A/N:
dedicated to Dia, who originally prompted the following:
Harry just got hired as Barty's personal assistant. He was instructed that Barty's boss, Tom Riddle, is never to be ignored or left waiting. That's not a big issue because Harry never hears from him anyway.
Then one night, while Barty is out of town and leaves Harry to answer his phone and emails, he gets a booty call (text?) from Tom. Harry is too scared to ignore the big boss so he shows up at the address Tom sent with chocolates and hopes the man doesn't get mad.
i took my usual liberties and made this an in-canon universe story instead. seems like i'm on a roll with the ridiculously-long one shots lately.
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The Usual
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On Harry's first day as the personal assistant of Bartemius Crouch Jr, Head of the DMLE, he was treated to two ironclad rules that would ensure his survival in the social-political warzone that was Britain's Ministry of Magic.
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Rule number one:
Do not make mistakes.
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At a surface glance, this rule appeared to be highly unreasonable. People always made mistakes. This was an unavoidable fact of life.
But Barty had assured him that this was not the point. The point was to do everything in his power to avoid making mistakes. This meant if he needed more time to complete a task, he should speak up and let someone know. Then they would either give him more time to do it, or assign someone else to help him.
If he was unsure about something, then he should ask others to check over his work to make sure nothing fell through the cracks. The Ministry was full of resources, people and products alike, and he would be extremely foolish not to take advantage of them.
The real mistake would be to fuck something up because he'd been too ignorant or prideful to find a solution.
So rule one was fine. Harry could live with that because on some level, it made sense to him.
Then there was rule number two.
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Rule number two:
Do whatever Minister Riddle says.
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Harry could... almost wrap his head around this one. Tom Riddle was the Minister, and so it was only logical that everyone listened to what he had to say. Except everyone at the Ministry took this simple rule to an absolute extreme.
If Minister Riddle asked you to fetch him a cup of coffee or tea, it did not matter if you were the head of a department or a lowly, unpaid intern. The appropriate reaction, apparently, was to drop everything you were doing, get him a cup of whatever it was, and deliver it with a smile on your face.
It was weird. But Harry supposed he could live with this if only because everyone was expected to go along with Riddle's demands. He could hardly be annoyed when even his own supervisor, Barty—who refused to be known as 'Mr Crouch' for reasons that were still unclear—capitulated to Riddle's every whim.
So Harry took Barty's advice to heart. He worked hard and asked for help whenever it was necessary. People seemed to like him, on the whole. Barty made a point to praise him for not complaining about the more menial aspects of the job. This was probably because Harry was used to it after living with the Dursleys, but he wisely kept his mouth shut on that front and instead thanked his supervisor for the compliment.
After nearly a year of running around, doing paperwork, and managing Barty's never-ending schedule, Harry thought he had the hang of things. He had run into the Minister a few times—often he was glanced at then ignored—and only spoken to the man once.
Riddle had asked him to carry a folder full of papers to the Head Unspeakable, Evan Rosier. Harry had eagerly nodded and taken off in the direction of the lifts, glad to have been assigned such an easy task.
What he had thought was an easy task.
It turned out that Harry did not have the appropriate clearance to enter the Department of Mysteries. This had resulted in a great deal of awkward shuffling around and waiting for someone to either let him in or take the papers to where they needed to be. Then he'd learned that neither of those things were even actual options.
Everything that entered the Department of Mysteries had to be screened and tested before it was allowed inside. This included people, objects, and yes, paperwork.
Harry was forced to spend several hours waiting while Unspeakable Rookwood examined the contents of the folder and cleared each individual sheet of parchment.
By the time he'd stumbled back into Barty's office, he'd been prepared to be yelled at for his absence and lack of work ethic.
Barty did seem angry, at first. He'd asked Harry where he'd been in a calm, dangerous tone that implied he better have a very good reason for having gone missing.
Then Harry had explained that he'd been on an errand for Riddle.
Barty's expression had cleared up right away. Just like that. Just like Harry had said some magical nonsense words that could get anyone out of trouble anywhere.
On that day, rule number two earned new, heavier emphasis.
