

Remus hummed. "Then he must have been quite important to you before the accident. Often—patients in your condition lose all of their short term recent memories indiscriminately in the wake of their prognosis."

"Often…those memories take months to return…and sometimes, even longer—indeed, if at all."

Harry cringed and stopped moving. Remus waited for him to catch his breath, which was quite labored at this point. "I-I r-remem…ber…T-Tom…"

"A very good sign of the possibility of a full recovery, I would say. I look forward to meeting your friend." Remus' words were soothing, and Harry smiled as they started moving again.

"H-he w-won't…b-be here…u-until M-Monday a-after…noon."

"In that case, I recommend we get acquainted until then. Your physical therapy today will mainly be for ensuring everything in your legs is circulating and responding properly, before we do some easy stretches with you lying on the table."

"O-Okay…"

Remus smiled down at him, the man being about his Dad's height, but not quite as tall as Tom (…the needlessly gorgeous giant).

Harry thought they'd get along just fine.

And this was indeed the case.

By the time Sunday ended with Harry being sponged down (yet again), served a nutritional but bland meal in bed, and then put to sleep at sunset—he was feeling rather positive about his recovery and had indeed managed to stand unaided for a grand total of thirty seconds after Remus stretched him out and put him through the preliminary paces.

Harry felt rather proud for his progress that day.

He fell asleep early, wondering after Tom and hoping nothing too dire had happened in the outside world to have dragged the other away.

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

Tom was pissed.

No…strike that—Tom was bloodthirsty and homicidal.

It was late Saturday night and he'd just made it back home to his apartment after his touching evening spent alone with Harry until his boy had fallen asleep and he'd been ushered out by the nurses—before he'd received the call and been made to get back in the car and hightail it to the last place on earth he'd wanted to be that night.

Riddle Manor.

Originally…he had wanted to spend the whole night at the hospital and come home in the wee hours just in time for to shower and change into his uniform for the school day.

(But as Harry was now not unconscious round the clock, and the nurses were in and out more frequently, Tom had been made to shorten his stay like an actual visitor—with only somewhat extended visiting privileges…as opposed to his previous inordinately finagled clearance when things had looked so bleak for Harry's awakening prospects.)

Originally…he hadn't been ready to string up his Father by the balls and skin him slowly alive as he roasted him over a pit of fire, feeding bits and pieces of him to stray dogs and other assorted vermin as he screamed his lungs out shriveled and dead.

"I already apologized multiple times. Will you get that stick out of your arse and make nice? We do have an image to uphold."

"This could have waited." Tom ground out stoically, through teeth gritted hard enough to inspire sympathy aches in Riddle Sr.' s own ticking jaw.

"Nonsense. Do you know how difficult it is to match their time zones? You know as well as I that if we let this moment slip, there'd be hell on the markets come Sunday."

Tom's incinerating glare could have pulverized the heart of a less bastardized incarnation of his blood in a most befouled package.

"You could have done this on your own." Tom deadpanned.

"You would trust me to? After all this time and your autonomy—I'm suddenly the responsible adult?" Riddle Sr. was only half-mocking in his flatly parsed curiosity. Tom focused on his breathing so he wouldn't do something inadvisably hasty in the name of instant gratification.

It. Was. Hard.

"You told me not to contact you for anything less than the apocalypse. I'm sure this qualifies."

Something in Tom frayed…perilously close to snapping.

Not only was he in the very last place he wanted to be after what had been a fine time with his reawakened boy, but he was being made to suffer the company of not one but two related dumbasses with a penchant for trying his patience until it splintered—just because they happened to have deep pockets and unparalleled access to avenues he could not afford to have closed off to himself and the Riddle interests in any way.

How he hated the Malfoys.

Their most recent gaffe in dealing with that damnable Graves and drawing attention of the government had only just been smoothed over and swept under the rug, and now…now the man was bringing (or rather had brought) his son into the mix as contracted partner after marrying him off to some Parkinson chit and seizing a number of assets he was just dying to begin spreading about for lucrative gain.

