A/N:
this totally ran away with me. so you all get another 11k of this AU because i have negative amounts of self-control.
updated the tags to include 'Grooming' so please be aware of that! it only took me a few sentences in of writing this to realize that tom was going to be even more an absolute creep than i originally imagined klsdjglsdgjkl
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To Turn on the Light
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ZERO.
The Capitol cannot touch Tom Riddle because he is a monolith. There is no one he loves. There is nothing he cares for. He won his Hunger Games nearly twenty years ago and has reaped the rewards ever since. Wealth and luxury, the cornerstones of his district, are now cornerstones of his life.
There is nothing that money cannot buy when all he does is search for ways to pass the time, collecting secrets and trinkets to fill a flashy, shallow life.
After all, President Grindelwald is content to leave him be because he plays the game so very well. Tom teases and flirts with the best of the Capitol, never giving them what they want because it isn't about what they want. Not anymore. They want him—in their lives, in their beds—and Tom lets them have their delusions. He enjoys toying with them, driving them mad before he shuts them down.
His time in the arena is long over, but there are plenty of new games to play, games that are about what he wants. Everything he wants, whenever he wants. Since winning the Hunger Games, he always gets what he wants.
Tom Riddle is a Victor and he belongs to no one.
ONE.
"I want you to take everything you think you know about the Games and discard it. Toss it right out the window. For this year's Quarter Quell, we are changing everything."
TWO.
The Games are aired every year. Tom watches them every year. Most of the Tributes from the poorer districts are weak, simpleminded children who die in the first forty-eight hours of the Games.
Tom sees his boy on the screen first. The very first tribute drawn for the season, the sort of boy he would have picked out of a crowd for himself, all thin limbs with bony joints. Large green eyes, wild hair. Fragile but strong. It stirs that familiar creature in his chest, lures it out of its silent home. Tom feels it unfurl and examine the boy with interest.
The screen zooms in. Such lovely eyes, brilliant like emeralds even under the gloomy, polluted skies of District Twelve. Defiance in those eyes and so much potential in the muscled lines of that lithe body.
A waste, he thinks. A shame to see such unrealized beauty lost to the bloodthirst of the Capitol. No doubt this boy would make for a pretty corpse, a poignant moment—but moments are fleeting. They are not enough.
Many Tributes die in the first forty-eight hours of the Games, but Tom likes this one. He wants a taste, a touch. He wants more than mere moments on a screen.
On the stage, Harry Potter grabs Ginny Weasley's hand and raises it to the heavens.
Tom reaches for his phone and makes a call. There's little time to waste.
THREE.
Bellatrix loops her arm through his as they board the train. She's an old friend, a dear one in the sense that she is one of few he can tolerate for longer than an hour without wanting to strangle her.
He's fairly certain that if he asked, she would gladly wear his ring on her hand and spread her legs for him every night. She doesn't ask, however, and that's why he keeps her around. Bellatrix has her pride, which is more than he can say for a majority of the Capitol's citizens.
"The boy is mine," he tells her as they approach the compartment of the train that contains their virtuous tributes.
Bellatrix rolls her eyes at him. It's a frivolous display of disdain that is intended to irritate rather than chasten him. "So many pretty boys at the Capitol and you pick the scruffy little rat from Twelve," she says, her sultry voice pitched with exaggerated despair. "And here I thought you took this job to spend more time with me!"
That was what he'd told her when they'd displaced Lucius Malfoy from this position mere hours ago. "We'll be mentors for years to come," he says dismissively. When they reach the door, he adds, "You will handle the girl and keep her out of the way."
Bellatrix smacks her lips together, looking thoughtful. "You'll owe me," she says at last.
"Fine." Tom hits the button for the door. He's itching to lay eyes on his boy.
The door slides open, too slowly for Tom's liking. He lets Bellatrix enter first, knowing she enjoys the dramatics, and slides in behind her. The two young tributes are seated at a long table full of food, all of it untouched.
The girl leaps to her feet first. "Where's our mentor? Isn't he supposed to meet us here? Aberforth?"
"Change of plans," Tom states. "New Quarter Quell rules." A blessing for him, to have this opportunity.
He looks at Harry Potter. Shoulders hunched, round glasses glinting like jewels. Tom can't wait to take him apart but he must be patient. He can see, now, that his boy is wary. A survivor. Someone used to pushing through the very worst and emerging in tatters.
"You're Tom Riddle," says Harry. He is watching Tom with distrust but there is plenty of time to change that.
Tom knows what Harry needs and precisely how to deliver it to him. Deep down, Harry wants what all mistreated, lonely boys that age want—someone who listens. Someone who cares.
"That I am. District One," Tom says briskly to both tributes, but what he says next is for Harry only, because Harry is the one he is here for. "I will be your mentor for this year's Games."
FOUR.
It is easy to win the boy over. He is unused to the opulence of the Capitol, to the richness of a full meal in his belly. Tom coos and comforts, pleased when Harry lets him draw close and touch him. Hand on his back, hand on his shoulder.
However, Harry reacts poorly when Tom goes too far. He turns still and cold under Tom's over-familiar touch. Tom withdraws, aware he's overstepped but unwilling to regret it, and shifts back in his chair.
He can read the fear off of the boy so easily. Buried under bravado and attempts to convince himself otherwise, Harry is terrified of dying. His true bravery stems from his willingness to die despite his fear, just as his self-deprecating nature is the surface-level symptom of a much deeper problem.
For Harry to trust him, Tom must become his saviour, his lifeline even when all hope is lost. Tom must ply him with promises of victory and bolster his confidence. Care for Harry, look after him. Then, once that trust is won, use it to charm the boy into his bed.
It is a kindness, truly, to ensure the last week of this boy's life is an enjoyable one. Even the greedy creature living in the caverns of Tom's hollow chest agrees.
FIVE.
Tom loses the boy to the Capitol's clutches for a short while, but he finds his way into the waiting room so they can have some time alone together.
Harry sits on the silver table, dressed in a teal medical gown that hangs past his knees. The mess of his hair has been tamed, his glasses removed and his skin buffed and sanded into a flawless tan canvas.
He brightens when Tom enters the room. Such a beautiful sight. The boys of the Capitol are nothing like this. None of those boys are genuine like Harry.
Tom goes to him straight away, holds him gently under the guise of examining the changes. Harry squirms, obviously trying to keep still, and Tom badly wants to kiss him for being so endearing.
"Excellent," Tom declares, admiring the deep flush of colour that rises to his boy's face and neck. "They're going to adore you."
Harry doesn't believe him. In fact, he doesn't even make an effort to pretend like he does. Tom feels a tick of frustration low in his chest. Harry does not see himself as worthy and the Capitol will exacerbate this issue by heaping meaningless praise—or worse, ridicule—upon him.
"Harry," Tom says firmly, "listen to me. You are positively beguiling." His hand rises to cradle the soft blush of his boy's cheek. "The Capitol will love you, but only if you let them. I have faith in you."