Do whatever Minister Riddle says.
"I won't have access to anything once I'm there," Barty said for the thousandth time as he examined his office for anything he was missing, which he couldn't possibly be at this point. If Barty was missing something, then it would be Harry's fault for failing to have packed it, and Harry had gone out of his way to be very thorough when packing the man's luggage for his week-long trip abroad.
Barty added on, "No owls, no Floo-calls."
"Yes, sir," Harry said, for the lack of a better response. There was no point in reminding the man that he already knew all of this.
"And you will be responsible for handling everything in my absence," Barty continued. He seemed relaxed, but there was definitely an edge of stress to his words. Barty took his job very, very seriously. More seriously than Hermione took her job, which was saying something.
"I won't let you down, sir," Harry said, willing himself to sound confident.
"If you need help, then you will speak with Amelia."
"Yes, sir."
"You will open and respond to all of my mail. I've arranged for the mail sent to my flat to be redirected here."
That gave Harry pause. "What if the mail is..." He struggled to think of an appropriate word. "Personal?"
Barty shot him a glance. "Personal? If you believe the matter is above your security clearance, then take it to Amelia."
Harry didn't understand that answer at first. It took him far too long to realize that the man simply didn't have a personal life. There was no life outside of this office. No life outside of working for the Ministry. In fact, Harry was pretty sure that this so-called vacation was actually a work vacation in disguise.
"Alright," Harry said. "I can do that."
"You've done well here, Potter," Barty said, pinning Harry in place with a stern look. "I would very much like to see you succeed at the Ministry, here in my department. If you can handle this week without any major incidents, it will open doors for you." The 'I will open doors for you' went unsaid, but Harry heard it loud and clear.
"Yes, sir," Harry said, jerking his head up and down. He felt like his heart was going to fall out of his chest. "I won't mess this up."
Barty patted him on the shoulder. "Excellent. That is what I like to hear."
Harry met Ron for lunch in the cafe across the street from the Ministry's public entrance.
"So your boss is letting you babysit the entire department while he's away?" Ron asked. He leant back in his chair and let out a low whistle. "Damn. I don't think even Hermione's there yet. She's going to be so jealous."
Harry felt his face go red. "I'd rather it wasn't me who's gotten so far ahead," he said tersely. "Can you imagine what'll happen if I fuck this up? He'll fire me."
"You won't," Ron said, shifting forward to pick up his club sandwich with both hands. "Everyone likes you. You can just ask for help if you need it. The important thing is not to lose your head. That's when you'll get into trouble."
Harry stared. "I didn't know you were capable of giving out such sage advice," he said, deadpan. "Must be Hermione rubbing off on you."
"It's the Auror training," Ron said with a snort. "It's given me a new perspective on life." He waved an airy hand. "Who knew they wanted their Aurors with level heads and not hot ones? Not McLaggen, that's for sure. How he's managed not to flunk out, I've no idea."
Ron continued onto a new story about his Auror training while Harry half-listened and made the appropriate noises in the right places. He'd thought about joining the Aurors, but it hadn't felt... right. So he'd applied for the administrative position instead because that seemed easier. It seemed safer than committing to a job where fucking up could mean someone dying.
For his current job, the pay was shit and the hours—as Barty's assistant, at least—were not much better, but the work kept him busy and distracted, which was what he wanted.
Ron seemed to think that a year or two of shoving parchment around would send him running to the Auror office, but Harry wasn't so sure about that. Ron liked glory, he liked the idea of being the hero. Harry didn't really care about those things. He just wanted to be appreciated.
And Barty was nice, even if his standards were ridiculously high. He was fair when it came to his criticisms, which encouraged Harry to do better. He was also willing to give Harry some bigger, more important tasks, something that no other department heads were doing. Even Hermione, who was the brightest of their generation, was not dealing with the sorts of problems that Barty delegated to Harry on a regular basis.
Harry had asked about it once. When closing a conversation, Barty always made sure to ask if Harry had any questions. And so into the halting pause following one of those closings, Harry had stuttered out his question.
