Who's to say where the capability for cruelty comes from? Certainly not Harry, though he has a few guesses.
Because, really, he can kind of see the appeal now. There's no rush quite like this.
Harry feels satisfaction curl, content, in the curve of his smile. Tom's face is blank, but not in a calculating way––no. Harry knows this, this, is pure, unadulterated shock .
Harry will give him credit, though––Tom has always known how to recover.
Like a cockroach, almost , Harry thinks, vindictively. Hard to kill, until you stomp it out completely.
"Harry Potter," Tom says, his mouth holding the words like something precious, even if he doesn't intend it. His dark eyes focus on Harry's, as if bidding Harry to open himself with a look. He scans Harry's face intensely, possessively, before he glances over at Cedric. "Mr. Diggory."
Harry clears his throat to keep from grinning.
"Your grace."
Tom's eyes flick over to Harry, a silent question.
Harry smiles, blandly. Giving nothing away, though he's sure his eyes display his perfect anger just fine. They're always giving him away.
"He's a duke. You're meant to say your grace."
Harry can feel the mild amusement baking off of Cedric, and he shifts his feet, leaning farther into him. He curves his arm around Cedric's waist, taking comfort in his warm solidity. Still, he doesn't take his icy gaze off of Tom for even a moment.
Harry lets the silence engulf them for a second, just to see what Tom will do. When all he does is stare, Harry says, "You and I both know the importance of observing propriety. You are a politician, aren't you?"
Harry catalogs Tom's reactions carefully, and comes to the conclusion that Tom's eyes are really something else. Oh, Harry knows that his own eyes are vibrant, in such a way that it makes the rest of him look plain by comparison, but Tom's eyes are terribly ordinary, dull. They get lost in the rest of his handsomeness.
But now––oh, now, there is fire trapped in the space of his eyes, and Harry can't look away.
His gaze consumes Harry.
"Yes, I am a politician, and I do concede the point," Tom replies, finally, inclining his head in acknowledgment. Harry doesn't miss the way he doesn't correct himself. "But, I'm afraid, propriety has taken rather a backseat, lately."
Harry stares him down, disbelieving. Does Tom know all the ways Harry could ruin his life, if he published his side of the story?
He doesn't ask himself why he doesn't. He doesn't consider that maybe, maybe…
Cedric's arm tightens around him, pulling Harry out of his musings, and he realizes it is his turn to say something.
"Has it really?" Harry asks, quietly. His voice is more vulnerable than he intends, and he hates how Tom's eyes light up in something disturbingly close to hope.
Harry suddenly wonders if this is really a good idea, rubbing his new life in Tom's face. Tom will take it as a challenge, and that's a dangerous thing, when the space between them feels like a vacuum. When words are lost to the pull between them, even now.
"A miracle you became a politician, then," Cedric says, abruptly, into the tense silence, "if you never cared about propriety. Makes one wonder how you got this far, doesn't it? Supposing you're being––well. I guess that's not really for me to speculate."
Harry blinks, forcing his attention back to Cedric, the sharp tone of voice surprising him. He's smiling, but it looks unusually tight around the edges. Harry knew he would be angry, but Harry's seen Cedric angry, and this isn't quite that.
Harry squeezes his waist, prompting him to look down at him. He tries to put all his concern into his eyes.
Cedric searches his gaze for a moment. Then he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to his hair. Harry basks in the comfort of Cedric, as he breathes in Harry's presence.
Cedric looks back to Tom after a moment to calm himself. He smiles, that smile that he only gives the cameras. "Well, Mr. Riddle, I suppose it's only polite to invite you in for tea. Come in."
The sitting room is comfortable and bright, the sun shining through the windows, but it does little to warm the chilled atmosphere surrounding the three of them.
Tom sits in a loveseat across from Diggory, seated in the armchair, and Harry, perched on the arm, Diggory's hand steadying him. They certainly love to put their hands all over each other, don't they?
Tom bitterly wonders how far that physicality extends.
Harry's gaze is a kaleidoscope of thousands of conflicting emotions, but there is no contest that deep-seated anger is at the forefront. But even so, Tom can see a lingering betrayal, a hurt that never really went away, lurking at the edges.
In the end, he supposes it doesn't really matter, as it all manifests in the same detached, icy demeanor.
Tom absently contemplates if this indifferent sort of cruelty was dormant in Harry all this time, or if Tom really broke his heart so badly that the cracks were filled in with a viciousness that sticks like glue.
The silence that falls between them is awkward, but Tom refuses to break first. He takes a sip of his tea.
Finally, Diggory gets to the point. "I'll be honest, Riddle, I don't know why you've come here."
Tom takes a moment to consider his words, his eyes being drawn, inevitably, to Harry. But Harry is already watching him, observing him.
Tom holds Harry's gaze, reveling in the attention of green green green and the obvious curiosity Harry is broadcasting to the room. He doesn't look away when he says, "I came to congratulate you."
Harry stares back at him, and his eyes scream bullshit .
Diggory, it seems, agrees, but it is too polite to say so.
"That's very kind of you," Diggory says, voice just a little too stiff to be believable.
Tom glances at him, before looking back to Harry. Tom's eyes can't help but be drawn to the thin, loose shirt he wears, parted at the collar. It exposes his delicate collarbones, the long, pale stretch of Harry's neck––
And then Tom's seeing red. Red, purple, all along Harry's throat.