This wouldn't be such a problem if the Malfoy scion wasn't quite possibly the most wretched being (including his own father, but skipping Pettigrew entirely) which Tom had ever had the displeasure to meet.

Arrogant and entitled to a fault—with hardly two brain cells to rub together and call friction—was the unfortunate prognosis of Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy's only son and heir, fresh out of School at some rich boys' exclusive escalator academy, and ready to get his feet wet to really fuck shit up, riding his father's coattails and reputation all the way to bankruptcy.

In a last ditch effort to salvage his wayward charge, who'd only agreed to the marriage with the stupidly smitten (but connected) daughter of the Parkinson family—after certain monetary concessions were made to him by Lucius's doting parentage, Malfoy Sr. had shown up on Riddle Sr.'s doorstep most rudely that Saturday night—with his son in tow, and demanded an audience with both Riddle Sr. and his genius heir.

All under the banner of calling in a favor for his years of service and dedicated efforts in keeping the Riddle name out of his muddier affairs.

Malfoy Sr. was in effect threatening the Riddles with certain possible indiscretions in sensitive matters should they refuse to hear him out and work with his son as a partner in their business dealings, showing the Malfoy boy the ropes better than his own (supremely preoccupied father) could, and allowing his son to…reap fringe benefits of further association with the Riddle name and interests.

Oh—and he would like Tom Jr. in particular to be on hand to advise Draco in his more personal ventures, which he liked to dabble in with small chunks of the Malfoy inheritance as well as the newer Parkinson branches his farce of a marriage was affording him access to.

Roughly translated—it all boiled down to this: Malfoy Sr. wanted his newly wed imprudent son babysat financially and potty-trained by experts, so as to not shit all over where he slept.

Because apparently he couldn't be arsed to keep cleaning up his own child's messes (alongside his own), and he wanted to relieve himself of the extra burden without bringing the wrath of his socially affluent, but rather over-protective wife down upon his head.

Tom was this close to strangling him in his own intestines.

All the while, the son in question…kept staring at Tom Jr. like he was some kind of expensive cake he was being offered on a golden platter for his (unpropitious) birthday.

Fuck it.

No.

Just no.

Tom counted backwards from ten in pig-latin—twice.

He wanted to tell Malfoy exactly where to shove his platitudes and prettily veiled threats in very graphic terms…but what came out of his throat and showed on his handsome, shadowed but faux pleasant face as he crossed his long legs and looked back at the man sat on the couch next to Draco, in the drawing room across from Tom and his father in separate armchairs—was, "I cannot promise how helpful my advice will be to one such as your son, Mr. Malfoy—Lucius. (Tom quickly amended before the pandering restarted) As I am still a student and very much involved in completing the feat of graduation which your son (Draco? Tom glanced at him as though he'd actually forgotten the twat's name—largely out of spite) has successfully managed."

"Nonsense, Tom. (Lucius spoke his name with silky relish) We are both well aware of your (rather advanced) capabilities and it falls to me to request that you think of Draco as a…slightly older protégé or brother, if naught else. He could stand to learn from your skills and genuinely spectacular expertise."

Tom valiantly suppressed a disgusted grimace as Draco looked at him with eyes lit and rather tellingly interested…as his father kissed professional arse on his behalf.

It was turning into a long, long night.

He felt violated in ways Pettigrew had never managed to inspire, for all his devotion being more that of a distantly stinging mosquito he wanted to smack…rather than a blatant loathsome cockroach crawling between his legs—to which he equated Draco's attention.

A shame he couldn't just kill all undesirables. It would make his life so much easier.

But therein lied the meandering whims of a madman, and Tom was still perfectly sane (thank you very much)…by his own standards.