"Not that I'm ungrateful or—or complaining or anything, but I just wondered—wanted to know—why you always give me such important assignments? None of the other assistants ever get to do the kind of things I do..." Harry had trailed off, uncomfortable. He didn't see himself as very special, or worthy of tasks that other, more qualified people were evidently not even considered for.
"You are my assistant," Barty had said primly in response. "I chose you because I saw the potential for more, just as someone else once glimpsed that same potential in myself. I promise you that there is so much more that you are capable of. More than you think. You are an accomplished young man, and you do yourself a disservice implying otherwise."
Harry hadn't been able to come up with anything to say after that. He'd stammered out his awkward thanks then fled to do the task that Barty had assigned him.
He couldn't help but think that maybe he should have said something more, because now he had been tasked with managing the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement for a week. A whole week that would surely feel like a month before Monday was even over.
"If I make it through the week in one piece," Harry said to Ron as they made their way back to the Ministry, "then we'll go for drinks, yeah?"
"Of course," Ron said. He clapped Harry on the back. "And if you need anything, let me know. I'm sure Bones and Kingsley won't notice if I drop away for a while."
Harry nodded, but he didn't really mean it. It wasn't that he didn't want help—rule number one was always in the back of his mind—but it felt... it felt like cheating. If he could run everything smoothly for a week without any panic, it would prove he was meant to be here. Meant to have this job.
So he would handle everything on his own as best he could and everything would be fine. Hopefully.
Monday dawned with a vengeance. Harry rose at the crack of dawn and crawled into his Ministry robes before Floo-ing to work. He didn't usually wake this early, but he knew that Barty did. It would be prudent to arrive at the Ministry before everyone else was awake. That way he could sort through any problems that had popped up overnight before the new day's problems made themselves known.
Harry landed in Barty's office and started rifling through the in-tray of mail, categorizing the documents as he went along. Barty utilized a very basic colour system for all the paperwork that passed through the DMLE. Harry marked everything with the appropriate colours and double checked his work before sending some of the parchment rolls off to where they needed to be.
Unfortunately, because he was Barty's assistant, there was no one to get him coffee. Harry yawned his way through the first two hours of the morning, blinking the haze from his already-poor vision as he read through pages and pages of last night's 'summarized' reports for anything notable.
Hermione came in around the three-hour mark and left a paper cup on his desk. Harry was up to his throat in legalese and using a dictaquill to respond to the unending amounts of incoming mail. It was hard to tell what could wait and what could not. Harry hadn't been around long enough to distinguish the two. Barty took care of everything so quickly. Harry only knew what was extremely important and therefore took precedence because Barty was always worked up over them.
"You're a godsend, honestly," Harry said blearily as he reached for the cup. "I love you."
Hermione patted him on the head. "Ron and I will bring you lunch if you're here then," she told him. "Stay strong."
Harry did stay strong. By the time lunch hour rolled around, he didn't actually have time to eat anything, but he felt like he was doing alright. No one had died, at any rate.
It wasn't great that he had to miss lunch, but long hours weren't new to him. Barty was a chronic workaholic, which meant Harry was expected to attend to a similar schedule. Sometimes, that meant having lunch at seven in the evening.
Harry went through several more cups of coffee—most of the people coming into Barty's office had taken one look at him and returned a few minutes later with a mug and a sympathetic smile—and a packet of sweets to keep his stomach from growling. His hands were getting a little jittery from all the caffeine, but with the dictaquill doing the heavy lifting, he figured it didn't matter.
Ron and Hermione went home ages before he did, but they stopped by to wish him luck before they left. Harry was in the middle of his 'lunch', having reheated and swallowed down the chicken wrap and tomato soup they'd brought him hours earlier.
"I'm going to die," Harry said, half-joking.
"If you do," Ron added, "I'm sure Crouch will find someone else to pencil in your funeral."
Hermione sniffed. "You're doing extremely well, Harry. Everyone is very impressed!"
Harry didn't know who 'everyone' was, but he wished they would consider lowering their expectations. Tomorrow, he would have to do all of this again.
When the last task of the day was done, Harry headed home. There was no energy left to make dinner. Harry dumped some cereal into a bowl and added milk. Then he went to bed. It sucked, but there was a small part of his brain that rejoiced. One day down, four more to go.