Though his face reddens further, Harry does not respond.
Tom restrains his urge to snap. His attempts at reassurance are met with resistance because his boy is cautious and requires a gentle touch. "You are not a killer. I knew this when I laid eyes on you. But you are a survivor. I can work with that." Then, because he needs to know, he asks, "Do you trust me?"
Harry nibbles his lower lip and rubs at the fragile bone of his wrist. Tempting. Tom wants to replace Harry's teeth and fingers with his own.
"Yeah," Harry says eventually, "yeah, I do."
Success. Tom is pleased by Harry's honesty, his boy's open heart and trustworthy nature. The darkness inside him hums. "Good," Tom praises. "Let me take care of you, Harry. I promise you won't regret it."
SIX.
Trouble comes in the form of the girl. Harry is attached to her, and if Tom isn't mistaken, the girl is romantically attached to him in return. He's seen it before: the subtle glances, the stubborn glares. Love in its most naive, innocent form.
Bellatrix must see it as well. She likes the girl and has mentioned as much to Tom. Fiery is the word Bellatrix used to describe her, and Tom agrees. Ginny Weasley is an open flame that threatens to torch everything to the ground. A girl like her will only ruin Tom's plans.
Tom watches the interplay between the two tributes during dinner. The full measure of Harry Potter comes together very quickly. This boy is a martyr, seeking value for himself in death rather than in life. However, this is the one instance where Harry's willingness to die is useful. He will push the girl away without Tom needing to orchestrate it.
With a subtle glance, Tom signals for Bellatrix to put an end to the argument. Let it remain unresolved so that Tom can fill the gap and be everything his boy needs.
The girl goes to bed early, upset and angry. Bellatrix follows after, laughter dancing in her eyes as she winks at Tom over her shoulder. It's all Tom can do not to shove her out the nearest window.
Harry remains behind. He is shy. He shuffles around the enormous flat like he does not belong, but what he fails to realize is that he does belong. He belongs to Tom now.
"Come," Tom says. "Sit." He's a bit wine drunk, granted, but he's sober enough to charm the boy. He has his goals laid out for himself tonight: soothe the anxiety, build the trust, and extract a promise.
But, oh, his boy is a delight. It's too easy for Tom to be distracted, to let his eyes wander where they shouldn't. He lavishes Harry in compliments and revels in the reaction. Let the boy believe he is lovely and desirable because it is the truth. Tom desires him.
Then the conversation turns back to the girl. Admittedly, it is Tom's own fault for leading them there, but Harry must not be permitted to sacrifice himself for some common chit. The idea of it is appalling.
Harry, of course, protests. "Ginny is my friend."
"Which is loyal of you to say, and will see you dead in the first hour if you're not careful," Tom tells him. Love, romantic or not, is a weapon made deadly in the clutches of the Capitol. "My job is to keep you alive. You are the most important person to me, not her."
"She's my friend," Harry repeats. "I'm not going to hurt her."
Stubborn boy. Tom finds himself growing angry. Harry believes that the girl can win but he holds no such belief for himself. Tom will prove him wrong. Tributes from poorer districts often die in the first forty-eight hours of the Games but Harry will not be one of them.
"I want you to swear to me that you will not give up," Tom says, squeezing down on Harry's hand, willing Harry to understand how valuable his life is. "Even if the entire arena is burning to the ground, you will do everything in your power to stay alive."
"I will," Harry says hesitantly, caving under Tom's insistence. "I promise."
"Thank you, Harry." Tom feels relieved. It is a strange sensation that flows through his body like a heavy dose of morphine, quieting the urge that demands he drag Harry Potter to his bed and chain him there. They are not there yet. It is likely for the best that he goes now before he does something he'll regret in the morning. "On that note," he adds, "I believe it's time for bed."
Harry's dark lashes flutter, his throat bobbing with nerves, his eyes blown wide with worship.
"Good night, little lion," Tom says softly, laying a hand to briefly rest on his boy's knee.
Harry's eyes trail him as he departs. Satisfaction curls in Tom's gut like a snake. Harry will be his very soon. It's only a matter of time.
SEVEN.
Tom teaches his boy everything he knows. Two decades of knowledge compressed into several hour-long lessons that boil down to one goal: survival. While Tom teaches, he also learns. His boy is clever and wily. He has incredible instincts and the strength to see those instincts through.
Gradually, Tom becomes convinced that his boy may have a fighting chance after all. He starts to imagine it happening. Harry winning. They could enjoy a few more years together before the shine of newness inevitably wore off and Tom moved onto the next pretty young thing that caught his attention.
But Harry will thank him, surely, for saving his life and securing him the Capitol funds that are the only decent part of being a Victor.
If Harry is careful, if Tom mentors him well, he can win. Then he will emerge, beautiful and broken as so many winners of the Games are, and run right back into Tom's waiting arms.
EIGHT.
Sparring is wonderful. His arm is wrapped snugly around Harry's neck and it is the most distracting thing in the world. To feel Harry's body so close to his own, to hear the soft pant of his boy's breath as he struggles to hide his attraction. How much he wants to be held and claimed by Tom.
It's a new game to play. Tom teases Harry in plain sight, whispers in his ear like they are the only two people in the room. He touches with the excuse of practice and training to protect his hands ghosting over his boy's body.
Harry reacts so beautifully, a gorgeous instrument that Tom has painstakingly tuned to respond to him and him alone.
Lately, Tom has made a habit of being the last one to bed. Harry lingers behind if he does and Tom takes full advantage of that. They have their little late night chats. Harry has his precious moments of biting his lower lip and rubbing at the soft inner skin of his wrist while Tom imagines bending him over the back of the couch and ruining him.
NINE.
"You do that often," Tom comments idly.
Harry shuffles on the couch, blinking. "Do what?"
"Your wrist. You touch it." But only when he's nervous. It is a mystery in the form of an anxious habit and Tom wants to know why.
"Oh." Harry glances down. His fingers twitch then settle on his thigh. "It's just a nervous tick. I don't realize I'm doing it most of the time."
Tom reaches out and takes Harry's hand in his. He examines the wrist in question, the blue-green veins and soft skin. There's a faint scar there, one that even the Capitol's modern medicine could not erase. The area must be too delicate. Tom traces the raised skin with the tip of his finger, listens to his boy's breath catch.
"How did you get this?" Tom asks.
Harry clams up. His lips press into a line and his eyes shift to the far window.
"Harry?" he prompts, smoothing his thumb over the pulse point. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I understand why you would want to keep it to yourself. We don't know each other that well, after all." Insinuate that he is the issue, not Harry. Imply that this is a matter of lacking trust rather than Harry's reluctance to part ways with the information.
"It was a stupid accident," Harry says after a pause. "Just—I fell. It wasn't a big deal, just a bad break."
Tom knows a lie when he hears it. There is nowhere to hide in the plains of Harry's open, honest face.
Tom also knows what a lie like that means.