Well, that answers the physicality question, certainly.
Tom's fingers curl into his palm, sharp half-moons scoring into the skin. He carefully sets the teacup down, hoping to disguise the tremor in his hands. The pain grounds him, but does nothing to quell the rage simmering low in his throat. He swallows, eyes dark and hot on the two of them.
What a beautiful couple.
Tom can't wait to tear them apart. To have Harry at his side, where he belongs . That ring will be replaced with Tom's own. Those bruises, made by Tom's own mouth. That heart, held in his hands, only, only, only .
Tom's eyes narrow on the two of them, and his vision slims down to Harry. His attention is always on him. Always, always, and he gives his love, his body, to someone else.
And Tom can't say a word against it, because he did the same exact thing.
Tom breathes in slowly through his nose. Breathes out through his mouth.
And then, he says, "Your father has entreated me to stay here. To get away from the press."
" Excuse me?"
It's Harry who speaks, this time, shooting up from his perch on the chair. The movement disturbs his clothing, further exposes all that he's been up to in the interim. His eyes are bright with anger, his throat working in outrage.
At least Tom knows he can still spark some reaction from the man.
Diggory lays a hand on Harry's thigh, and Tom feels cloudy, hazy. He feels as if he's in a world intangible, but for the sheer frustration clogging up his throat. Through a ringing in his ears, he can hear Diggory soothe, "I'll make a call, Harry, calm down."
Tom stands, then, unable to stay a moment longer. He can't fortify walls that threaten to crumble completely.
Because truthfully, if he had his way, he would confess to Harry now. Would make his move, would apologize, honestly or not, and pull him into an embrace.
All he wants to do is touch him, but Tom knew he was coming here to play the long game.
"I'll excuse myself until you make a decision."
Tom slips from the room, abandoning the heated argument ensuing behind him, and the furious stare boring holes into his back.
There's a moment in their past that neither Harry nor Tom wish to acknowledge, and honestly, Tom thinks it's for the best. It was a moment of madness between the both of them.
Still, though, as he goes to find his room, Tom can't help but wonder what would've happened, had they gone through with it.
They were both drunk, when it happened. But Tom still remembers it, and thinks about it, from time to time.
Harry had been leaning against his leg, arms curled around his calf, cheek resting on his knee. It was terribly immature, the way he was sitting, but Tom had thought it fitting. Harry, at his feet. So dependent, so affectionate. Tom carded his fingers through Harry's hair, a bottle of some alcohol held loose in his other hand.
"I wan' get married, T'm."
Tom stared down at him, and all he could see was that thick head of hair until Harry sat up, slightly, propping his chin on Tom's knee. His eyes seemed bigger than usual. More open, more vulnerable.
Harry had a crippling fear of rejection, and in some small part of Tom, he was proud of how much Harry had opened up under Tom's coaxing lies.
"You're drunk, sweetheart," Tom had said, brushing the hair from Harry's face.
Harry didn't smile, but he did lean into Tom's touch. His eyes fluttered closed, and some small part of Tom basked in that. The vulnerability of it; certainly not the trust apparent in the gesture.
"Not really," Harry mumbled, sighing in contentment. He leaned his cheek back down on Tom's leg, tracing lazy circles on his thigh. "J'st want you to love me forever."
Tom didn't know what to say to that, so he simply took another sip from the bottle. "Well," he murmured, into the quiet, "Give us a year. We'll see, then."
Even without seeing, Tom knew Harry was smiling. It just brightened up the room, somehow. It made Tom's heart jump for reasons he couldn't explain. Or didn't want to, really.
The room abruptly dulled, and Tom didn't have a moment to ponder why before Harry was speaking again.
"Promise me? 'Cause I know Bell'trix likes you. D'you like me more?" Harry looked up at him, then, face gone serious. His mouth was soft and pink, his face just a little flushed. Tom loved it when he looked like this. Serious, all attention focused on Tom.
"I promise."
Harry stared at him a moment longer, frowning, just a little, as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth. Tom didn't like that.
"Hey," Tom said, voice soft. He took Harry's chin between two fingers, tilting his head up. Tom couldn't have suppressed the note of fondness in his voice if he'd tried. "I'll never want anyone like I want you."
Harry blinked up at him, before nodding, slowly, to himself. As if that would have to be enough. His hands tightened on Tom's leg.
"Carry me to bed?" Harry asked, after a while.
And when Tom carried Harry like a bride over the threshold, he didn't imagine the way Harry's hold tightened on him, or the way Harry whispered, "Wish I was the only one you loved."
Tom had nothing to say to that.
They fell apart two weeks before the year deadline.
A half an hour later, Harry watches as Cedric slips the phone into his pocket. His mouth is twisted into a scowl, and he glares at the door, as if hoping to burn holes into Tom's back through the wood.
"Dad insists he stay, Harry," Cedric finally sighs, defeated. He hangs his head, and even then, Harry can see the lines etched in his face. "I'm sorry, honey, but he says he'll stop all wedding proceedings if we don't let him stay with us for at least a week."
Harry doesn't know what to feel at that pronouncement.
Amos Diggory has never liked Harry. Or, more accurately, has never liked that Cedric was engaged to Harry. Amos has this fantasy of Cedric being the epitome of royal perfection: brave, and just, and normal . And Harry––Harry just never fit into that equation.
That must be why he's sent Tom here. He hopes to split them up. One last aborted attempt to preserve his ideal.