The week dragged on, but Harry survived. There had been a concerning incident on Wednesday which could have turned into a massive issue, but Amelia Bones had caught the problem and corrected it before it could blow up in his face.
"It's alright," she'd told him kindly. "My pleasure."
It didn't make Harry feel better. He preferred it when Barty outlined for him what had happened and why, how to fix it himself, and how to prevent it from happening again. The way Amelia talked to him, he felt like a failure even though he knew she didn't mean it that way. It was faster for her to fix things than explain it all to him, but he couldn't help but wonder if she thought he was too inexperienced to handle it.
Aside from that, everything else was okay. Harry had fallen into the rhythm of an early start and late finish. He had mental templates prepared for responding to a majority of Barty's owl correspondences. He recognized all the paperwork that came in and how to handle it. He just had to stay alive for the final leg of this week, and then the torture would be over.
Then on Friday afternoon, just when Harry had begun to nurse a tentative, reluctant hope that everything would, in fact, be alright, an owl from Minister Riddle arrived on Barty's desk.
The name 'Tom' scrawled in looping cursive at the bottom of the letter was more than enough to send Harry spiralling into cardiac arrest. His entire chest felt numb, positively sick with anxiety, and the tidal wave of his panic threatened to snap the remaining threads that held his crumbling sanity together.
Merlin only knew the sorts of things that the Minister expected Barty to be able to handle. None of them were within Harry's capabilities, for sure.
"Fuck," Harry said. It was a wearier expletive than he might have managed normally; he was too exhausted to muster any annoyance at his terrible luck. With an inward sigh, he dragged his eyes back to the top of the letter and started to read.
Barty,
Please come by as soon as you are done for the day. Bring the usual.
Tom
There were several questionable details that should have caught his attention: the missing official letterhead at the top of the parchment, the casual tone of the missive, and the disconnect of its topic from their work at the Ministry. Such was Harry's poor state of mind—drained, distressed, and running on less than four hours of sleep—that he failed to notice these things.
Firmly engraved in his mind was that one, all-consuming mantra:
Do whatever Minister Riddle says.
Harry stared at the Riddle's note for long, long minutes. Then his brain kicked into overdrive.
What did this mean? Where were they supposed to meet? What was Barty supposed to bring? Harry had no idea what any of this was about and he had no way of contacting Barty to ask—not that he was supposed to, anyway. Barty was on 'vacation'.
Harry groaned and dropped the letter to his—Barty's—desk. Should he go and ask someone else? The context of the letter implied that this was a normal, habitual request. So someone else probably knew. He just had to suck it up and ask. But who would he ask? Madam Bones? Kingsley? Another department head?
He didn't really want to go ask Amelia after his fuck up the other day, so that left Kingsley.
Harry sighed. Everyone knew that he'd been essentially saddled with Barty's job in the interim. It wouldn't come as a surprise to them that he was entirely ignorant of whatever this simple thing was. The sooner he got it over with, the better.
Reaching for a fresh scrap of parchment, Harry scribbled out a question and sent it off to Kingsley. One of the only good things about being important and busy all the time was the ability to get away with writing letters for everything instead of running all around the Ministry trying to find people.
Once the message was on its way, Harry went back to doing his work. Or, to put it more aptly, trying to do his work. His foot tapped out an anxious, impatient pattern on the floor, and he found it impossible to focus on any task for more than a few minutes before his mind wandered back to his worries.
Where did they meet? What was 'the usual'? Not knowing was going to drive him mad.
Kingsley wrote back within the half hour to apologize and direct Harry's inquiry towards Amelia Bones instead. Harry crumpled up the parchment and tossed it aside. Then, before he could think too hard on it, he wrote out a message to Madam Bones and sent it out.
She responded much faster than Kingsley had. Harry only stewed in his misery for fifteen minutes before her reply landed on his desk, stating that she, too, had no idea what Minister Riddle was referring to.
Harry had the urge to ask them both if they were certain that the message was from the Minister, but he had seen enough of Tom Riddle's letters fall across Barty's desk to recognize the handwriting. This letter had definitely come from the Minister.