"I see." Tom rubs a slow circle over the delicate skin of Harry's wrist, then releases the boy's hand. He has his suspicions. Perhaps he'll have to speak with Ginny about them.
TEN.
Ginny does not trust him in the slightest. Bellatrix says she thinks him a predator and the amusing part is that she isn't wrong. He would love to ruin Harry's innocence right in front of her. Her horrified expression would make for excellent entertainment.
Unfortunately, there are more important matters at hand. Tom pulls her aside the next morning and asks the question that's been bothering him for quite some time now.
"What is Harry's home life like? With his aunt and uncle."
"I don't think it's any of your business," she says hotly, but her eyes flicker with doubt and that is all the opening he needs to pry further.
"I believe I have an idea of it already," he tells her patiently. "But what I'd like is confirmation. You're a bright girl, Ginny. I'm sure you see why this information matters. Capitol sponsors do enjoy a tragic backstory. If I have something to tell them, they'll have wallets to open for me."
Ginny glares at him. "Won't you be lying to their faces anyway? That's what you do, isn't it? Exaggerate things."
"Lying only goes so far," he warns her. "It won't hold once the cameras head back to your district for interviews. I need the truth, as much of it as you can give me. I am not 'exaggerating things' when I say this may be the difference between life and death."
She glowers, scuffing her boots against the floor. Then her resolve crumbles, as Tom knew it would. She does not want to die. She does not want Harry to die. "Harry doesn't like talking about it," she says haltingly. "He never tells us anything."
"What do you see, then? There must be something."
Ginny's hands ball into small fists. Her face grows pinched. "You never tell him that I told you this. That's my condition."
There's an implied threat in her tone that entertains Tom to no end. This teenage girl thinks she could harm him and it's laughable. "I won't," he promises. "I won't breathe a word."
Ginny frowns. "He wears long sleeves in the summer," she says slowly. "Always has these unexplained bruises. Says he falls down or bumps into things, but Harry isn't that clumsy. He scales trees and runs just fine through the woods outside the district perimeter." She inhales sharply, her fair features twisting with anger. "If he's hurt, it's because someone else is hurting him."
Tom takes a moment to compose himself, to squash the torrent of rage that slams into him like several thousand bolts of lightning. Someone is hurting Harry. Has already hurt him.
"His relatives do this?" he asks dangerously.
She nods, her lips pressed together so hard that they've gone white around the edges.
"Thank you, Ginny, for your honesty," Tom says in a tight voice. "Rest assured I will force them to pay for what they've done."
Ginny scrutinizes his face for the lie, but she will find none. Tom fully intends to expose Harry's relatives to the general public. They will be hated. They will not see a single cent of Harry's winnings.
If Tom has his way, they will never lay hands or eyes on his boy ever again.
ELEVEN.
It is well past midnight when Harry pads into the living room, skinny arms wrapped around his torso.
Tom spots him in the reflection of the glass wall, young face plagued with stress and posture shrunken down. A nightmare, he surmises, and though he feels sympathy for his poor boy, he also knows this is the time to strike.
Emotional, vulnerable. Harry needs comfort. He'll gladly lap up whatever scraps that Tom gives him.
Tom plans to give him everything.
TWELVE.
"I can help you," Tom whispers. He threads his hand through his boy's feather-soft hair, scrapes his nails against the sensitive scalp. This will ground Harry, carry him away from whatever is bothering him. "Distract you."
Harry blinks doe-eyes at him, lips parted. Tom's heart is racing, beating out a rhythm of mine mine mine. He traces his boy's chin, the smooth skin, the exposed flesh of his throat that Tom wants to litter with marks and bruises.
Harry, lovely boy that he is, shuts his eyes and offers himself up like a prize.
Tom swoops in and crushes their mouths together, fully intent on devouring each sound of pleasure that escapes his boy's perfect plush lips. He is soaring as he presses the boy into the glass wall, runs his hands over prominent hips and delicate limbs.
There is no room for religion in the Capitol, but if angels were real, Harry would be one. With his thick, lazy curls of hair and his beautiful impish smile and his bones thin like bird wings. Most of all, his eyes, an eerie green that haunts Tom late into the night.
"Tell me what you want," Tom demands, breathless with desire and anticipation , his chest drawn tight and heaving. "Who you want. What do you need, lovely boy?"
"Everything," Harry pleads in a strangled voice, all of Tom's unholy dreams come true at once, "everything, please. I need you, Tom, I need you—"
Were he a weaker, younger man, his knees might have buckled at the rush of pure lust that floods into him.
As it is, Tom digs his teeth lightly into the warm flesh of his boy's neck and leaves his promise there:
"My darling, I'm going to give you everything you need and more."
THIRTEEN.
Tom takes Harry apart, piece by piece. He is aware their time together may be short and he will adhere to his resolve of making the boy's potential final days enjoyable. Besides, Harry is so gorgeous that the extra time it takes to properly prepare him only excites Tom further.
Harry begs exquisitely and grinds his arse down on Tom's fingers with an eagerness that would mesmerize a saint. Tom works Harry open and keeps going, lost in his adoration of his boy, relishing in each cry of pleasure that Harry gives him.
He lavishes Harry in praise and kisses because more than anything, he wants Harry to love it when they fuck. Harry will crave him long after their night together ends and he'll come pleading to Tom for more.
Tom ceases his fingerfucking before Harry can come and guides the boy's body up the bed. They've waited long enough. He has waited long enough. Tom sheds his clothes with efficiency and positions himself over Harry's naked body.
"Up you go, lovely boy. Spread yourself for me."
His boy blinks at him, seeming dazed, but obeys immediately like the sweet darling he is. He's likely feeling the absence of Tom's fingers inside of him.
Tom nuzzles Harry's temple and rubs the head of his cock against the boy's loose hole, feels Harry shiver in anticipation. No need for concern. Harry will be very warm and full of Tom soon enough.
FOURTEEN.
Later, when Tom's own pleasure has been seen to and his boy lies unconscious and loose-limbed in the bed, fucked six ways from Sunday while begging for every second of it, Tom rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.
The snarling in his chest has not quieted since his seduction of the boy began earlier this evening. If anything, it's gotten louder and more insistent, rattling against the cage of Tom's ribs, raving over and over about how Harry is his now.
Harry is everything good wrapped up in one delectable package. A fierce little lion that Tom has tamed and taken to bed. But Tom is a selfish, selfish man, and now that he's had a taste of Harry, of golden rays of sunshine and a tender beating heart, he's loath to let the boy go. He does not want to lose Harry to the Games.
Next to him, Harry turns over, his body blindly searching for Tom even in sleep. Tom gathers his boy to his side and drapes a heavy arm across his back, securing him in place. Harry sighs and settles down almost right away, face squashed against Tom's shoulder.
Tom shuts his eyes. The game is real. There are stakes now. He desires Harry's survival which means he must begin to plan for it.
FIFTEEN.
Bellatrix catches him in the midst of his early morning walk of shame back to his room. There is no laughter in her gaze as she stops dead in the hall to look at him.