Harry knows they can't elope, Cedric would never stand for it. As much as he hates his father's perceptions of the world, he loves his family, and Harry knows he's bending over backwards to keep Harry in the same world as his parents.
Harry will never tear a family apart. He refuses to.
But he also won't give up something that he wants. He won't give up one of the precious few good things in his life.
So, he just walks over to Cedric, wraps his arms around him, and relents.
"It'll be fine," Harry breathes, pressing his face to Cedric's chest. And when Cedric wraps his arms around Harry in return, he truly believes it.
"It won't change anything," he says, quieter, to himself.
Harry's stubborn, and strong, and furious .
And as long as he has that, he has everything.
The only question now is how best to get Tom to fuck off to oblivion, where he belongs.
Tom sits down hard on the bed. Eventually he'd found the butler from before to show him to one of the rooms, and it is nice, littered with deep greens and warm browns. It does nothing to soothe the growing void in Tom's stomach.
He doesn't know what's wrong with him.
He stares down at his clenched fists, the white knuckles in his lap. He slowly releases them, flexing his fingers. His palms sting from the small indentations of his nails.
He can feel a heaviness in his chest, like a weight pressing down on his diaphragm. It's not painful, exactly, but it's certainly not comfortable.
Seeing Harry like that, soft and loved… Cold and angry… Tom had made him feel that way, hadn't he? He'd turned him into that.
Tom eases himself back on the bed, laying down, his head hung over the side. It's a juvenile position, something he did as a child, but it makes him feel comforted. The world looks better when it's upside-down.
If––no, when he gets Harry back, will he be able to undo the damage he's done? Harry has grown without him ( grown stronger, grown braver, grown lovelier), and Tom just… hasn't.
Oh, he's flourished, alright, but he hasn't changed . At his core, he still has that unshakeable ambition and will that he's always had.
For the first time, he wonders if that's a bad thing.
He doesn't think so. His will has gotten him this far. His will has gotten him to Harry.
His will––it will bring Harry back to him.
He stares out of the window, watches as birds fly, upside-down, against a pale blue sky. Their wings bat up, as if fighting to stay underwater.
Tom swallows, and he feels like he's drowning.
He didn't realize just how difficult it would be to watch them together. He didn't factor in his own jealousy, his own blind possessiveness. Foolish of him, to think he could remain unaffected.
But he won't leave. He can't, when Harry is so close, so near to being his again, if he would just let Tom explain, let Tom say it, out loud, say––
"We need to talk."
Tom tilts his head up, neck straining as he looks to the door. He didn't even realize it had been opened.
Tom has always, in some unconscious part of himself, been hyper-aware of his surroundings. He can see what others don't, he can hear what others can't. But now, as he feels this maelstrom inside, he knows his senses are suffering for it.
Harry stands in the doorway, and Tom has a moment of deja vu, a flashback to their break-up. But Harry's hair is shorter than it once was, and he stands taller than he used to. He doesn't have the same resigned heartbreak etched all over his face, painted deep into his jaded eyes.
Harry tenses, and Tom knows he is remembering the same moment in time. The birth of this circus they're running.
Tom sits up, hoping to preserve some semblance of dignity. To put up some barrier between Harry and the emotions he's brought forth from Tom's dead heart. Tom decides to resort to the default setting that has always come so naturally to him: the arrogance. The charm.
He knows it's not what Harry wants from him, but it's what Tom needs, in this moment.
"Are you here to apologize for leaving? Because all you have to do is say the word, love."
Harry's eyes could kill a man, and his skin is pale with fury, his lips pursed into one straight, tight line. Somehow, though, he manages to twist his lips into a gruesome smile.
"Do you even hear yourself?" Harry says, saccharine, and yet still in the deadliest voice Tom's ever heard. "I have nothing to apologize for. I have no reason to see you, and no reason to want to."
"And yet here you are," Tom retorts, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, fingers interlaced. "Why is that? Better yet, where is your fiancé? Surely he knows better than to leave you alone with me."
"Like I knew better than to leave you alone with Bellatrix?" Harry spits, smile vanishing. "Newsflash: he trusts me, and that trust is actually earned . That trust actually means something ."
Harry is shaking, his jaw wound so tight it's a wonder something doesn't give. The cold facade doesn't suit him, but this fiery anger––
Tom stares hard, absorbing this new version of Harry. He's never been angry like this. Not even when he came home, that last night, and got his trust thrown back in his face.
Does Harry always get this angry over the people he loves?
Surely not. Not when he didn't act this way for Tom. Tom who he adored. Tom who he loves .
The thought rankles him, and he speaks without thought when he says, "Trust doesn't mean anything if you're stupid enough to give it to the wrong person."
Harry barks out a laugh, voice harsh and disbelieving. He runs a violent hand through his hair, chuckling. "Even now, you haven't changed at all."
Tom has to force himself not to shift uncomfortably.
Harry continues, "This is why we would've ended, one way or another. And personally, I'm glad it was sooner, rather than later."
Harry's smile is sharp when he says, "At least this way, I got an upgrade. You're just miserable. Where is Bellatrix, again?"
Tom snarls, standing. He still towers over Harry, but it doesn't feel like it used to. Doesn't comfort him like it did, at one time, because Harry stands taller, now, with betrayal already behind him.
"You're pathetic," Harry says, staring him in the eye. "You're obsessed and actually fucking deranged if you think I'd pick you over someone who actually loves me. You can look and watch and wait all you like, Riddle, but you're never gonna get what you want."