Checking the clock revealed that the work day for everyone else was nearly done. How long would Riddle expect Barty to be occupied? How long until Barty was expected to show up... wherever... and present... whatever it was... to him? Harry could have cried.
"Think," he muttered furiously to himself. He gave his head a bit of a knock with the palm of his hand. "Think, damn it!" To help himself along, he pulled the message back out and laid it on the desk.
Riddle had to mean for Barty to come by his office. That made the most sense. So Harry could go by and check if Riddle was there. But if Harry was wrong, if the location was not the Minister's office, then where? Where would the Minister be?
"Oh," Harry said aloud. He could have hit himself in the head again, but he didn't. Instead, he snatched up another sheet of parchment and wrote out a new message to Percy, who was assistant to Senior Undersecretary Lucius Malfoy.
Percy answered fastest of them all. He responded within five minutes with the outline of the Minister's schedule for the entire day. Harry scanned the hours line by line until he reached the bottom. Then he checked the clock again.
It was nearly six. The Minister's schedule ended at half past six. Barty almost always went well past six, even on a Friday. Riddle would not be in his office by the time Harry was done for the day. Riddle would be... at home. Ostensibly.
Harry exhaled. So the delivery was meant to be made at the Minister's personal address. The thought of going there made him want to drown in a lake, but he couldn't worry about that right now. He still had to figure out what Barty was supposed to bring. Maybe Percy had more information about that?
Another quick message and reply revealed that no, Percy did not know. Harry debated asking Percy to ask Malfoy, then decided he was not yet that desperate.
There had to be documentation somewhere in this office. Receipts, perhaps. Some indication of whatever it was that Harry was now expected to bring.
The problem was, he still had to finish the rest of his work for the day. Did he have time to do both of those things?
As if in response to his question, the door creaked open.
"Still here?" Ron asked sympathetically.
Hermione came to stand in front of the desk, her hands braced on her hips. "Harry, you look like you're one second away from falling over. Didn't I tell you to ask for help if you need it?"
Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but then he realized she was right. "I need help," he said slowly.
He was not going to be able to do all of this on his own. It was better if he admitted that now and got help. That was what Barty had taught him.
Ron sighed and glanced around the room. He summoned a chair from the far wall and sat down in it. "Right, well, what is it? More paperwork? Can't be worse than the stuff Kingsley has us doing. Anything easy that we can do? Or I can do? Hermione can probably help you more with other stuff than I can—"
The overwhelming relief that Harry felt as his friends gathered around to help him quickly trampled any guilt he felt at wasting their Friday evening. They wanted to help him. If they were in his shoes, he would have done the same thing.
"Riddle sent Crouch a letter," Harry explained, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He needs something delivered at his flat once I'm done for the day. I don't know what it is and I need to figure it out in the next two hours or so."
Hermione was sorting through the remaining pile of documents on his desk. "I think I know how to do most of these. Is there anything else left?"
Harry shook his head. "Just that, and whatever other owls come in."
"Then leave these to us, and you figure out whatever it is you need to get," she instructed him.
Ron nodded. "Don't worry, Harry. We've got this."
Harry had never felt more grateful. "You are both saving my life right now," he told them weakly. "I'll take you both to dinner, promise."
Ron snorted. "You can thank us by making sure Riddle doesn't murder you for getting his delivery wrong. Let's get to work."
While his friends poured over paperwork, Harry sifted through the filing cabinet where Barty stored the department's expense reports. He drew the last three months' worth and set them on the desk.
It did not take very long to narrow his search to the reports that Barty handled directly. Those were much less frequent and fewer in number. Unfortunately, they were all reports that Harry recognized because he, too, had been involved in handling them.
Harry was beginning to suspect that there was nothing in this office that he hadn't read or stamped or otherwise interacted with at some point during his employment here at the Ministry.
So that meant whatever Riddle was asking after, it was not a request sent through Ministry channels, because Harry would have known about it. Barty didn't keep secrets when it came to work—he had emphasized many times that Harry was welcome to open any of his office mail at any time, and ask as many questions as he needed to.
