Harry isn't sure what gives it away.

The open door, the dead silence of the hallway.

Maybe it's the quiet suspicion of the last few weeks, the suppressed anxiousness hanging over his head.

Whatever it is, it's been building for a long time, now.

As soon as he steps inside of the apartment, he knows. He knows what he's going to see, there.

He drops his backpack by the door, quietly follows the trail of discarded clothes––Tom hates mess, but not when he's so focused he doesn't notice it, not when he's consumed by his current task––and gently steps over them, footsteps muffled on the carpet. A blouse here, a belt there. A pair of heels thrown haphazardly in the kitchen doorway.

Harry tenderly picks them up, depositing them neatly by the entrance. It drives Tom crazy to have shoes laying around.

He continues forward, every step a crack at his heart, every breath a stone to be hurled at him, every hushed thought another question: where did it go wrong?

The bedroom door is cracked, and Harry hears them.

Soft moans, high and worshipful, Tom's steady, deep breaths––he never moans, never sighs, just talks, commands, never lets his guard down for a moment ––and he hears the bed springs, a soft creak creak creak back and forth.

Harry closes his eyes before he gently pushes the door farther open.

Exactly as his tortured mind imagines it: Tom's pale back, barely covered by the bed sheet, thrusting roughly back and forth, controlled and forceful––like everything else about him, and really, Harry should've known he wasn't the only one that admired that about him––and a woman's legs, wrapped tight around his waist, her black, almost claw-like nails scoring half-moons into his back.

And Harry––Harry knows her.

Harry knows the tight, black curls strewn across his silk pillows. Knows the half-lidded eyes, those painted lips. He and Tom had been to dinner with her a few times. She hadn't been particularly nice, but Harry had chalked that up to her dislike of his godfather. Now, he thinks, maybe it was him all along. Him being an obstacle between her and Tom Riddle.

As if feeling the weight of Harry's gaze, one of those darkly lined eyes cracks open, closed in ecstasy as they had been, and she smirks, a cruel twist of dark lips.

And she moans louder.

Tom thrusts harder, and Harry knows how good it feels, has memorized the feeling of Tom over him, of Tom inside of him––

The bedroom door squeaks as it slips further open, a tremulous sound, barely heard over Bellatrix fucking Black's ridiculously vocal encouragements, but, well––Tom's always had extraordinary hearing.

He pauses, tilts his head to the side, and glances back, just enough to see black hair and a jumper and blisteringly green eyes.

Harry closes his eyes. And he turns away.

It's just as Harry's stuffing his toothbrush into his backpack that Tom bursts into the hallway, clad in nothing more than a sheet, twisted around his waist. His eyes meet Harry's in the mirror.

Harry holds his gaze, unwilling to break the silence between them. Tom cracks first.

"Harry."

And Harry is so tired of it all. So tired of not being enough. Never enough for the Dursleys, for his peers, and now––now Tom.

Will he ever be more than a second choice?

He doesn't respond, just looks back down at the bathroom sink, and picks up his things––floss, contacts, saline solution, but not the toothpaste, because he and Tom share it, and Harry doesn't want to do that to him (doesn't want to take anything of him when he leaves)––when a hand closes over his wrist.

Harry stares at it, unblinking, until he slowly looks up into Tom's face. It's carefully blank, that pristine mask Tom spent so many years perfecting.

Since when did he start using it on Harry?

"Harry. What are you doing?"

Harry looks back down at the sink. "Packing. What does it look like?"

"Why?" Tom says immediately.

And Harry––Harry laughs, an empty, hollow thing. "It isn't obvious?"

Tom's grip tightens minutely. Harry can see his Adam's apple bobbing in the corner of his eye. "This can be fixed."

Tom's always been an excellent liar, and it seems he's gotten especially good at deceiving himself. Harry doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the thought. Still, Harry only sighs, before carefully, oh so gently peeling Tom's fingers off of his wrist, one by one. "It can't."

It seems that for once in his life Harry has left Tom Riddle speechless, because he shoulders his backpack, pushing past Tom's silent form. No resistance meets him.

Harry takes three steps before a hand grabs him roughly by the shoulder, slamming him back into the wall. Harry wheezes at the sudden motion, before freezing abruptly as Tom cages him in, his body pressed, toe to tip, against Harry's.