Tom feels his stomach turn. Is he so transparent? Has he really fallen so far, to not be the master of this game?
"And what do I want?" he whispers, into the scant inches between them.
Harry breathes out, and Tom can almost feel it on his neck, chills being left in its wake.
"Me."
The heated anger building between them sparks and fizzes like lightning, an electric current running between their eyes, overloading and frying everything left in its wake.
"You think I don't see how you look at me?" Harry murmurs, challenging. "It makes me sick, to think about you touching me. To feel how you look at me."
It seems Harry's gotten better at lying. But no matter how much icy fury Harry exudes, his eyes will always give him away. He may not love Tom anymore––but he still wants him.
No matter what Harry says, that will be enough to keep Tom here.
"Get out of my house," Harry murmurs, eventually. His eyes are like poison. Tom wants to drown in them. "And don't come back."
Harry doesn't stay to see how his words affect Tom. He turns sharp on his heel, yanking the door open. And all Tom knows is that he can't let him leave, not like this. Not again.
"Tell me something, before you go."
Harry huffs angrily, glaring over his shoulder. But even so, he pauses just inside the doorway.
"What?" he hisses, his hand holding the door in a punishing grip.
"How long did it take?"
Harry doesn't blink, his anger as solid and unshakeable as stone. Still, his eyes squint in suspicion. "Did what take?"
Tom's eyes never waver. He catalogues every twitch of Harry's expression, every slight shift in emotion. He takes it all in, hungrily, a starving man.
The words come out like a prayer, begging to be answered.
"To get over me."
Tom feels as if he is holding his breath, the world slowing.
Harry stares at him, his features slackening, just the slightest bit. Tom doesn't even have a moment to discern what that means when Harry is turning, staring straight ahead, where Tom can't see him. Hiding from their history, or perhaps shielding himself from it.
"Truthfully?" he whispers, voice devoid of all emotion. Tom feels his heart jump.
"No time at all."
And he shuts the door, cutting Tom off from whatever emotion he might've shown.
Tom has never reacted well to being cut off from the things he wants. Usually he meets it with anger, with fury, with violence.
But rarely, he'll meet it with something more difficult. Rarely, he'll meet it with panic.
And that's how it felt, when he came home to an apartment devoid of every trace of Harry's presence.
He doesn't like to remember how he'd reacted. Can't, really; there's too much emotion for him to remember everything clearly. It was a moment of weakness he'd truthfully rather forget.
But he does remember how he realized the absence.
It had been that picture.
That damned picture.
He'd put it up in a moment of weakness. He liked to look at it; not because he missed Harry––of course not––but because he wanted that feeling back. The security, the comfort of coming home.
The apartment hadn't felt much like a home, after Harry left.
At first, he'd thought Bella had taken the photo. It wouldn't have surprised him. But then, he found the frame in the trash, the picture nowhere to be found. And Bella––jealous, vindictive, terrible Bella––would never keep a photo where she was not the focus of Tom's attention.
It was embarrassing, almost, to realize he had gone an entire day without noticing Harry's things were missing. He chalks it up to the alcohol's haze, even now.
He'd kept Harry's belongings not in case Harry came back (of course not) but for what they represented. It was the principle of the thing. In the end, he was the winner, and he won everything.
(Except for Harry. Everything, everything but Harry.)
It was just like Harry to steal that victory from under his nose, as hollow as it might have been.
The only thing he had left was that stupid robe. Red like wine, silky and smooth. A birthday present for Tom that Harry had stolen, and Harry looked too good in red for Tom to take it back.
He remembers pressing his face to the fabric, and finding it smelled like Bellatrix.
He'd kicked her out, after that.
Tom has the same feeling in his stomach now as he did then, as he stares down the door. Devoid of connection, cut off from emotion.
He doesn't ponder on it long. Since when has he ever lingered on a lack of emotion?
At dinner later that evening, Harry can tell Cedric is agitated. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark and clouded. He won't stop tapping his fingers.
This odd three-way staring contest certainly isn't helping matters any. Because while Harry is focused on Cedric, he knows Cedric is attempting to burn holes in Tom's face, and Tom is content in watching Harry.
No one is looking each other in the eye, and the tension rests over the table like a thick fog.
Harry sighs, and breaks the cycle.
He's just thankful that he and Cedric had been planning on having company tonight, anyway. Maybe another visitor will sway Tom's unnerving concentration.
"Dobby, did Lavender say how far away she was?"
The short, spindly man perks up from his place in the corner. "She said she's coming up the drive now, Mister Harry Potter, sir."
Harry sends a smile his way in thanks, his shoulders relaxing, just slightly. Thank god .
He stands, then, pushing his chair back. Cedric looks up at him, a question in his eyes.
Harry brushes a lock of Cedric's hair behind his ear, hoping to soothe his thoughts, just for a second. It works, almost. Cedric leans into the touch, and Harry's hand drops to the back of his neck, rubbing lightly. Hoping to work the tension out.
He steadfastly ignores Tom's presence, even as his eyes rest like thousand-pound weights on the two of them.
"I'm gonna go greet Lavender. I think she said something about Neville coming along, too."
Cedric nods, glancing sidelong at Tom, before his gaze slides back to Harry's. His hand comes up, squeezing Harry's fingers. "Don't be long."