Then, quite suddenly, a few pieces clicked into place. Harry made a funny noise and snatched up the letter from the desk, seeing it with new eyes. Missing letterhead, casual tone, unrelated to the Ministry. Of course. Riddle must have sent this to Barty's personal address. Then it had been forwarded here. This request was personal and that was why Harry wouldn't find any trace of it in this office.
"Figured it out?" Ron asked, sounding vaguely interested. Hermione had him stamping reports she'd verified, then sealing them in envelopes.
"Not yet," Harry admitted. "But I think I'm onto something."
Hermione slid another roll of parchment in Ron's direction. "I'm surprised Mr Crouch didn't think to leave instructions for this. He's usually very on top of these things."
"Usually he is, yeah," Harry conceded. When no one said anything further, he went back to thinking. He wasn't able to access Barty's personal expense records, so that avenue was out. Or maybe 'the usual' wasn't something that was meant to be purchased? Maybe it was something else that already existed.
Harry rubbed at his temples. Time was running out and he had no starting point to help him.
"I think I'm stuck," Harry said. When his friends paused and looked up at him, he added, "I can't figure out what it is that he wants. I already asked Bones, Kingsley, and Percy. I worked on all the expense reports for the past several months and there isn't anything that hasn't already been allocated. I think it must be a personal request, but there's no way I can figure this out without any clues."
Hermione said, "Breathe, Harry."
Harry sucked in a breath of air. "I'm stuck," he repeated. "I have no idea what to do."
"Crouch never mentioned anything?" Ron asked. Then, as Harry opened his mouth to say 'no', Ron added, "I don't mean mentioned having to bring something over. I mean, did he ever mention having to go anywhere after work? Picking something up? That might be a clue."
"That's a very good point," Hermione said, sounding impressed.
"It's the Auror training," Ron said sagely.
Harry thought back. "He doesn't really... go anywhere. I don't think. His house-elf buys his groceries for him."
Upon the mention of house-elves, Hermione's face fell into a disapproving look.
"Can you call his elf here?" Ron asked, apparently oblivious to Hermione's ire.
"Never met them," Harry admitted. "So no, probably not."
Ron swore. "Damn. I don't know, then."
Hermione clicked her tongue at them. "Maybe you should just ask Minister Riddle what it is he needs. I'm sure he'll understand, given Mr Crouch's absence."
Ron and Harry both stared at her, aghast.
"Do you want Harry to die?" Ron asked rhetorically. "Because that's what will happen if he asks."
"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said. "No one is going to die."
"Yes," Ron insisted, "he will. People have been sacked over less! Everyone knows that you don't ask him questions, you just do whatever it is that he asks you to do and hope you don't fuck it up."
Harry buried his head in his hands. He had a feeling that Barty valued rule number two more than rule number one. Barty would be supremely disappointed in Harry for breaking rule number two. Then, after Harry was appropriately shamed in front of a man who he very much respected, he would be fired and die.
"I'm going to die," Harry said morosely.
Hermione made a frustrated noise and went back to the paperwork, having evidently given him up as a lost cause, as she should.
Ron patted him on the back. "You lasted this long, mate. You did a damn sight better than anyone else would have, in your place."
"I guess," Harry said.
A fresh flurry of letters flew into the office and landed on the desk. Harry sighed. He might as well help Ron and Hermione go through them.
Harry mindlessly reached for the letter on top of the new pile and dragged the letter opener through it. He unfolded the parchment, then dropped it as though it had burned him.
"Fuck," he said loudly. "Fuck, it's another letter."
"Give me that," Hermione demanded. "Let me see!"
The desk was crowded with the three of them working on it. Harry had to dodge her swipe so he could read the letter himself. "Riddle says never mind about the wine. Malfoy dropped off a bottle of Superior Red."
"Wine?" Hermione asked, incredulous. Her hand fell back to the desk as her brow wrinkled.
"It's Malfoy wine," Ron said with a sneer. "Bloody overpriced stuff, if you ask me. Figures that he's sucking up to the Minister with it."