As such, bearing the weight of his sanity, Tom addressed the cockroach directly with a bland smile never reaching anywhere near his frigid, red glinting hazel eyes, "I will do my best to accommodate your questions and advise you on any ventures you require an extra opinion on. However—I cannot give you spare time in the body which I do not possess. My personal time is scant and currently booked."

Draco spoke, and his voice was just as smarmily unpleasant and festering to his ears as Tom would have expected (others might mistakenly call it cultured and polite, but Tom could hear), "I'm sure we can work around each other's schedules. I would not want to be an imposition, as I do recall what high school was like. I'm not that far removed."

Draco…had the gall to wink at him with a smug little smile.

Tom wanted to stab that eye out…with a blunt spoon, and watch it spurt. A lesser man might have shuddered and gagged in his position. Tom merely smirked and nodded, as though amused in any way.

"Now…how shall I contact you? You do have a line…I presume?" Draco was fishing for a leash. But Tom was no dog.

"You can contact Barty Crouch Jr., he will put you in touch. I shall get back to you directly if and when I am able." Tom's smile was sharp and uncompromising.

Draco affected a peevish pout. "My Father surely has your personal number. I demand the same consideration."

Here, Lucius was quick to point out, "Draco—I most certainly do not have a direct line to Tom, who is in fact not of legal standing as yet. You would do well to restrain your communication to the avenue he suggests. I have dealt with Barty Jr. and he is most amiable. Your contact will be achieved—have no doubt."

Tom restrained an eye roll. He could feel a headache coming along, and was again inordinately thankful for his effective minor status and the fact he had a viable excuse to not be in direct contact with (dumbasses) thing one or two.

"I see." Draco responded primly, crossing his own legs and lacing his manicured fingers together. "I shall rely upon your man then."

A thing resembling a smile but a little too sinister to be called such stretched Tom's lips apart, "See that you do. I would hate for some media scandal to arise from your perceived hassling of a minor for reasons unknown…being that you are a married man to a rather connected young lady."

Lucius's eye twitched. Draco blanched—visibly deflating. Riddle Sr. merely sipped at his brandy in a tumbler and regarded the three with an amused smirk.

It was always a pleasure to watch his heir in action. It was a good reminder of the double bladed edge he so perilously sought to keep in line.

Aah…how nice to not be the only object of his son's ire.

He had almost begun to feel special.

The Monday following Tom's meeting with his father and the Malfoys found Tom in a rather foul mood.

He went through his day snappish like, eager to be away from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts and back to the place which contained the only thing brightening to his effusively dark world.

Being that it was only Monday and he'd disposed of certain trash that weekend in a very effective, spread out manner…Tom wasn't worried about remains of his vindictive stress relief cropping up.

It also helped that Peter hadn't been a particularly popular nor well watched entity at Hogwarts.

In making time to see Harry, Tom had effectively bamboozled his way into affecting a schedule which let him be away from school by one in the afternoon.

Effectively he'd always been unchained through 5th period English and the following study hall (matched up with Harry's), and his last period was a combination of split Evolutionary Biology/Anatomy—which he could beg off so long as he notified his professor ahead and took his daily assignments with him before leaving for the day.

It helped that he was top student in all of his classes, and the more important ones took place in the morning. Otherwise, even he would've been hard pressed.

But he was Tom Riddle. And Tom Riddle could be trusted to never fail in the handling of his obligations.

Give him a less than obligatory preoccupation which he desired to actually get back to—and Tom was an efficient force to be reckoned with.

He was waylaid for a bit by Luna Lovegood cornering him at lunch, and Tom allowed the girl's odd company as he ate. Both of them comfortable enough in each other's presences by now, and their conversation topics encompassing their mutual friend—whom Luna never neglected to keep in mind as she kept track of class assignments to pass off to Tom, asking that he relay her regards to Harry when next he saw him.

Tom agreed to and gratefully filed everything she handed him away, for future perusal with his boy.