Harry smiles, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Be barely a moment."
Harry knows he's leaving these two men to a minefield, but he'd rather they confront each other sooner than later. He can't stand this for a moment longer, not for his own sake, but for Cedric's.
With one last parting glance at the two of them (Cedric, straight-backed, tense; Tom, comfortable, avid), Harry slips from the room.
He half-considers just not coming back, but he's not cruel enough to leave Cedric to the wolves. Or one wolf, in particular.
Neville steps out of the car first, his brown hair tossing slightly in the Scottish wind. He has a bright smile on his face when he spots Harry, and Harry can't help but grin back.
Lavender steps out soon after, her pink sun-dress fanning out in the wind.
"Harry!" she squeals, and Harry doesn't have even a second to brace himself before she's throwing her entire body at him.
He catches her with a quiet "oof!" and wraps her in a gentle hug, laughing. Even just by seeing their faces, Harry's heart feels lighter.
Neville's one of Cedric's cousins, and a boy Harry actually knew from school, believe it or not. He was shy and awkward, then, but has since grown into his own.
Lavender is Neville's adopted sister, and she is a bundle of girlishness and energy. Harry adores them both.
"Hey, Lavender," Harry laughs, pushing her away so he can get a good look at her. "How are you?"
Her eyes sparkle in the dim light of evening. "Amazing. And starving."
Neville chuckles, coming up behind her. He wraps Harry in a hug. "Are you alright?" he mutters, so that Lavender won't hear.
Harry should've known that Cedric would tell Neville. He's so thoughtful; it astounds Harry every time.
Harry grins into Neville's shoulder, hands tightening on his back. "Better than, now that you two are here."
Neville leans back, his grin a touch smaller now, but no less bright. "Well," he says, looking down at Lavender, "I think it's time for dinner, don't you?"
Lavender smiles, turning to look at Harry. "I'll be on my best behavior."
Harry shakes his head, huffing a laugh. And he leads them inside, hoping to every higher power that there's no blood on the table when they return.
For the first time since they've sat down, Tom meets Diggory's fierce glare. All warmth is missing from those grey eyes, and their regard is pointed. Sharp.
Tom wonders how far he would need to push for it to turn violent. Not much, he guesses.
Evidently, Diggory thinks the same, for he dismisses the butler with hardly a glance.
Once the butler is gone, he speaks. "I'll be frank, Mr. Riddle," Diggory begins, voice low and carrying, "I know why you've come here."
Tom raises one single eyebrow, because honestly, he expects it's fairly obvious. It's clear Diggory has been made aware of his and Harry's history. What more is there to say on the matter?
Still, there seems to be something Diggory is implying. A deeper meaning, and Tom is determined to find out what it is.
"And why, exactly, do you think that is?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, making a show of getting comfortable. "The weather is lovely. Who's to say I didn't need a leisurely escape?"
The lines around Diggory's mouth grow deeper, a new darkness entering his eyes. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that farce of an excuse?"
Tom leans forward. Diggory may well be a monarch, he may have been born into the upper class, but make no mistake: he is lesser . Tom built himself from the ground up. Diggory could never compare. Tom's insides rebel at the very thought.
Maybe it's that anger that makes him say, "Make no mistake, Diggory: I will not take veiled threats and implied motivations. State what you mean, or kindly shut up."
Or maybe it's the vestiges of roiling jealousy. He still has the image of Harry's tender kiss ingrained in his brain, a searing afterimage behind his eyes.
Diggory's eyes narrow, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair. Still, he keeps his shoulders broad, as if posturing against a threat. Good . Tom is more dangerous than him by half.
"Fine," Diggory grits out, eventually. Tom watches as he makes a concentrated effort of releasing his grip on the chair, as he loosens his stance. "I'll be frank, then. I know you are here to take back Harry, and I know my father has encouraged you to do so."
Tom couldn't have held back his expression of shock if he tried. His eyebrows shoot up, before the full meaning hits him. Mirth bubbles up, and he can't help his lips from settling into a delighted, predatory smile. He knows the lights must be glinting off of his eyes, creating an unholy image.
My, but that is an interesting development.
Because truthfully, Amos Diggory had done no such thing. Tom thought it was his own persuasive prowess that had made this possible, but evidently he had a hidden ally. In his rival's very own father .
Would wonders never cease?
Tom can't stop a grin from twisting its way onto his face.
He throws his head back, and he laughs , deep and full. A dark satisfaction simmers in his chest.
"Honestly, I had no idea your father had any ulterior motives in allowing me to come here," Tom says, after a moment to collect himself. He meets Diggory's eyes, all mirth gone, replaced only with some sharp cunning. "But I'll admit, it's most fortunate you said so."
Tom presses forward, propping his chin on his hand, a deceptively innocent gesture. He watches Diggory, a devious smirk on his face. Diggory eyes him, wary.
"To think, if I make Harry slip even once, I can take him from you completely."
Diggory snarls, shooting out of his chair. He slams his hands down on the table, but Tom doesn't flinch. He only watches as Diggory leans forward, bringing them nearly nose to nose.
"Listen to me, Riddle," Diggory snarls, his eyes nearly black with hate, "I love Harry, and he loves me. He trusts me, and I trust him. Completely . With every second you stay here, I am more and more convinced that he will never go back to you. Do you want to know why ?"
Tom's smile drops completely from his face. He puts no effort into keeping up false pretences, in this moment.