He's still half-hard beneath the sheet, and oh, Harry just loves to torture himself, doesn't he?

Tom's face is inches from Harry's, his hands pinning his hands above his head. His eyes are dark and intense, scanning over Harry's face, his eyes, his mouth, before they fall half-shut, a seductive smirk twisting his lips.

"Harry, darling," he murmurs, leaning down, and Harry can't help the sharp intake of air as his lips meet his neck. He mouths against Harry's throat, rolling his hips, a smooth glide. Harry ignores how his touch still ignites embers in his stomach. How slick Tom's dick feels under that white cloth from someone else's pleasure. "Don't be rash."

And Harry's sick of it. He jerks his knee up, a quick pull of muscle, and feels it connect with delicate skin. He allows himself a cold smile, a detached sort of amusement. "I'm being sensible." Like you always told me to be.

Tom grunts in surprise, a low whine in his throat as his cock positively fireworks in pain. He hunches over, and Harry shoves against his shoulders, crashing him to the floor. He stares down at him, sneering, and he feels so cruel , standing above him like this. He's never been considered the powerful one in their relationship. Perhaps it's time for a change.

"Good luck with your life, Tom. I won't be in it anymore."

Harry steps away, glancing up only once to see Bellatrix Lestrange standing at the edge of the hallway, a mixed expression of triumph and some odd, twisted version of sympathy on her face, the only thing she wears.

Harry smiles, full of teeth. "He's a cheating bastard. I'd get out while you can."

And Harry marches out of the door, head held high, and it's only when he's just flagged down a cab that he hears Tom again.

He's persistent. It was one of those shared things he'd simultaneously adored and hated about the pair of them.

"Harry, wait––it's not––we can fix this––"

Harry stops cold, before whirling around, a hurricane given human form as he finally lets his true fury show on his face. "No!"

Tom stops, face stunned blank, but Harry pays him no mind, barrelling over him as he shouts, voice hoarse and pained and hurt, "No! I'm not going to be your second fucking choice, Tom! You fucked her. It's done. And now, we're done. End of story."

Tom approaches him, a pleading expression on his face, and it's fake, it was all fake, it was all lies––

"Sweetheart, come on––it won't happen again, just come back inside––"

No 'it was a mistake.' No 'I'm sorry.' No 'Please.'

Just, come back inside, Harry. We'll talk. You'll get over it, and I'll still have fucked her. We'll be fine. We can fix this.

Yeah? Well, Harry's tired of fixing other people's mistakes.

The cab pulls up beside him, and Harry looks one more time at Tom, standing at the bottom of the stairs to their first ever home together. It's really a shame, he thinks distantly—it's a very nice apartment.

"Bye, Tom," and he slides into the cab, shutting the door behind him as it peels away from the curb.

It's only when they're outside London that he lets the tears fall, silent and unnoticed, and he thinks the worst part is that he's not even sad—he's just angry.

Tom Riddle knows a lot of things.

Every single person in his life has told him his potential, has encouraged that scorching intelligence resting heavy in his mind.

And yet, he could not have expected the sudden rawness in his chest.

He stares, blank, at the spot Harry had just occupied.

This is what you wanted, a voice whispers. This was the plan. Seduce him, use him, and leave him, broken-hearted and humiliated.

The humiliation was meant to be a balm to the struggle of bearing Harry's attention, that broken heart a reward for his patience and cunning.

And yet... He'd never imagined that leaving would feel more like loss than relief.

Slim arms wrap tight around his torso, a pointed chin tucked into the crook of his neck. Painted lips press an open-mouthed kiss to his throat.

"Come back to bed," Bellatrix whispers.

He can feel the silk robe she must have donned. Feels how bare she is underneath.

There's no other robe that could be but Harry's.

He looks down, eyes boring into concrete, a gaze so heavy with some emotion he can't name it could carve through solid stone.

He takes Bellatrix's hands, turning in her arms. He presses a kiss to her dark curls, thicker and tighter than Harry's. Not nearly so soft, but just as familiar.

He has known her for quite some time, now. Has known her barely-concealed infatuation for years, indulged it, and become acquainted with its useful nature in conjunction to his plans.

And he will take this comfort, even if it doesn't feel as right as someone else's might have.

"Wine, first," he murmurs, voice rough and quiet.