"What," she begins without preamble, "will you do if he dies?"
Tom's heart thuds, skips a beat. "What do you mean?"
"If the boy dies," she says, her expression entirely serious, "what will you do?"
Tom stares at her, stone-faced. "He won't die."
Bellatrix draws her night robe more tightly around herself and shakes her head. "You know, I used to say that too."
SIXTEEN.
Harry will not die.
Tom silently recites this mantra for the rest of the day, willing it to be true, but Bellatrix's words sit in his gut like an atomic bomb.
Even training alone with Harry does little to alleviate his inner turmoil. His emotions turn volatile. They start to spill over. Tom pushes Harry to train harder, to move faster, and eventually, inevitably, his boy breaks.
"I'm weak," Harry says dully, pulling to his feet and walking away. Walking away, as if Tom hasn't poured endless hours into convincing this blasted idiot to stay alive. "This is pointless. I'm going to die in there because I'm weak. I'm prey. If you want to win, you'll be better off helping Ginny."
Tom does not give a single shit about Ginny but something about Harry's expression—angry, bitter, hurt —triggers a reaction in him.
It is not a sensible reaction.
Tom strides forward, shoves his charge against the wall, and snogs him like a bloody teenager with no self control.
Harry hits him. Kicks him and shoves at him. Tom nearly doesn't stop because why the hell would he stop when Harry doesn't realize how important he is, how much he matters, how much all of this matters because if Harry dies and it's Tom's fault what the fuck is he going to do? What the hell is he going to do?
Tom nearly doesn't stop, but this is Harry, so he does. He pulls back.
"You are not prey," he spits out, more enraged than he's been in months, all because of this stupid, obstinate boy. "You are not going to die in the arena because I am not going to let you, do you understand?"
Harry shakes his head and Tom wants to slap him.
"Do you understand?" Tom repeats, and he would sound half-hysterical if not for the sheer amount of fury darkening his voice. "You are a boy from District Twelve. You have no skill with physical combat. This is the most important skill you can learn from me. Not how to smile guilelessly, not how to ace an interview. Fighting is how you stay alive," Tom snarls. "You cannot let your emotions get the better of you."
His hands fist in Harry's uniform as he imagines throwing the boy back against the wall and screaming at him until he agrees. Hurt him until he agrees, if that's what it takes. Hurt him.
Tom freezes. His thoughts are disordered. He is reacting poorly. Shaken, Tom drops his hands, the muscles in them strained and twitching. With careful fingers, he smooths away the twists in Harry's shirt and tries to calm himself.
Being angry at the boy will do nothing. Harry does not understand why he needs to live. His lack of self-preservation is a product of his environment. It is not his fault.
Harry stares at him for a long, long moment. Then his expression changes. His eyes seem to soften despite Tom's prior violence.
"Okay," Harry says. He lays a hand on Tom's chest and nods. "Okay."
Tom is still confused, but Harry's gentle touch lures him in like a moth to a flame; he gravitates forward and rests his forehead against his boy's. His grip goes slack, his breaths evening out. Harry's arms come up to hold him and he finally, finally relaxes.
Some minutes later, he lets go.
"Good," Tom says absently, blinking the disorientation from his vision. "Let's take a break," he adds, because he doesn't think he'll be able to handle sparring with Harry again so soon. "We'll switch to something else and return to fighting tactics later."
That night, Tom dips his head to Harry's ear and tells him to leave the door unlocked.
After everyone else has gone to bed, Tom enters his boy's room and claims him for the second time, fucks him so roughly he'll feel the phantom sensations for days afterward.
Because Tom has weaned his boy on pleasure, stuffed him full of cock and spoon-fed him praise, but now Tom weans him on pain, too, on the knife's edge of just enough, on the grip of Tom's hand tight as a noose around his neck.
Harry trusts him so much it's intoxicating. He would let Tom do anything at all to his body. But what Tom truly relishes is his boy's lovely face, cheeks flushed red and glistening with tears that Tom chases with his mouth, tasting salt and skin like he's starving for it.
It will be difficult for Harry to sit in the morning. Tom will give him a salve to soothe the tenderness, but only after he's witnessed his darling boy sweat through their morning meal, blushing with each shift of his sore bum on the cold metal dining chair.
Bellatrix will roll her eyes at him, but Tom has never cared what she thinks and he isn't about to start. And the girl, well—best she gets any fanciful ideas out of her head now rather than later.
Before Tom leaves for the night, he kisses Harry's shoulder, a tender gesture of farewell offered without an ulterior motive behind it. Harry is his now. Everything Tom does from this point onward is because he wants to. He wants to.
Tom returns to his own room and collapses on the bed with his hands pressed over his face. He tries to sleep, but when he closes his eyes, he sees Harry. Everything is Harry. His perfect, beautiful boy. Tom wants to keep him close forever.
He knows he is letting his emotions get the better of him. He is letting Harry into his mind and his heart. The trouble is that he just can't seem to bring himself to care.
SEVENTEEN.
Harry scores an eight. It is a solid number, but it is not outstanding. Tom adjusts his plans to account for this change and assures himself that it will do.
Ginny's eleven, however, comes as a surprise. Tom wonders what she'd done, but he doesn't have to wonder long because Bellatrix gives him the full story later that afternoon.
An act of defiance, an arrow shot directly at the Gamemakers themselves. Tom wishes he had been there to see it. Barty must have been delighted. He's always had a soft spot for the clever ones.
"A tribute like her doesn't show up every day," Bellatrix comments idly, examining her cherry-red nails. "But I suppose it doesn't matter to you."
"We'll be backing the boy." Harry is the choice he has made and there is no turning away from it now.
Bellatrix lowers her hand and glances up at him. "You're lucky, you know," she murmurs, a sympathetic look settling on her face, "because I think little Ginny would tell you to do that very same thing."
EIGHTEEN.
That night, Tom slides two fingers past Harry's soft lips, drives his cock repeatedly into his boy's tight, hot passage. Harry smiles, glows, rolls his hips in an unsteady way that soothes the vicious edge of Tom's darker desires.
There is a delirious ache in him that itches to see Harry bound and gagged and fucked raw until he cries for Tom to stop. But Harry is so very willing to do whatever Tom wants that the urge goes quiet without a fight. The best pleasure is the one that comes freely, and what Harry wants, so clearly, is to be owned by Tom.
Tom will own him. His boy deserves to be owned, to be kept safe and spoiled. When the Games are through, Tom will collar him, lay proof of claim around that pretty neck. Something with emeralds to compliment those sparkling eyes.
For now, however, the exquisite offering of Harry's drawn-out orgasm is enough.
"That's it, love, that's it—" Tom groans, head tipping back, Harry's sweet gasps a melodic symphony in his ears as he grinds their bodies together.