"Enlighten me," Tom says, a note of danger in his voice.
Diggory just flashes his teeth, a poor imitation of smile. "Because as much time has passed, you have not changed. But Harry? Harry has ."
And there is no mistaking the note of relish in Diggory's voice when he continues, "And Harry has grown out of immature sadists that get off on his heartbreak."
The words send Tom into a pure, molten hatred . Tom feels as if he is on fire , and he shoots up, hand catching Diggory around the collar, a tornado of smoke and flame, prepared to burn .
He raises his arm, ready to tear this piece of shit ponce to fucking pieces ––
When that, of course, is the exact moment Harry and his guests walk in.
Harry has seen Tom angry plenty of times. Typically, he just displays a cold sort of indifference. He doesn't let you see how affected he is, which only infuriates you more. Tom knows how to wield emotion well, and he knows what it (and it's apparent absence) can do.
But this––this is a whole different ball game. This is possessive. This is blind jealousy.
Suddenly, Harry knows exactly what he is going to do to get Tom out of his house.
But that's more of an after-dinner affair.
Tom and Cedric are nearly nose to nose, their eyes bright and black with hatred. Tom has his hand bunched in the fabric of Cedric's shirt, as if ready to throw a punch. Cedric has his hand on Tom's wrists, and even from here, Harry can see how the nails dig in.
The room is silent.
And then all Harry can think is, Thank god for Neville.
"Break it up, gentlemen," Neville demands, voice brooking no room for argument. "This isn't the schoolyard."
Cedric's head swivels around, and a flush takes over his face as he realizes his behavior. Still, he doesn't back down.
Tom, for his part, doesn't look away from Cedric. That is, until Neville steps forward, catching Tom's wrist.
He meets Tom's eyes, and Harry marvels at Neville's stone-cold demeanor.
"Back. Up," Neville intones.
Riddle stares at him a moment longer, something wild in his eyes, before a certain lucidity overtakes his features. And then he blinks, as if only now realizing what he was doing.
He takes a breath, and releases Cedric's shirt. Stepping back out of either man's reach, he ducks his head and busies himself with smoothing down his suit jacket and pants. Then, he looks up, a bright smile on his face. But Harry sees the truth: in his eyes, there is something bloodthirsty lurking.
"My apologies," Tom says. His eyes flick to Harry, and stay there a moment longer than necessary before roaming the room. "I got carried away."
To Harry's surprise, Cedric agrees. The only thing they will ever agree on, Harry thinks wryly.
"Me too," Cedric says, and at least he has the decency to look sheepish. He tucks his hands awkwardly behind his back, and sends Harry a wry, sideways smile. "I haven't had a bully rile me up like that in a while."
Harry has to stifle a snort at that. It's not too hard, when he can feel the waves of positively murderous intent baking off of Tom's body.
"Well," Lavender says, a little breathless, something excited, something interested in her eyes, "I guess that's one way to start a dinner party."
Dinner is, in a word, tortuous.
Even if Tom didn't have to watch Harry and Diggory interact with each other, the girl would be enough to make him want to shoot himself.
Tom watches as Harry looks at Diggory, concerned, his hand inching over to his on the table. In between the shining cutlery, their little fingers tangle together.
And it's such a childish gesture, linking pinkies. Entirely innocent, barely romantic.
How many times had Tom neglected the little things, like that? Neglected the innocent touch?
He'll have to remember it. As much as it pains him, he'll have to take note.
The thought makes his blood boil, even as he knows it's unreasonable. It's the way Diggory gets under his skin. It's the vestiges of that fight from earlier, and even now Tom wants to rip through his throat––
"––and I––oh, um, I really think you can stop cutting, now."
Tom, pulled from his musings, looks blankly down at his plate. There is a deep scratch in the china.
He looks at the Lavender girl, and she just stares up at him, a little uncertain. Even so, he doesn't miss how her eyes light up at his attention. For a moment, he considers her.
She's awfully young, but pretty, too. Her hair is blonde and curly, her eyes big and a sweet, honeyed brown. There's a flush on her cheeks.
She's attracted to him, clearly, but it's hard for Tom to even imagine her in that light. Clearly, though, she has no trouble.
Tom glances over, and is surprised (and pleased) to find that, even while Harry is cuddled up to Diggory, his eyes are glancing between Tom and Lavender warily. Diggory, the fool, is too engrossed in conversation with Longbottom to notice.
Beneath the anger still boiling in his gut, Tom can feel the faintest traces of mischief.
He needs a distraction.
He turns to the girl–– Lavender , he thinks––with a new intent in his actions. She must sense the change in atmosphere, for her eyes widen, just a little bit, and her lips part.
Tom leans in, resting his chin on his hand. "Forgive me, sweetheart, my mind was on other things. What were you saying?"
A startled blush overtakes her cheeks, and she smiles, suddenly so much shier than before. "Oh. Just that I'm so glad to see Harry so happy. He was quite down for a little while."
And suddenly Tom is much more interested in this conversation. But the foolish girl only chuckles to herself, shaking her head, before saying, "But enough about that. I want to know about you ."
She looks up at him with big doe-eyes and bites her lip, a clumsy ploy of seduction, and not nearly so endearing as when Harry does it.
Tom feels annoyance bubbling in his throat, but makes an effort not to let it show on his face. "There's not much to say, I'm afraid. Harry and I, though––we're old friends. I'd love to hear about him."