Tom then left the school at the designated hour in order to not be late for his next meeting with Harry—steps springing and light as he all but ran to his car and cranked the engine, pealing out of the school lot with an anticipatory grin and easily blotting out all undesirable detritus in his thoughts not pertaining to Harry.

He had a hankering and couldn't wait to see his boy again.

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

That Monday afternoon came as per the new usual for Harry, and it was in the midst of being leveraged from the bed for his physical therapy session that Tom came walking through the door to his room again—looking windswept and handsome as ever, still dressed in his school uniform.

Obviously he'd come directly from there to Harry.

Harry froze with both his arms around Molly and Pomona's shoulders, and they looked back in unison to see what had garnered his attention.

"Good afternoon, ladies…and Harry." Tom smiled and walked further into the room as Molly and Pomona gushed over him, offering their handles and giggling (disturbingly) like school girls when Tom used their given first names and stepped up to offer to take over the lifting of Harry from them.

Harry blushed darkly—as with no reluctance at all, Tom's arm securely encircled his waist, pulling him flush against the other's front, and Tom's left hand clasped his own whilst Harry held onto the IV pole in his other, and stared up with a craned neck at the taller, smugly grinning teen.

Molly and Pomona traded a look, and wasted no time ushering Tom out the room and down the hall, with Harry in tow.

Tom didn't push Harry, allowing his boy to set the pace as the nurses walked ahead and waited for them flanking the doors leading to Harry's destination.

Tom's voice drifted down to his reddened ears as Harry focused on putting one foot ahead of the other, and not tripping (as if Tom would let him…but Harry could achieve the improbable).

"You're lively today; darling…I have missed you something terrible."

Tom punctuated his statement by squeezing his arm around Harry's waist, and Harry's breath hitched automatically at the feel of Tom pressed against him so…

"I-I missed…you t-too…" Harry murmured softly, pleased to note his words were coming a little smoother today.

Tom stroked the back of his hand with his thumb and whispered into his ear, "Did you miss me anywhere in…particular?"

Harry nearly stumbled, but Tom kept him upright easily. "I-I…hn…y-your…mouth…" Tom's breath was hot against his cheek, and Harry's steps slowed further as they reached the midpoint to their destination and Tom purred, "What about my mouth, Harry…?"

"I th-thought about…when y-you k-k-kissed me…Th-the way…you d-did…"

Tom chuckled, and it was a throaty…arousing thing. Harry swallowed thickly as heat further suffused his cheeks and seeped progressively lower…and oh god…not now…was all he could really think anymore.

"I'm looking forward to getting my hands all over you again. Don't fret…I'll take good care of you, soon."

Harry clutched Tom's hand in his own, and stared red-faced and determinedly ahead as they finally reached the doors to the therapy room. Molly and Pomona departed on the threshold with assurances from Tom that he'd remain with Harry every step of the way and make sure he got back safely to his room afterwards.

And then they were entering the room together, with Tom practically wrapped around Harry—as they were met by the smiling, familiar countenance of Remus Lupin beckoning them both into the man's office.

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

If Remus were to accurately summarize his impression of Tom Riddle around his newest patient—Harry Potter, it would be possessively attentive.

He'd had patients request the presence of loved ones throughout their therapies before, and he'd seen many types. But Tom was in a particular class unto himself…which led Remus to approach the day's therapy session with Harry a little…unconventionally…in order to truly test the waters of the dynamics between the two.

Initially he had sat them both down in his office to make the typical introductions and sound Tom's presence out. Harry had sat politely as Remus made Tom's acquaintance.

Tom was unfailingly polite and interested in every facet of Harry's therapeutic treatment. In fact…he was the one to elect to take a more hands-on approach than even Remus usually expected from the support base of his patients.

Typically—most people, while supportive of their own, would be otherwise cordial and standoffish about interfering in any way with Remus's expertise in handling the recovery of their loved ones, because the majority did not want to accidentally not have the job done to professional standards by their own inexperience…effectively hindering the therapeutic process.