He looks down, watches the enraptured, adoring gaze beneath him. There's a hint of uncertainty; it does not twist in his chest like that jaded acceptance he saw, painted in so many shades of green.

She nods, and there's a certain vulnerability to her gaze. A hint of something unsure in the back of dark eyes.

"Yes, alright."

And she leads him back into the apartment.

Even from so far away, he thinks he can hear the crack of a heart, so battered and bruised it's a miracle it hasn't shattered, yet.

Not until now.

Not until Tom.

It is not so satisfying as he thought it would be.

The next morning, the headline reads: A BUDDING POLITICIAN'S LOVE AFFAIR?

On the front, a picture takes up over half the page. Tom Riddle, wrapped in the arms of his new paramour, staring listlessly off at the horizon.

Harry knows there will be an interview coming to accompany it.

And, just like the remains of paper resting under the ashes of the Weasleys' fire, he will discard it. He will throw it away.

For all he cares, Tom Riddle can burn with it.

Now, as for how it all began:

It didn't start as some spontaneous thing. It wasn't something sweet, read in stories; nothing dramatic, told on the telly; it began as a secret, as a plan whispered against gasping lips.

"Tom, I don't understand––I could give you just as much as him. I have the fame, the money; what's the difference? Why him?"

"Bella, Bella, Bella," Tom hummed, his breath tickling her ear. He watched with satisfaction as a shiver ran through her entire body. "He's valuable––naive, easy. It'll only be a little while, and you can last that long without me, can't you?"

"But I don't––" Her breath halted, stuttering as he kissed gently against her rapid-fire pulse. "I don't see––I mean, couldn't I give you just as much––just as much renown?"

"Your renown," he said, tilting his head to the other side of that pale neck of marble, "is the wrong kind. I need someone––pure. Good. And then maybe…"

And she must've been getting impatient, because she took his face in both of her palms, tilting it up to look at her. Tom admired the sight she made; willing, desperate, her lingerie the only thing that covers her modesty. It was black––not white, not virginal. Not innocent.

She was gorgeous in the sense that her body was without flaw, with perfect proportion, and perhaps her mind was beautiful, as well, because of its willingness to bend to his whims. But the attraction stopped there, some kind of surface appreciation. Her thoughts were not particularly deep, but they were spiteful, cruel things, and Tom could find a kinship in that. Could find a loyalty that he could use.

"And then maybe..?"

Tom felt a twinge of irritation at her questioning, but smoothed it over with a smile and the assurance that she must truly want to serve him if she is so attached. He has always prized loyalty.

"Maybe we can come back to this," he said, finally, leaning over her on the bed. He knew his hair was falling into his eyes, making the glint of them pierce ever so deeply. Making him seem only too sincere. "A year or so, and we can… pick up where we left off."

Her black eyes, half-crazed with a desperate affection, scanned over his face. But she quickly relented, because even if Tom had never known love, he knew the mechanics of it, and if ever there was someone so in love as her, they must surely be named Juliet.

"Alright," she said, pulling him into a long, lingering kiss. Tom deepened it, forcing it from something loving to something savage.

He eased over her, then, sucking harshly at the delicate skin of her throat. "Alright," he agreed, gently grinding against her, hearing her moan, "I'll seek out the Potter boy tomorrow. But tonight…"

Well. Tonight could be reserved for other activities.

And so it had begun. Tom Riddle, rising politician, would romance and seduce Harry Potter, orphan and only son of two of the most beloved people in all of England, in order to rise within the ranks of British politics.

He asked Bellatrix's nephew, Draco Malfoy, about the boy. They were schoolyard rivals, after all (though Tom had the distinct impression that that 'resentment' he claims them to have shared may have been more pulling pigtails than anything).

This suspicion was further supported by the fact that Draco Malfoy kept tabs on the young man, even still, years after secondary.

It was how he found himself here, sitting in the back corner of a coffee shop, sipping at an Earl Grey as he watched the door from behind a newspaper.

When the boy arrived, he wasn't quite smiling, but he had this aura around him, as if he was content in this moment, faintly happy as he stumbled in from the wind.

"Hey, Harry––what'll it be today?" The Asian barista with blue-black hair smiled cheerfully, waving as she handed another customer their drink.