Harry shivers, eyes glazed with mindless ecstasy as he spreads his legs impossibly wider, as if to take Tom deeper into his body. His boy is so devoted, so eager to please. Addicted to the sensations that only Tom can provide him. Tom squeezes his lovely boy's throat and imagines keeping him like this, desperate to breathe and plugged full of cock.
The mere idea sends him flying over the edge; Tom spills himself with a few rough, sloppy thrusts, the harsh grip of his hand loosening enough for Harry to suck in a ragged gulp of air. Tom moans, a guttural sound, the searing heat of his climax burning through his body like wildfire.
Harry writhes as Tom fills him up. He tries to groan Tom's name. The word is mixed in with an incoherent whimper as the lower half of his body quivers, his shaky arms braced on Tom's heaving chest. Tom stays buried inside of him, weak spurts of come tugged from his softening cock with every unintentional jerk of Harry's hips.
Then Harry shifts, body swaying, clearly struggling to remain upright. Tom rolls them over, pinning the boy's wrists beneath the headboard. He could wait a while and fuck his boy again. Harry would cry beautifully if Tom abused his prostate and coaxed him to the agonizing peak of yet another orgasm.
Tom lets his cock slip out and traces a hand down the side of Harry's face. His boy's head lolls against the pillows, facial muscles lax and pliant, delectable lips begging to be bitten. If they went again, Harry would not complain. He would sob in distress but he wouldn't ask for Tom to stop. His boy is so good and so perfect—and Tom's made sure to tell him so—but there's only so much he can take before he's overwhelmed.
Curious, Tom reaches between them to touch the boy's soft length. He feels Harry tense, limbs trembling. A low whine builds in the back of the boy's throat. Tom strokes him once, twice, and Harry whimpers loudly in response.
"You could come again," Tom says, voice low and gravelly. "Couldn't you?"
Harry blinks at him, lips parting to reveal a peek of pink tongue. His breathing is so loud, his lungs working to accommodate the pain of Tom's hand jerking his oversensitive cock. "Too much," his boy finally croaks, the words barely audible.
Tom goes still. "Do you want me to stop?"
Harry blinks again, even slower than before. His lower lip wobbles while Tom watches, enraptured by every minuscule shift of emotion that passes over his boy's face.
"N-no," breathes Harry, self-sacrificing even with this.
Tom lets him go. Releases the boy's wrists and cock. Harry expels a satisfying sob of relief and lets his eyes fall shut. Enthralled, Tom turns his attention elsewhere, runs his hands down Harry's arms and torso. The possessive part of him croons in approval as his boy submits and relaxes in response to his ministrations.
"Good boy," Tom whispers tenderly as he presses down on flesh and bone, firmly mapping out the boy's body with his hands, "my little lion."
Gradually, Tom's touch turns kinder, sweeter. He holds Harry close, breathes in the scent of his sweat-soaked skin, and nuzzles the slender curve of his neck. While Tom will never refer to the act of sex as lovemaking, the time he spends with Harry may be the closest to that concept he'll ever get.
NINETEEN.
Ginny Weasley's face fills every screen in the room as she says, "Winning won't help because he's the one who came here with me," and Tom wants her dead.
"It's all for the Games," Bellatrix murmurs in undertone, not looking at him. "Relax."
He will not relax because Ginny's statement goes beyond the boundaries of the game. The undying love that she has professed is insufferably real.
But how the crowd laps it up, babbling delightedly amongst themselves about young love and the drama of being a teenager. Tom wants them dead, too, but it's easier to picture the girl's corpse than an entire graveyard full of Capitol dunderheads.
When Ginny at last makes her way backstage, her dress is smoldering, releasing thin plumes of smoke that leave no mark on her pristine skirts. If only the flames were real, her pale flesh burned and blackened and melting while she screamed—
"Good show," says Harry, full of forced levity, and some distant, alien part of Tom is upset by this. He is upset that Harry is upset.
"Good show," echoes Ginny, with eyes only for the boy even as Bellatrix swoops in to distract them.
Tom wants her dead, he does, but seeing her look so defeated… It fails to invoke any sensation of triumph. This win does not feel like a victory.
From over the girl's shoulder, Harry locks eyes with him. Looking for reassurance? Looking for signs of jealousy?
There is no jealousy, Tom realizes. The girl no longer matters.
Tomorrow, Harry will be in the arena where Tom cannot protect him. His job of mentoring the boy is officially over. All that Tom can do now is offer him hope.
TWENTY.
Harry begs like the sweetest little whore that night. He wets his lips and cants his hips and encourages Tom to ruin him in all the worst ways. It's maddening. Tom wants nothing more than to grant Harry's desperate wish and turn his perfect boy into a screaming, sobbing wreck, but he can't. He knows he must not.
So Tom takes care of his little lion in other ways, fucks him in the tender, reverent manner that is reserved for lovers. He grazes the boy's prostate repeatedly, stokes the flames of pleasure until Harry comes, spine curving as his untouched cock spills out onto the both of them.
It is harder for Tom to maintain control over his impulses after that, but he keeps a steady pace while his beautiful boy welcomes him in, his arse squeezing and fluttering around Tom's throbbing dick.
Harry whimpers over and over, hands clutching at Tom almost frantically, like he's afraid Tom will pull away and leave him. Tom falls forward, crushes his boy's body with his larger one. Harry needs to know that he is wanted, that he has a reason to stay alive. Whatever Tom says now must convince his boy that he is important. That he is loved.
"You're being so good," Tom pants, hardly cognizant of the words leaving his mouth, "so good for me, my sweet, my gorgeous boy—"
Tom presses his nose to Harry's soft cheek, heart pounding wildly in his chest as he comes, buried as far in as he can go. When he ruts against Harry's arse, he feels his attentive boy clench down in response, intent on having every bit of come out of his cock.
As Tom slides out of his boy's body, Harry's cheek rests snugly in the hollow between Tom's neck and collarbone, his quiet puffs of breath fanning over Tom's heated skin. Tom listens to the sound for some time and feels an alarming rush of affection flood through him. Harry is perfect. Tom cannot fathom losing him.
After Harry drifts off to sleep, Tom buries his face in his boy's soft, sweaty hair and prays to gods he has never believed in that Harry will survive.
TWENTY ONE.
When Tom presents his ring as an arena token, Harry dons it without question, nevermind that it isn't from his district.
"It's yours," Harry says fiercely. "Of course I'll wear it."
It is not the expensive, emerald-studded collar that Tom had originally envisioned for his boy. Somehow, it is better.
TWENTY TWO.
When Harry runs headlong towards a bundle of knives instead of away from the chaos like Tom had explicitly instructed him to, Tom decides he is going to flay his boy alive.
Even as Harry safely reaches the woods and puts distance between himself and the other tributes, Tom cannot relax. If Harry is willing to disobey his orders during the first fucking second of the Games, then who knows what else he plans to do?
Tom has his work laid out ahead of him while his bullheaded boy seems intent on making that work as difficult as possible. Contingency plans will have to be made. This year's Hunger Games will require every scrap of cunning he has to ensure Harry comes out on top.