Tom glances once more in Harry's direction, and is smugly pleased to find he is watching them with a cold, mounting suspicion.
Tom looks back to Lavender, and lowers his lashes. A silent prompt for information.
Stuttering and flustered, she obliges. "O-oh. Well, when I first met Harry it was at a footie match with Neville, and he just had this sad look in his eyes, you know? I never found out why"–– obviously she doesn't read the news , Tom thinks––"but it didn't really matter much, because then he met Cedric and he looked as if he was so happy he could die from it." She sighed, wistful, even as Tom felt the anger from before returning with a vengeance. She continued, "Isn't it just so romantic, a true love like that? What I'd give to have royalty sweep me off my feet."
At this, she looked up at him through the wisps of her hair meaningfully. "I'd let just about any powerful man carry me away."
"That's enough, Lavender."
Tom looks over to see Longbottom looking in their direction, his brow set sternly. He's awfully authoritative, for a such a soft-looking man. "You know better than that."
This is obviously an old argument, for Lavender simply rolls her eyes, sighing in agitation. "You never let me have any fun, Neville. Sod off."
Tom can feel the beginnings of a sibling fight stirring.
He looks to Harry, and finds that he is already watching him. There's a note of suspicion in his gaze, of concern, but also one of apprehension . As if the thought of Tom being with someone else… bothers him.
It could also be a nervousness about Tom being with a girl so young, a girl Harry cares about, but Tom doesn't think so.
He hides his smirk behind a sip from his glass.
Dinner ends not long after, and it is as the guests are filing out the door that Longbottom comes to a stop next to Tom. He doesn't even look at him, just simply says, "If you play with her, I will gut you," and continues out into the driveway.
Tom's not surprised by the threat, and isn't shaken by it. His sights are fixed firmly on one person only. One person who seems to have disappeared entirely.
Tom is just about to go looking when he feels a buzz in his pants pocket. He picks up the phone without looking, pressing it to his ear.
"Tom Riddle speaking."
"Hello, Tom."
Tom stiffens, and his lungs stutter to a halt.
"Bellatrix," he intones.
"Tom," she returns, playful. "You've been ignoring my messages."
He laughs, dryly, no mirth behind it. "I wonder why that is."
"Funny," and her tone goes serious as she says, "I've been wondering the same."
Tom pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. He can already feel a headache building. "I thought we were done with this."
"Done with what?" Bellatrix laughs, and it's empty of humor, the sound crackling like static over the phone. "We may not be together, Tom, but that doesn't mean we don't have unfinished business. We separated… rather abruptly, I think."
"Does it make a difference?" Tom snaps. He softens his tone, because even if he is angry and frustrated, she was once one of his most treasured companions. "Look, Bella, I would gladly welcome you back. But it won't look that same as it had before," he warns.
"Oh, Tom," she says, "of course it won't."
And she continues, "But that will be because of me, not you."
Tom takes a deep breath, waiting for more. Truthfully, he doesn't have the energy to deal with this. Not after today. Not after all this chaos.
"Is there a reason you called, Bella?" he asks, exhausted.
There's a tone in her voice he can't name when she says, "Oh, yes. I just wanted to let you know that since you won't meet me, as I've asked, I guess I'll simply have to find my way to you. Luckily, that hasn't been too hard. I hear Scotland's pretty this time of year. I can't wait to see it."
Tom feels shock hit him like a punch in the gut. Things are complicated enough, trying to earn Harry's sympathy, but her meddling––"No, Bella, wait–– "
But she's already hung up, and Tom is left staring blankly at his phone, the screen gone black and silent.
Oh, fuck.
Tom makes his way back to his room in a daze. Surely she won't come here? Surely she knows better?
But Bella's always been an agent of chaos , he thinks. Just remember how this entire fiasco began––
And that's when he hears it.
"Nnh. Yeah, yeah––"
Five years is a long time, but still not long enough for Tom to forget that voice. To forget what Harry sounds like, when he feels so good he's out of his mind with it.
His feet carry him to a cracked-open doorway, and he doesn't realize what he's seeing for a moment.
But then he processes Harry, and Diggory, and the couch they're laying on, and the situation becomes entirely too clear to him.
"Ngh––Cedric, god," Harry moans, head falling back against the arm of the loveseat. His hands clench tight into Diggory's hair, thumbs rubbing gentle circles onto the sides of his head as Diggory sucks a bruise onto the skin of throat. Flexing his hips, Harry's ass leaves the chair as he bucks up, desperately seeking sweet, bone-melting friction. "God, just like that."
Tom can feel Harry's moans like an electric current, straight to his cock. God, how long had it been since Harry had screamed his name, had begged, just like that?
It takes hardly a moment for the daze to clear from his head, the moans cutting through the fog like a knife, and even less than that for him to decide to stay and watch. He wedges his shoulder firmly against the doorway, glancing behind him to ensure no one else is there to discover the depravity of what is taking place before him. Of what Tom is witnessing, his cock already straining at his trousers, his hands tingling with the echo of a memory.
He returns his gaze to the couple before him, just in time to see Cedric fucking Diggory take one of those soft pink nipples into his mouth.
Tom feels a spike of hatred so potent it takes all he has to restrain himself from doing something drastic. He should say something. He should be petty, direct Diggory's clumsy ministrations: " tilt your head, use a hint of teeth" ––Harry likes it a little rough, likes the pain, the humiliation of begging for something that hurts so sweetly.