"Hey, Cho. Something warm and sweet; it's brutal out there," he had replied, adjusting the scarf around his neck. His glasses were flecked with mist, but it didn't diminish the brightness of those big, beautiful green eyes.

Something a little like want shot through Tom as those eyes made contact with his.

And Tom remembers thinking that maybe this would not be as unbearable as he first thought it would be. He'd judged the boy weak, naive, someone boring and empty-headed and hopelessly kind. But maybe this wouldn't be so bad, because at the very least, there was some physical attraction.

There must be, if the blush on that face was anything to go by. If the heat of those eyes indicated anything.

At the very least, Tom had looked forward to unravelling the heady mischievousness lingering behind those deep, deep eyes.

It had been relatively smooth sailing from there.

It wasn't as hard as he thought it was going to be, stealing his way into the boy's heart, and that was a testament to just how (loving) weak the boy was. He hardly had to do anything more than look at him and he could be secure in the knowledge that the boy was his, hook, line, and sinker.

Within months, after days and days of talking and drinking and laughing, the boy was stuttering out a confession, and if Tom felt the barest hint of pity (for that must be what it is) at the thought that the heart so graciously granted to him would be destroyed soon, well, no one must know but himself.

When they made it official to their friends and the media, they spent nearly every waking moment together. It was not unbearable. Sometimes (rarely, of course), it was almost even… enjoyable.

He had almost wished it wouldn't have to end. The late nights spent whispering secrets to each other as hands wander, the early mornings wrapped naked in sunlight and warmth, the lingering glances that say more than words ever could.

And then, every once in a while, Tom would remember the deadline. He'd remember his goals, and for a little while, he had pushed them away. He let himself let go, just a little bit. He wouldn't be seeing Harry after all this, anyway, so what did it matter if he allowed himself to bask in this warmth, just for the time being? To revel in the attention ( the love ) until the timer ran out?

They moved in together after two years (a year longer than planned––this was dangerous, he knew). He hardly thought of Bellatrix at all, too consumed by everything Harry.

But then, she had shown up at their door, throwing plans in his face and begging for a return to all that he was, still is, and Tom had remembered everything.

And Tom may have been a devil, but even Lucifer himself couldn't resist temptation.

Now? Well, now is… complicated.

Tom Riddle is the sort of man that does not have regrets.

Still, there is one night he thinks about, where he wishes things could have ended differently. Where he could change the course of time, to change the course of his life, up until that moment.

Tom sits at a table set for two in his flat, all monochrome and glass and sharp edges. Very modern, Harry would've said.

There are pops of green, like bright eyes, dashes of red, like rosy cheeks, but it's grey-scale, for the most part.

Tom sips his coffee as he scans the morning paper, not processing the bold print. It's old fashioned of him, but it feels better than staring at it through some screen. The paper reminds him of better times, when he might've had a smaller body curled into him, reading over his shoulder and snorting at the fact that he still reads the morning news.

Even now, he tries not to think of him, because after he had left Bellatrix in the ensuing months, he hadn't been able to find Harry. He'd simply disappeared, with only one blip on the radar in all the years he'd been gone. It didn't help that all of Harry's friends were dead-set on never speaking to him again; a fate he'd expected, but nevertheless hoped against.

Tom frowns into his coffee. He sips from his mug as he remembers green eyes, remembers how bright they could be, and he hates that he still remembers the exact shade of green––and nearly spits his coffee right back out all over himself as he sees those very eyes, shy, as they meet his through print.

On the front page, Harry Potter stands, arm looped through another man's. His hair is as dark and wild as ever, but his partner's is neat, wavy––a golden brown that shines even in the picture. He is looking down at Harry, utterly besotted, a wide smile on his face.

Tom knows that man.

Cedric Diggory, Duke of Sussex, most eligible bachelor in England.

At least, he was.

Because, as the headline reads:

DUKE OF SUSSEX ENGAGED––TO A MAN?

Tom sets his coffee down, eyes wide as they stay glued to the picture.

Harry smiles mockingly up at him, eyes ducked shyly, fingers half-curled in a wave.

To think, that Tom would search for so long to find Harry Potter after that dreaded night––only for him to land in his lap, accompanied by the worst news possible.

Tom is not the sort of man who swears, but…

Fuck.

When Harry Potter left Tom Riddle, the newspapers had exploded with speculation.

TOM RIDDLE'S A CHEATING BASTARD––FORMER MISTRESS TELLS ALL!