Remus never pushed for more involvement than they were all comfortable with.

His patients' comfort came first in all things, but he did try and be diplomatic in the handling of any hangers-on.

Tom Riddle—in contrast, made his stance on taking a hands-on approach with his involvement most vocal and insistent. To the point that Remus almost had to wonder if there wasn't something…more than intimate…between his patient and the young man.

Scratch that….the way Harry was blushing and darting nervous glances between the two of them as they spoke about the mechanics of full body massages and flexibility exercises was as adorable as it was telling.

His patient obviously had no problem being touched by Tom, and was in fact quite eager…if not embarrassed by his own eagerness and trying to appear otherwise unaffected by Tom's interest in assisting him…

Remus may have been as professionally graphic in his explanations of each therapy too, in the almost mischievous interest in seeing his patient's reaction and Tom's own responding veiled glee.

Honestly…young people these days—were bold.

And if that didn't make him feel all of his forty-six years, he didn't know what more could.

He also wondered what they were being fed that Tom appeared so very well grown into his own skin, because he wasn't short (rather average really—Harry was particularly petite) and Tom was almost obscenely tall for his age.

Remus didn't allow himself to linger too long on the size discrepancy outside of professional interests. But Tom's hands would definitely be large enough to do a lot of the harder work in kneading the muscles and tendons in Harry's body to full awareness, and he had plans to make the utmost use of that.

You wouldn't know it by looking, but certain deeper therapies were hard work on the hands and fingers, and Remus wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth for providing him any respite in the overuse of his own aged limbs in aid of his patient.

He also got the feeling that Harry would more than appreciate the shift in providers during his treatment. And Remus would remain vigilant and monitor Tom to be sure he was doing everything properly regarding the exercises.

"Alright then—I suggest we begin with a rub down and muscle warm up, before our stretches. Depending on your results today, I would like to attempt a few minutes of low intensity workout on the treadmill to assist your blood flow and get your heart back used to pumping again."

"Sounds like a plan, Dr. Lupin." Tom stood from his perch along with Remus, who rolled his eyes in exasperated amusement and insisted, "Remus is fine. You needn't be so formal."

Harry only huffed a laugh, as Tom smiled and cordially said, "I would hate to ignore your profession, sir. As you are a specialist—and I am but a mere student with no relation to you whatsoever."

Remus got the odd feeling there was a little underlying something behind Tom's resistance to being familiar with him, but he only raised a brow and took it in stride—before Tom's attention shifted directly onto Harry and he began helping the boy back to his feet, to mild protests from Harry that he could (maybe) manage standing without assistance.

Tom only smiled and helped the boy anyway, murmuring that it made him feel better to know Harry wouldn't possibly overbalance and Harry wouldn't want him nervous now would he?

Remus smothered a smile for Harry's near apologetic acceptance of Tom's help after that (manipulative) statement, and felt his estimation of Tom Riddle growing to levels of Mother Henning alongside the obvious unprecedented intimacies.

By the time they made it to the table for the rub down and Harry was divested of his tied together gown and wrapped in a short towel to preserve his modesty as he was stretched out, on his back, assisted by Tom—Remus was ready to pull up a chair and just let Tom do his job for him.

Because even he wasn't dumb enough to ignore the way Tom hovered, rolling his sleeves up and grabbing the therapeutic oil Remus handed off to him before flexing his long fingers and obviously waiting for Remus's dictated instructions.

Remus stood to the side and began telling Tom exactly what to do. Not approaching Harry with his own hands at all and just watching like a particularly amused hawk as Tom did exactly as instructed and applied the full force of his concentration to getting Harry all ready and warmed up.

It was like running a university class, Remus mused.

And Tom was one stubbornly dedicated and capable student, who wouldn't stand for his professor touching his subject in any unnecessary way.

Honestly…young people these days.

Remus resigned himself to giving orders from the peanut gallery, and resolving to grab a stool at least for next time. All this standing in place could get boring quick.