Instead, Tom relaxes against the doorframe, arms crossed, one leg crossed over the other. The picture of nonchalance, though his eyes, his cock betray him.
Tom's eyes rake over Harry's body, over all the exposed parts of him. Diggory fits over him well ( but not like Tom did, not so perfectly aligned ), and the fireplace casts shadows over Harry's lean, delectable form.
Their harsh breaths rend the air, giving it an atmosphere of desperation, of secret affairs; turning it into a room that recognizes only the shape of some ardent lust.
"Cedric," Harry cries, voice breaking on the name.
Tom wants to snarl , wants to tear his own name from that plush mouth; had he not brought him pleasure? Made him ache with nary a pass of his fingers? What could this man, this naive idiot do that compared to all the pleasures Tom had wrung from Harry?
Tom knows exactly when Diggory slips a finger into Harry's tight heat. Harry's back bows, his spine a beautiful, pale arch, glowing against the dying light of the fireplace. His head tilts back, his mouth falls open, and his eyes shut in sweet, honeyed surrender.
"More, baby––please, another. I'm still ready from this morning, just take me," he begs, hands falling to Diggory's shoulders as his arm pumps, in and out.
"Anything," Diggory breathes, pressing an open, wet kiss to Harry's throat, drawing those moans infinitely higher. "Anything for you."
Harry nods, a hand sliding down, pressing their hips together.
And nothing could have prepared Tom for the shock like lightning that shoots through him when Harry's eyes slide open, meeting his own.
His gaze is positively blazing.
"Want you," he says, leaning in to whisper it into Diggory's ear, though his eyes never stray from Tom's intense gaze. "Want you in me."
Tom's whole body feels on fire with it, burns with this incessant need to take Harry's body into his own hands, play it to that tune, his tune, that has always fit Harry so well. His blood boils when Harry's eyes slip closed beneath the pleasure of Diggory sliding home inside of him.
The resulting moan must be deliberate, Tom thinks. It is high, long––a keening cry of pleasure so encompassing, it drowns out all other thought.
Tom never imagined how thoughtful Harry could be in his revenge. Is this what he had seen, when Tom had fucked Bellatrix? Is this rage what he had felt, when he saw someone else in his lover's hands?
This vengeance––it is a work of art, just like Harry himself.
As angry as it makes him (and he's sure that's what Harry wanted), it only makes Tom want him more, too.
Diggory thrusts slowly, his hips adopting a natural rhythm, like waves on the shore, a rocking that Harry seems oh so intimately familiar with. Harry's breaths hitch with every push of those hips, his body rocking with the pace, as if he has done this a million times before.
The thought leaves Tom both unbearably enraged and maddeningly aroused.
Like this, Tom can see where their bodies join, where Diggory drives into Harry's willing body with abandon, and it only makes the blood in Tom's veins reach new, frighteningly high temperatures. Whether it's in rage or jealousy or want, he doesn't know. Perhaps it's all three; Harry had always had a way of bringing out the extremes in Tom.
It is not long before Diggory, ever generous, slides a hand between them, stroking Harry's cock, where it rests hard and straining ( and is it just from physical pleasure? Is it not, perhaps, caused by the sweet pleasure of a vengeance well satisfied? ) against his stomach.
"Cedric, I'm––ngh, I'm gonna––gonna come," Harry says, breath hitching, as he grabs hold of Diggory's upper arms. Those green eyes haven't left Tom's for even a moment. Harry's lucky Diggory's head is buried into the side of his neck, no doubt leaving marks ( marks only Tom should make ) and unable to see Tom standing there.
"Then do it, baby," Diggory urges.
Tom knows this is edging into dangerous territory, that any moment Diggory may pause and look over, but Tom will not miss this. He will not miss the chance to see Harry's face when he comes with the full knowledge that Tom is standing there, watching him. Wanting him.
Tom wonders if they're both imagining what it would be like, if Tom was in Cedric's place.
At that moment, Diggory must have gripped Harry just right, hit that sweet spot inside of him, because Harry's whole body arches, white shooting between them, glinting in the firelight.
Tom watches greedily, carefully detailing Harry's face. The way his mouth opens in a keen, with his cheeks flushed, his hair more of a mess than Tom has seen it yet. His eyes are just barely open, bright with triumph and focused solely, eagerly on Tom.
Tom doesn't slip a hand in his trousers, not yet, not as much as he would like to; even despite how much he would like for Harry to watch as Tom fucks his fist, imagining Harry's hand, Harry's mouth, Harry's hole in its place.
Tom barely even realizes it when Diggory comes and comes to a still, as focused as he was on Harry.
Harry finally looks away, breaking whatever spell he had cast on Tom, his eyes only for Diggory, now.
Tom has no interest in watching the long, deep kiss they share. And as entertaining as it would be, to watch Harry try to explain his way out of this one, no interest in being caught.
With one last, lingering look, Tom turns from the room, quietly making his way to his own.
He hardly has the door shut before he takes himself in hand, and it only takes six, furious, boiling, unbearably wanting strokes before he is coming all over his fist, spunk spilling over his hand and onto the ancient carpet of Diggory's ancestors.
Several miles away, a woman in a black dress steps into a private car.
"Where to, miss?"
Bellatrix Black smiles, all teeth, tapping one stilettoed foot.
"The Castle of Mey, if you please. I have some unfinished business to take care of."