TWENTY THREE.
Every day, Tom wakes up and pulls himself together. Dresses in his finest clothes, styles his hair to perfection. He flirts and charms with finesse. He keeps a close eye on the numbers.
Bellatrix watches the Games while he is occupied, or during those rare hours when he sleeps. He has attended dozens of parties, so many that he's already forgotten most of them. Attending these mindless functions is a pain, but it is a routine type of irritation that he can manage on his own. What matters is the pretty total sitting in their tribute account.
Harry's first run-in with the Careers nearly causes him heart failure. If Tom was in that arena—if he could lay his hands on those brainless brutes threatening his boy—
Rage and dread clash within him, a deadly concoction that he must ignore because those emotions are worse than useless. They distract him and do nothing to keep Harry safe. What keeps Harry safe is Tom's ability to keep a cool head and extract funds from the Capitol's wealthiest citizens. He owns plenty of fodder for blackmail and now is the time to play some of those cards.
News spreads of Tom's relentless campaign to fill the coffer of his tributes. People begin to ask for things that Tom is not prepared to give. Tom Riddle sells his time to the highest bidder, they say. But Tom has his limits. There are things he will not do, promises he has made to himself. If he caves to one, he caves to them all. He will drain his Capitol-funded accounts dry before he lets anyone take him to bed for a lump sum.
When Harry is injured, Tom sends him medicine to stave off infection. When it begins to rain, Tom sends him an empty bottle to collect the water.
The days wear on and Harry stays alive. Tom hangs onto sanity by a gossamer thread and covers the deep, bruising circles under his eyes with the best concealer that money can buy.
TWENTY FOUR.
When Ginny joins forces with the blonde girl from Ten, Tom accepts that he must change course. Everyone is used to the children from Twelve dying in the Hunger Games. It makes them cautious with their support, regardless of how persuasive Tom is.
But if he can unite the two star-crossed lovers of District Twelve, people will have a reason to root for them. The funds will pour in and he'll have enough to send his boy a gift, something to get his strength up for a calculated strike.
Bellatrix reaches out to the mentors for District Ten—a pair of past Victors from Three who are more than willing to join forces to protect their remaining tribute. It seems Ginny is not the only person fond of Luna Lovegood.
Meanwhile, Tom reaches out to his old friend Barty.
"You're asking for me to stick my neck out," Barty says, sounding amused. "How unlike you, Tom. I can only imagine what you get out of this."
"My first year as a mentor results in a winning tribute," Tom says easily. "And for you, the highest ratings since the sixty-seventh Games." He tilts his head to one side. "Give the audience something to root for besides death and destruction and they'll flock to you in spades."
Barty raises a brow at him. "A taste of young love?"
Tom smiles without emotion behind it. "Isn't that what everyone wants? Love?"
"Again, I must say: how unlike you, Tom. Prior to this moment, I would have thought that the word 'love' had ceased to exist in your vocabulary the second after you learned it."
"Hilarious," Tom deadpans. "Do we have an agreement?"
Barty taps a thoughtful hand on his thigh. "The boy returns her affections?"
Tom keeps his voice level as he says, "He's willing to die for her."
It is the unfortunate truth. Still, Tom has faith his boy knows how to play this game. When Harry reunites with Ginny, he'll fake a romance for the girl's sake at the very least.
Barty scrutinizes his face for a long moment. "Very well," he says. "It'll be better for ratings if the girl stays alive, anyway. People like her."
Tom resists the urge to sneer. If people like her so much, they better be willing to keep the boy she loves alive after she dies.
TWENTY FIVE.
Barty sends fireballs after the girls. Tom watches dispassionately as they barrel through the forest, shrieking at the top of their lungs, headed straight for the cave where Harry is currently hiding.
Harry does not disappoint—he hears their cries and goes out to help. Chivalry isn't dead when it comes to Tom's boy, not in the slightest. Harry kisses Ginny in greeting, and the moment is disgustingly sweet. Then he gives the girls his medicine to treat their injuries.
All for the best, perhaps, because Tom isn't about to send them any new medicine when Harry doesn't need it. The girl from Ten is a weak fighter, but Ginny will need her strength if she's to support Harry in any useful capacity.
After the kiss, money comes rolling in, so quickly that Tom needs Bellatrix to actively aid him in managing the donations. The people of the Capitol can't bear to see the two tributes die when their romance has only just begun.
Tom chooses gifts for Harry to receive. Two bottles of electrolyte-enhanced sports drink and a large loaf of District Twelve's specialty bread.
Two more tributes need to die before Umbridge embarks on her interview tour of the friends and family for the remaining eight. Tom will have all his pieces in place when that happens.
TWENTY SIX.
Luna dies. District Ten throws their remaining funds to Twelve in a show of support for Ginny's touching friendship with the girl. It is a decent sum that Tom plans to spend soon, before the prices for gifts rise too high.
Tom is already in Twelve when Umbridge arrives. He has prepared the entire Weasley family for their interviews. However, the youngest son, Ron, requires special coaching. Umbridge will interrogate him the most because of his close ties to both tributes.
"You must say whatever it takes to convince the nation that they are madly in love," Tom says to him. "If you want them to stay alive, you will lie."
The red-headed boy swallows. He's tall and gangly, younger than he looks. "This was their idea?" he asks.
"It was your sister's," Tom says, which is as close to the truth as he's willing to get.
"I can try," the Weasley boy says after a pause. Then his shoulders straighten, his voice gaining confidence as he adds, "I'll do my best."
"Excellent. I trust that you will." Tom nods and sets a hand on the boy's shoulder. "This will help your friend and your sister survive."
Ron nods, jaw firming with determination. "Is there anything else I can do? Other stuff I should say?"
Tom supposes he should be glad that his boy has such a loyal friend. "Tell Umbridge about how his relatives treat him."
Predictably, Ron pales, gaping like a fish. "The Dursleys?"
"They must be seen as the monsters they are. I've told your parents to do the same, but they have little testimony to provide..." Tom allows his voice to trail off, letting the Weasley boy connect the dots. As Harry's best friend, the boy is privy to details that the rest of the district is not.
"Harry never let us kick up a fuss," Ron says. He stares down at his hands, then glances back up at Tom. "He always said it was fine and that it was better not to do anything."
"Harry is in the arena right now," Tom says bluntly, "fighting for his life."
Ron says nothing. Tom is about to berate him for it when Ron breathes out in a quiet, quivering voice, "Tell her to look under the stairs. When she goes to talk to them. Tell her to check under the stairs."
"The stairs," Tom repeats in a distant voice.
Ron's eyes are full of guilt. "They would put him in there—not even as a punishment, just—they left him—"
The horrible image of his boy shoved into a cramped, dusty cupboard rises up in Tom's mind. His darling boy treated like some dirty, shameful creature. Tom goes cold. His nails dig into the flesh of his palms, slicing through skin and leaving red crescents behind, igniting pain he does not feel because his body is numb, every muscle frozen and locked into place.