Harry moaned appreciatively, blushing and averting his eyes from Tom bent over him—as the older teen's hands flowed confidently over his bare skin.

Remus politely ignored the tenting of the towel, and wondered if his (largely uninvolved at this point) presence was in any way unethical.

Harry moaned again, and that was a definite shudder. Tom was repeating a portion of the rub down which Remus had not specified required an additional pass…his eyes focused on Harry's face and blocking out all else as the boy's breathing shallowed and a wicked smirk manifested on Tom's lips.

Remaining silent—Remus determined, next time he'd have a magazine on hand, because this…was surely skating the lines of minor voyeurism, and that was a surely a crime.

Another moan and low delighted chuckle got him thinking about ear plugs and a Walkman.

Heavens above—he was going straight to hell for this.

-v-

xXOXx

-v-

By the time his physical therapy was over, Harry's body was feeling looser and much better than before.

Remus had been hands-off for basically the entire time, and Tom had more than made up for the man's apparent slack.

Harry was rather mortified that he'd gotten hard during the process of Tom rubbing him down on the table…but the last time it had happened all on it's on too (and that'd been worse because Remus was a stranger and what the fuck?), but the therapist had told him it was a natural response to being relaxed and merely assured him that he'd seen it many times before, putting Harry at ease with his body.

The only reason he was still antsy about it around Tom was because it was Tom…not Remus, his appointed therapist…and he knew this time it hadn't been completely involuntary on his part.

He also knew that Tom knew that he was getting inordinately turned on, and the look on the other's face when he couldn't suppress his appreciative moans had been enough to make him wish there wasn't a therapist standing ignored in the background.

Because he knew Tom would have done…something…aboutthe problem he'd caused, otherwise.

As it stood, Tom had merely smirked down at him and teased him horribly with his hands before Remus had stepped in with a cleared throat and declared Harry ready to be gowned up again and put on the tread mill.

It didn't escape him that Tom was doing all the heavy lifting.

The tread mill had been slow going, but Harry was still winded and sweating by the time he got off. And Remus was pleased with his progress, insisting his readouts were quite good and telling Tom that Harry could do with a wipe down before being put back to bed—as the sweating was good, be he didn't recommend Harry be left to sleep in it.

Tom had nodded and assured him it'd be taken care of—saying in no uncertain terms that no, Remus did not need to request the nurses for sponging Harry down or helping him back to his room…as he'd take care of everything.

Remus had laughingly stated if Tom kept doing all their jobs he'd want to request a paycheck.

To which Tom had merely grinned (rather predatorily) and said, "Helping Harry is payment enough. I would never require outside motivation to be here for him."

Harry had colored darkly and said nothing, merely leaning further into Tom's hold around him as Remus smiled knowingly before waving them out the door, to assurances that Tom would be here at the same time the next day to do it all over again.

The journey back to Harry's room was quiet, with Tom allowing Harry to set the pace again and being content to simply keep his boy from stumbling and hurting himself in any way.

Harry was breathing a lot easier by the time they reached his room again, and Tom had him in the bathroom, stood by the filling tub in short order.

It'd been a minute since he'd had an actual bath, and Harry was actually looking forward to being submerged.

It was only the expression on Tom's face as he untied the gown and revealed Harry's body to himself unobstructed that had Harry's pulse ratcheting again.

"Harry…" Tom breathed his name, and Harry blinked slowly as Tom bent down, and then their lips were being pressed together, and Harry was being gently lowered onto the stoop in the tub, waist deep in pleasantly warm water, with Tom blindly shutting off the tap as they made out in privacy.

Harry's eyes slid shut, and he buried his fingers in Tom's hair as Tom's mouth moved hungrily against his own, opening and closing as Tom pressed harder…and harder against him, until Harry was panting heavily into his mouth, glasses fogging up badly as their tongues tangled up in a hot wet mass.