Tom had never had a mistress. Bellatrix had been a tool for manipulation, something to be used for his own ends. And, to some extent, a companion. A confidant.

But Tom had never had a mistress.

TOM RIDDLE NOT EVEN INTERESTED IN MEN––HARRY POTTER A TOOL FOR POPULARITY?

Close, but not quite. While Harry had indeed been a tool to step him up into the public eye, Tom Riddle was interested in men––he just had very particular tastes. In fact, he'd only ever had five partners total in his entire lifetime, three of which had been largely one night stands. And the other two…

Well.

TOM RIDDLE AND BELLATRIX LESTRANGE––LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT!

This had been Tom's approved article.

He and Bellatrix, painted as a whirlwind romance––one business trip in Paris, sparks flying, and suddenly Tom knew Harry Potter was not The One.

Still, just as every article had an element of untruth, so too did this one. Namely: Tom had never believed Harry Potter to be The One. Bellatrix had never been it, either. And love––Tom had not believed himself capable of it.

But once Harry left––once his chest had been scraped raw of Harry's presence, leaving an unbearable emptiness in its wake––Tom had been forced to confront the truth of it.

Tom had been in love with Harry Potter.

Tom Riddle had only ever loved Harry Potter.

But Tom had lost him, and hadn't been able to find him. Not until Harry had revealed himself of his own accord.

Even now, that fact burns him.

"Don't do it, Tom."

Tom hardly picked up the phone before the words were drifting through the other end.

Tom rolls his eyes, a habit he'd never quite been able to dispel after he'd picked it up from Harry. Even being twenty-nine, Severus could never seem to treat Tom as anything other than a child.

"Do what, Severus?" He says, leaning back in his chair. He tries not to sound patronizing, but he can't help the undercurrent of irritation; to realize that Harry was engaged, that this would be how Tom found him…

"You know exactly what." The man's voice is flat, unforgiving. Funnily enough, the only time Severus shows any care for the boy is when it comes to Tom's vicious break up. Tom supposes Severus must empathize with such a sudden heartbreak as Harry's.

"I don't, I'm afraid."

"Tom, listen to me. Do not go after him. He doesn't deserve that," he says, voice stern, sneering, but still, there is that underlying hint of concern.

A dark look crosses Tom's face. "And what are you going to do about it?" That boy is mine, he doesn't say. That boy will never be anyone else's.

A deep sigh, a weariness pulled from all the way down in Severus's chest. "Nothing. But Tom––he's going to be happy."

"Not nearly as happy as he would be with me," Tom snarls. He feels the jealousy, the heat of fury building in his chest as his eyes look over the newspaper. As they settle on Diggory's hand, wrapped tight around Harry's waist. So, so near to grabbing his hip.

Tom still remembers how they had fit in the palms of his hands.

Severus doesn't say anything, and it is louder than any verbal admission. Eventually, he relents. "That may be true," he says quietly, "but he's not with you, now, is he?"

Tom leans forward, his hands curling around the paper in his hands. His voice is low, dangerous, when he says, carefully controlled, "And what, exactly, are you trying to say?"

"Nothing, Tom," Severus intones, and he sounds tired. Sounds strung-out, from having to mediate between a broken-hearted boy, the son of his first love, and the man that holds so much anger and potential and power that he is terrifying in his intensity. "Just––consider, if you would, that… that boy left for a reason. Who's to say that reason hasn't left?"

And then the line ends.

Tom should've expected it; Severus doesn't say goodbye, just hangs up when there is no more left to be said. Still, he feels a hot well of anger. Harry had been in love with Tom; his heartbreak had been proof of it. Surely that love hadn't left?

Doubt whispers, but hasn't it? Harry's engaged. Harry left. Who's to say the love didn't go with it?

Tom pushes the thought away as he stands, smoothing out the crumpled newspaper on the table. He stares down at Harry's lovely face (trusting, too trusting; and he wants, wants, needs) as his hand, still holding the phone, falls to his side.

It has been five years, and this time, Tom won't let Harry go once he has him.

Tom won't relent until he has that heart once more, tucked ever so protectively under his.

Right after Harry had left, Tom had drowned his sorrows in the body of Bellatrix Black, in the desperate comfort she could provide. After hardly three months, though, he was forced to reconcile that she was not enough. That she could never be enough.