"Keep going," Tom demands in a low, furious voice. "What else?"
"He lived in there," Ron says fearfully, shrinking backward. "For ages. Harry says they only moved him out because their neighbour stopped by unannounced. They couldn't have people knowing."
"I'll kill them," Tom snarls without thinking, because the world is now drenched in a deep, bloody red and he can barely breathe around the solid rage lodged in his throat. "I'll fucking kill them."
The Weasley boy's mouth drops open.
Tom shoves back from the table, chair scraping painfully across the floor. "Remember what you have to say," he snaps, voice thick with fury as he jabs a finger in Ron's direction. "I will handle the rest."
Ron jerks his head rapidly up and down. "Yes, sir. I will."
"And don't breathe a word of this conversation to anyone else," Tom adds. He doesn't think the boy will, and this conversation will never serve as proof of guilt regardless, but it's better to have the promise in place.
"I won't, I swear."
Tom leaves the room and slams the door hard enough to rattle the framework of the entire ramshackle house.
TWENTY SEVEN.
The interviews in District Twelve do well with the public. Umbridge delights in 'exposing' the Dursleys as remorseless child abusers while the citizens of the Capitol scream for their blood.
Tom pays an exorbitant price for two bottles of water and sends them into the arena straight away. The lake has been drained under Barty's direction; while Harry and Ginny have water, they will refrain from seeking it at the perimeter of the arena, which is where the worst of the danger resides.
The remaining tributes from Five and Eleven die next. The boy from Five falls prey to the boy from One. The girl from Eleven dies trying to fetch water from one of the Gamemakers' traps. Tom strikes their names off his list.
Four tributes left.
TWENTY EIGHT.
The star-crossed lovers from Twelve head out to hunt for food. The boy from Four finds them and a chase ensues, a chase that ends with Harry's knife in his chest and Ginny's arrow in his neck.
Harry closes the boy's lifeless eyes after the cannon goes off. He is even kind to those who would sooner see him dead.
Three tributes left.
TWENTY NINE.
Ginny Weasley plummets from the top of the Cornucopia like a fallen marionette, taking the boy from One with her.
From there, it is merely the dreadful affair of who dies first.
Tom watches, panic-stricken, as his boy attempts to crawl to the edge of the Cornucopia. Harry passes out from blood loss before he gets very far, which isn't any less concerning, but if he can outlast the two below, the doctors can save his leg. If he can last.
The cannon sounds when Ginny dies.
Two tributes—
The cannon sounds when Cormac dies.
One—
The hovercrafts descend on the arena, the video feed cutting to black as Harry's face is projected on video screens all across the great nation of Panem.
THIRTY.
"I am pleased to present the Victor of the 75th Hunger Games, Harry Potter of District Twelve!"
THIRTY ONE.
Harry is immediately rushed to surgery for his injuries. Tom monitors the operation and speaks at length with the surgeon afterwards. Harry's leg will be healed without issue, but his wrist will likely never be the same, especially since this is its second serious break. Proper recovery will take months, even under the guidance of the Capitol's best doctors.
Following the procedure, Harry has to be sedated twice. His hysterical, agonized screams are horrifying. It sounds like he's dying. Bellatrix asks if he wants to leave, but Tom stays. He owes it to his boy to stay.
In sleep, Harry looks even younger. Tubes extend from his arm and his hospital gown hangs over his thin frame like a tent. His leg is securely wrapped in thick white bandages and his wrist is encased in a padded splint that will realign his bones and help alleviate the pain. Tom's main source of reassurance lies in the soft rise and fall of his boy's chest and the steady beat of the heart monitor.
"Are you happy?" Bellatrix asks him softly. Her face is clear of makeup, her wild hair pulled into a loose top knot.
Tom hasn't slept in three days and he feels every passing second like a solid iron weight on his skull, but he needs to know that Harry is alright.
"He's alive," Tom says tersely. That is the only thing that matters.
"He's alive," Bellatrix echoes. She lays her head to rest on his shoulder while they wait for Harry to wake up.
A few hours later, the doctors move Harry to a more comfortable room. Bellatrix departs to handle the details of Harry's final interview while Tom sits by the bed, gradually slipping in and out of consciousness.
The stuttering blip of the monitor startles him to alertness. Tom opens his eyes just as Harry begins to stir. Relief fills him for the first time in over a week. Harry is alive.
Green eyes blink several times before they fixate directly on Tom.
"You're alive," Tom says quietly, shifting forward to take Harry's uninjured hand in his. Seeing Harry awake and moving banishes the remnants of his distress in a way that his boy's sleeping form could not. "They'll be expecting a final interview before you're allowed to go home," Tom adds after a moment, because the Capitol waits for no one. To the Capitol, a newly-crowned Victor is cause for celebration, not mourning.
"Aren't I—aren't I going with you?"
An unfamiliar pain clamps down on Tom's heart. He wishes he could tell his boy yes and promise him that the horrors are over.
He cannot. All he can offer is comfort, and comfort is not enough.
"Of course. Of course," Tom says soothingly. "Soon, I promise. But not yet, my sweet. They'll want to televise your homecoming."
Harry breaks down in a fit of panic, his wide, frightened eyes pleading for Tom to take him away, carry him to safety. There is no true safety. The Games are far from over and Harry will wear the title of Victor like a cattle brand for the rest of his life. Tom must continue to protect him.
"I'm sorry," Tom murmurs, because he has condemned Harry to stay alive, to stay by his side, "I'm so sorry, darling." Tom gently pulls his boy into his arms and lets Harry sob into his shoulder.
He is aware that the emotional damage of listening to the girl die is incalculable. Harry will never forgive himself for failing to save her, just as Tom would have never forgiven himself if he'd failed to save Harry.
"There could only be one," Tom whispers, cradling the familiar warmth of his boy close, "and it had to be you."
After all, Tom Riddle always gets what he wants.
"It had to be you," he repeats distantly, as Harry cries and cries and cries.
This is what he wants.
Right?
THIRTY TWO.
Harry's final interview is painful, but the Victory Banquet is worse.
Harry keeps close to Tom and Bellatrix all evening, but even their presence cannot spare him the obligation of interacting with the generous donors who paid for him to keep his life. His life, measured in dollars. His life, measured in the blood of slaughtered tributes.
Tom deflects as much of the conversation as he can. He and Bellatrix answer for Harry whenever possible. Tom keeps hold of Harry's good hand while Bellatrix settles her arm over the boy's shoulders.
Harry shuffles around with them, silent and dead-eyed. When people offer condolences for Ginny, Harry grips Tom's hand hard enough to bruise, but he does not cry. He is strong, a survivor. He does not cry where these strangers can see.
As the night winds down, Tom leaves his boy with Bellatrix so he can speak with President Grindelwald.