Tom pulled away briefly, just long enough to tug Harry's glasses off and fold them on the wide mouthed side of the tub at a safe distance away, before he dove in once more and settled himself comfortably on the stoop outside the tub.

Harry's pupils were blown, and he chased after Tom's retreating mouth as the older teen finally relinquished his partially swollen lips, murmuring they should get Harry taken care of before he caught a cold.

Harry's chest heaved up and down, and he worried his bottom lip as Tom stood—finding the towels tucked away in a wall cubby and returning with a hand towel and larger dry towel which he folded on the tub's rim beneath Harry's glasses, before dipping and soaping the hand towel with hospital grade body wash—and beginning to gently rub at Harry's skin with no little dedicated focus.

Harry relaxed beneath Tom's hands once more…and a hazy sort of memory floated to the forefront of his mind with little prodding.

Tom entered the dark bathroom and toed the door shut behind them, smiling as Harry stirred in his arms for the shining overhead light hitting his face as Tom brushed the light switch with his shoulder.

In the mirror above the sink, Harry's green eyes cracked open, staring up at Tom leering down at him—his lips parting in question and silent confusion for no longer being on the couch.

"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?" Tom practically purred, setting Harry down on his delicate sock clad feet in the shower.

"Careful darling…I've got you…" Tom's voice was a soothing rumble in his ears as his cheek pressed against Tom's chest, and he was preternaturally unabashed in his slightly addled, naked glory state.

Harry felt like so much jelly as he sighed and let Tom maneuver him this way and that beneath shower spray, soaping him up and wiping him down with his bathing towel that was hung on a bar affixed to the shower wall, making the whole natural process feel like an exercise in sensuality with every concentrated sudsy wipe.

Utterly languid and blissed out, Harry lifted his arm as Tom soaped him up thoroughly—taking care around the inserted IV, and making sure to rub every inch of skin stretched beneath his fingers.

Harry licked his lips and whispered softly, "You're…a-always…t-taking care of m-me…aren't you…?"

Tom's hand rubbing at his skin slowed in its ministrations, and Tom's eyes were on his face…searching, hopeful…as he murmured, "Is that a general observation, or…" trailing off as Harry sighed out in question, "W-why…how were…w-we…in my sh-shower…?"

Tom's eyes phased out in remembrance as his hand stilled altogether, and he smiled…feeling deeply warmed and affectionate as he replied, "It'll come back to you, darling. For now…just use your imagination…"

Harry glared slightly and Tom immediately gave into the urge to kiss the frown from his forehead.

He was elated to know his boy's memories were seemingly still there, merely suppressed and chewing at the bit to get out again. Tom wouldn't interfere in the process of their natural recovery…Harry would come all the way back to him. He had no doubt.

In the meanwhile…Tom murmured, "Stretch your leg for me…a little further…that's it. "

There was a certain precious charm in Harry trusting him so well, when their history was fogged up and curtained off as it was. Tom took that only to mean they were connected no matter the circumstances.

And Harry was his.

Would always be his…like this…eternally.

He would settle for nothing and no one less.

-v-

End Violation.

-v-

A/N: I do hope you all enjoyed this Violation. I know, it's not really medically accurate…but hey—I'm no doctor, and I don't want to make this hospital stay more tedious than necessary.😏

Moving right along now—who loves Remus?💗 And that nod to the Weasley clan? Also...that middle bit with Riddle Sr. and the Malfoys making Tom homicidal was particularly #FunForMe. 😙

I'm rather looking forward to playing with these new characters. But we shall see who makes the cut for any future Violation spotlights. Feel free to throw in a vote for your favorite renditions and tell me what you'd like to see more (or less) of.

I do so love hearing back from all you #Awesome fans.

Until next time,

Stay safe and enjoy our altered realities~ 🌺🐍🌕

Obligatory Disclaimer: I keep checking. But the answer does not change.

~ Ravenslith-FledglingMoon ~ 🌺🐍🌕