Failing that, he went to clubs all over London, drank himself stupid, but still, he could not find that feeling that he had felt so often with Harry. Could not chase the sweet, syrupy feeling of adoration that Harry so often provided.

It was only after Severus dragged him from a club and threw him into the shower, demanding he get over himself, that Tom came to his senses. Came to the realization that if Harry was the only one that could give that lovely bliss, then Harry is who Tom would find.

Unfortunately, that was much easier said than done, especially when the media was hounding Tom for answers about his disastrous love life, questioning if he was worth rooting for when he couldn't even keep his relationships together.

It was about that time that Tom had been forced to reevaluate his motivations, his ambitions, and he had come to the conclusion that perhaps these things would be far easier to control from the inside. From outside the public's eye.

And Lucius Malfoy––he was perfect.

Tom had gone from hoping to rise in the ranks as one of their own to Britain's very own puppetmaster. He would stay in politics, of course, but instead of rising, he would settle on the waves as he watched Lucius Malfoy ascend in his place, with Tom as his wings.

But first, he needed to find Harry.

He'd started with the most obvious choice: Granger and Weasley.

Tom would've tried the Weasley household itself, but he had a feeling he may not make it out of there alive. Harry was practically family, after all, and they were a fiery, vicious band of lions when provoked.

In a word, the two were utterly useless.

"Look, Riddle," Weasley had sneered, "You lost your chance. Fuck off and find someone else to play with."

Granger, standing behind him like some protective mother hen, had nodded her agreement, mouth shut in a grim line.

Tom's eyes narrowed, frustrated, but even so, he was unwilling to betray himself to these two morons. "I understand there is some… bad blood, between us," Tom tried, diplomatic as possible, even as Weasley snorted at such a blatant understatement, "but I've realized that perhaps the way I went about things was not the best. I only hope––"

"That's rich," Weasley barked, leaning against the doorframe, "'Not the best?' Riddle, do you even fucking hear yourself?"

"I'm trying to be tactful about this," Tom said, jaw clenched, because really, it was bad enough having to deal with these miscreants in order to find Harry, but to be mocked by them was just a new low.

"Quite tactful, isn't it, fucking some elitist bitch where you know your boyfriend will find you?" Weasley retorted, leaning into Tom's space. They were nearly the same height, and Tom could see all the angry tics displayed freely all over Weasley's face. His blue eyes were sparking with absolute fury, his face blotchy and red as he snarled, "I'll show you fucking tactful, you son of a––"

"That's enough." Granger stepped forward, pulling Weasley back by the elbow. He went reluctantly, his face blazing with pure hatred as he allowed her to move in front of him. Her whiskey eyes were steely when they met Tom's.

She sized him up, something calculating and cold as she looked him over. As she formulated the best way to tear him down.

"I'm only going to say this once," she'd begun, and Tom should've stopped her, should've tried to say something else, but he'd hardly managed a spike of indignation before she'd barrelled on, relentless, "He hates you, and would like to go the rest of his life without seeing you."

She smiled, something unholy in it. "His words, not mine."

Tom felt his chest seize, but he pushed it down, pushed down the desperation, the pain, and replaced it with cold hard anger.

Tom pulled himself to his full height, smiling, wide and fake and blinding. "Well, Granger," Tom had said, something dark stirring in his chest, "Pass on a message. He'll be seeing me, eventually. Whether he likes it or not."

And he'd turned on his heel, something in his chest tightening unbearably.

It didn't matter if Harry didn't want to be found. Tom had no plans of letting him go.

There was no point asking the Dursleys, so he'd tried Chang next, but she'd known nothing. Hadn't seen Harry since it happened.

"I'm worried, Tom," she'd said, laying a hand on his arm, her big, black eyes wide and pleading. He had to resist the urge to rip it off of him. "Is he alright? I know you hurt him, but I don't… He should've come in by now. He hasn't visited the shop..."

She didn't know the true story, of course. Didn't know the extent Tom had gone to to wound him.

"He's fine," Tom said, with a tight-lipped smile, trying for light. "He'll be better, soon."

Cho looked at him, not quite believing. "Just… don't hurt him again, Tom. He doesn't deserve that."

Tom was already turning for the door when he tossed back, over his shoulder, "I have no intention of a repeat."