The president of Panem cuts a fine figure in his sharp plum suit, flawless white rose pinned to his lapel. Tom has spoken with the man less times than he can count on one hand, yet each and every occasion has filled him with foreboding. President Grindelwald wields more power than every Capitol swine combined and he will not hesitate to use it for his own amusement.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Grindelwald says in greeting. "First mentor in the history of the Games to produce a Victor during their first year. Quite the achievement. But then again, we've come to expect great things from you, Tom."
"Thank you." Tom smiles politely in return. "I'm honoured you think so."
"But you haven't come to hear an old man's sentiments, of course." Grindelwald laughs. "What might I do for you?"
"Less of what you can do for me," Tom says carefully. He allows his eyes to drift over to where Harry is standing next to Bellatrix.
"The boy?"
"His doctors are concerned for his mental well being. They believe he is at risk for self harm."
Grindelwald remains stoic as he says, "Most Victors are."
"He presents a higher risk than normal," Tom says, aiming to sound as clinical as he can. "He feels immense guilt over the girl's death."
"Ah, the girl." Grindelwald inclines his head, considering. Then he says, "Walk with me, Tom. Some fresh air may do us good in this case."
Tom hesitates. He dislikes leaving Harry behind, even with Bellatrix to take care of him.
"It won't be long." The man's cool grey eyes flash with mirth. "Unless the risk to the boy isn't as dire as you claim it is."
A cold rush of dread drops down Tom's spine. He must have shown his hand somehow. Grindelwald knows. He knows that Tom has a new weak point named Harry Potter.
Grindelwald inclines his head towards the door. "Shall we?"
Tom has no choice. Harry is his weak point. He goes.
THIRTY THREE.
The next morning, Tom rises early, leaving his boy tucked safely under several blankets. He finds Bellatrix in the kitchen, pouring out two steaming cups of coffee.
"How did it go?" she asks.
"Not more than an hour here and there," Tom says tiredly. Each of his boy's wounded cries is a knife to the gut. He'll have to see about obtaining some sleep medication as a temporary solution for the nightmares.
Bellatrix's lips flatten out. She reaches for a spoon and stirs sugar and cream into each cup. "And with Grindelwald?"
"We have permission to remain with him until the Victory Tour."
Her brows rise. "And who did you have to kill to get us that?"
"No one." He stares at her, conveying the words he cannot say with the force of his gaze.
Bellatrix frowns. "I see," she says, sliding one of the cups in his direction.
They cannot discuss this here, with the eyes and the ears of the Capitol upon them. Everything must wait until they are settled in District Twelve.
Tom drains his cup of coffee in a matter of minutes, ignoring the scalding heat, and heads back to the bedroom to check on his boy. He hadn't lied to Grindelwald. Harry may have survived the Games, but the battle to keep him alive continues.
THIRTY FOUR.
"Tom? Tom, where did you go?" Harry's sleep-slurred voice calls into the darkness. He attempts to get up, but his exhausted body is too uncoordinated to achieve such a feat.
"Nowhere," Tom says gently, sitting down on the bed. "Just for a drink of water." He lays a hand on Harry's chest, nudging him backwards. "go back to sleep, my love."
"Don't go," Harry mumbles. His uninjured hand thrashes about, searching, until it manages to latch onto Tom's wrist. "Don't go."
"I won't," Tom promises. He lays a kiss on Harry's forehead. "Relax. I'll be here when you wake up."
Harry does not relax, but he does lie down and go back to bed.
An hour later, Harry will wake from another horrible nightmare. Tom will be there for him when he does.
THIRTY FIVE.
The train is quiet. Bellatrix has swept the compartment for bugs, but Tom does not trust any contraption that belongs to the Capitol. He'll feel more at ease once they arrive at their destination.
Harry sits with his hands folded in his lap and his body slumped against Tom's side. His eyes are closed, but there's a faint line between his brows that gives away his state of wakefulness.
Tom lets his shoulders slacken and tucks his arm more securely around his boy's waist. He traces loose patterns on Harry's forearm with the tip of his finger. Harry loves him. Harry loves him, but he has no idea what the cost of love is.
President Grindelwald threatens Victors so he can sell their bodies to the highest bidder. He kills the friends and family of those who refuse to comply. Of course, threatening Harry's friends will secure his obedience, but that isn't the end of the danger.
If Harry will do anything to save the people he loves, then surely Tom will do anything to stop him.
Because Tom has been too clever for too long. He has been untouchable and this will no longer stand. Grindelwald wants his body forfeit as a Capitol prize and his talents exploited for the Capitol agenda. Grindelwald wants him broken and punishing Harry will work because Tom cares for him.
He cares. He does not love. Such a sentiment remains unfeasible. Still, a part of him belongs to Harry. Parts of his heart and soul have been irreversibly split from their respective wholes and delivered into his boy's virtuous, devoted hands.
Harry buries his face against Tom's chest, weak fingers digging into the heavy fabric of Tom's cotton shirt. He has been frightened ever since leaving the arena and is stubbornly determined not to show it, but Ginny Weasley gave her life to save him and now he must return home to look her family in the eye.
It will be hellish. The districts are restless; there have been rumours of violent protests breaking out in Ten. What Harry does in Twelve, what he does during his Victory Tour, it will set the way going forward. Tom must be by his side for every step of it.
When the train arrives, Harry rises to his feet without prompting. He glances at Tom, verdant eyes flickering with apprehension for what is to come.
In some ways, the Games are an easier evil to vanquish. Tom would remorselessly slaughter innocents by the dozen to keep Harry safe. But in the world outside the arena, there are snakes at every corner, and every ally they have bears the burden of a red target painted on their back.
For now, Harry must pretend to love Ginny for the sake of the immunity it provides him. Later, he will keep those he loves safe by pushing them away. Ginny is dead and her death is, for all intents and purposes, Harry's fault. It is the only way for them to protect the Weasley family from Grindelwald.
There will be another lie to tell. Another game to play.
But all of that will come in due time. Right now, Tom's focus is on the well-being of the boy by his side. The flash of cameras await them and there are hours to go before Harry retires to his new home in the Victor's Village of his district.
"Are you ready?" Tom asks him.
"No," Harry says, solemn beyond his years as he lifts his gaze to meet Tom's. "But that's alright." He reaches for Tom's hand and links their fingers together. "I have you."
"You have me," Tom echoes softly.
Harry smiles, a small, upward tilt to the corner of his mouth. Then he turns to the door and sucks in a deep breath of air. "Together?" he asks, shoulders back, spine ramrod straight, expression hardened and resolute.
Tom drops Harry's hand and touches the small of his back. "Together," he confirms.
Harry is his choice. When the door slides open, they will face the world together.
END TOM POV.
A/N:
yes, i have left room for a sequel. will i write one? who knows.
i am, however, sorely tempted to write a few scenes here and there from tom's pov in this story, so let me know in the comments if that's something you would be interested in reading (so i have an excuse other than to satisfy my own dumb lizard brain).
in the meantime, i recommend subscribing to this work if that's something you like to do, and i may or may not push an update here in the near future. i might also just make a new series and upload stuff separately but who knows. life's too short.