He had no intention of scraping his chest raw once more. Because, in the deepest parts of himself, he knew there would be no repeat not for Harry's sake––but for his own.

None of Harry's old college professors had seen him, and Harry's good for nothing godfather had still been rotting in prison without word for weeks now, like a stray mutt left on the side of the road. His boss at the daycare said he'd resigned, and none of his old haunts had heard hide nor hair from him. Girl-Weasley was the last on the list.

She and Harry had never been close, but she was Tom's last lead.

Tom would never admit it, but he was starting to get… apprehensive.

Even despite everyone else's stubbornness, he was usually able to tell if Harry was with them or not within the first few minutes of interaction, simply by the way they held themselves. And, so far, none had been hiding him away.

It was like Harry had picked up his life and completely relocated, somewhere that Tom would never find him.

Tom walked up the path. The apartment complex was nice, if cheap, and well-maintained. It was very quaint. Something Harry would have appreciated.

Tom took a deep breath, before knocking.

A moment, two more, and Tom almost thought he was going to be left outside when the door swung open, Ginny Weasley standing on the other side, as if braced for battle. She stared at him, blocking the rest of the room carefully as she met his stare.

"Riddle." Her voice was toneless, her hazel eyes impassive. And Tom was so past being polite. He'd been searching far too long for that.

Tom hardly had conscious permission before his teeth were baring themselves in a snarl, and he leaned in close, his eyes black and hateful, no care for the masks he dons so often.

"Let's cut to the chase. Tell me where he's gone, Weasley, or I swear to you––"

"What?" she asks, her eyes blazing fire. "What can you possibly do? You're charming, Riddle, but you're not infallible; you have too many scandals to your name to bring yourself into another one. So tell me, please, I'm dying to know; what will you do? He doesn't want you. Let's leave it that way."

Tom's breaths come heavy with rage, zero to sixty in seconds, his hands gripping the doorframe so tightly the wood almost feels as if it will give under his hand.

"Look, Ginevra," he spits, vicious as any animal, rabid and bloodthirsty, "I'm going to find him, one way or another. And when I do––I will take him, I will keep him, and I will drag you down."

Their faces nearly touch when he hisses, "Because, dear girl, he was mine before he will ever be yours."

She glares into his eyes, so close to hers, and her jaw is tight, her throat bobbing. But that doesn't quite catch Tom's attention as much as the way her eyes flick back into the apartment does.

And suddenly––her body language, her willingness to fight, to get into this outside of her door, anything to prevent an inside confrontation––a distraction. Everything about her was strategic, somehow.

Bingo.

Tom grinned, teeth white and shining and sharp. The shifting face of a monster. Once furious, now gleeful, but still utterly hungry. Still dangerous.

"Weasley," he purred, expression just this side of sane. "Let me in. Harry and I need to have a talk."

Girl-Weasley's jaw clenched, throat bobbing.

And then, her whole body twitched, and the door was being slammed shut.

But not before Tom could block it.

His foot was screaming at him, fireworking with pain, but there was a surge of adrenaline, of determination, of giddy triumph coursing through his veins.

He was so close.

"Riddle, get out of the doorway," Girl-Weasley ground out, pushing against the door, but she was no match for Riddle's strength.

"No." And he shoved the door back with one great heave, forcing Girl-Weasley back into her apartment and his body into the apartment.

Girl-Weasley was saying something, holding her hands out as if to stop him, but Tom was focused solely on the shadow in the hallway, moving around in another room. He forced his way past Weasley, hardly hearing her protests, marching to the back of the apartment.

He's not sure what he expected, but an open window wasn't it.

He ran to the still, leaning over the edge. They were on the second floor, but there was a fire escape leading down to the concrete. And there, just there––

Tom would know that silhouette anywhere.

It was Harry, climbing onto the back of a motorcycle, hands holding tight to the bars as he flipped back the kickstand, his hair messy and black and beautiful.

He looked back.

Their eyes met for one, charged moment, and Tom didn't know what his face looked like––maybe furious, maybe surprised, maybe longing––

But whatever it was, it wasn't enough to stop Harry from driving off into the streets, never to be seen again.

Wasn't enough to bring him back into Tom's life.

Until now, of course.

Tom smiles up at the Diggory's summer home, his teeth white and shining.

Found you.