Harry was already moving on to his next thought. "He wants stuff to unwind," Harry realized. "He wants wine."
This, finally, was something that made sense. It was a Friday evening. The Minister for Magic wanted to unwind. If Riddle wanted wine, then whatever else he wanted probably had to do with wine.
"What goes with red wine?" Harry heard himself asking.
"Steak?" Ron suggested. "Sometimes mum serves it with lamb."
Harry didn't think he could stomach showing up at the Minister's doorstep with a steak, raw or cooked.
"If this is about relaxing, then how about chocolates?" Hermione said. "Or candles?"
"That's date stuff," Ron protested.
"It isn't. Sometimes people like to buy nice things for themselves," Hermione said defensively.
Harry didn't know the Minister well enough to make a judgement call. Everything sounded totally plausible to his anxiety-riddled brain.
"If Crouch is bringing over chocolates and candles on a regular basis, then I don't think it's Harry that Riddle wants to see," Ron retorted.
"That's inappropriate," Hermione said immediately.
"Yeah, I don't care if they're seeing each other," Harry interrupted, "I just want to keep my job, thanks."
"If they are seeing each other, then you're off the hook," Ron pointed out.
"But what if they aren't?" Harry insisted. "Then I'll be on the hook as the bait, dangling right over some shark-infested waters." He shook his head. "Besides, I'm pretty sure Crouch doesn't even know what a personal life is. If he's delivering this stuff, it's probably for Riddle to use on someone else. Which makes it doubly important I get this right."
"Then you should ask Percy," Ron said after a moment. "If anyone knows what Riddle likes, it's him. You can just buy up everything and cart it over. Better too much than too little. I'm sure Crouch will reimburse you for it all after."
That was a good idea. "Do you think he's still here?"
Ron shot him an incredulous look. "It's Percy. Of course he's still here."
Harry stood up. "I'll go find him. It'll be faster if I get the information and leave right after. Are you guys alright to finish up here?"
Ron waved him off. "We're nearly done. You go finish Riddle's shopping for him."
"Thanks. You're both the best, honestly." Harry smiled as best he could, then grabbed his cloak and headed for the door.
Harry left the Ministry with a laundry list of items courtesy of Percy. Foods, drinks, creature comforts. Harry was afraid to ask if these were preferences that Percy had gleaned through purely straightforward means, or if they had been obtained with what he might generously call… very attentive examination.
But there was no time to question it. Harry Apparated directly to Diagon Alley and systematically made his way through the shops, ticking off the items as he went. There was something called a 'Slytherin cake' that Harry had never heard of before, but it was, apparently, a plain dark chocolate cake in the shape of a snake, with a white chocolate underbelly. Ridiculous.
Next, Harry picked up two boxes of sugared butterfly wings to go with it. Who knew the Minister had such a sweet tooth? Then came some of the more practical items: the shaving cream he used, the brand of tea he preferred, the biscuits he kept in his desk drawer—again, Harry had to wonder just how much time Percy devoted to noting these things—and yes, a candle whose scent was most commonly compared by witches all over Britain to the award-winning novelist, Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry got a good laugh out of that one.
An hour and a half later, arms laden with bags, Harry looked over his shopping list and was not at all relieved to find that every item had been located.
Because now that every item had been located, it was time to drop them off.
Harry sighed. Then he sighed again, more heavily than before. Telling himself that he would soon be able to go home did not reassure him. Once he was home, no doubt licking his wounds after a severe dressing down, he would replay the day's events over and over, agonizing over everything he had done wrong and what he should have done to prevent screwing it all up so badly.
After checking his watch no less than five times and reciting the address under his breath three times more than that, Harry comes to the conclusion that no, lighting would not strike him down in broad daylight and spare him the embarrassment of delivering a hundred galleons' worth of random items to Minister Riddle's house.
The private residence of Britain's Minister for Magic was common knowledge among the department heads and their overworked assistants. Tom Riddle's home address had certainly passed over Harry's desk enough times that he could recognize it upside down, backwards, or covered in ink splotches.
With that in mind, Harry squeezed his eyes shut and Disapparated.
Riddle's house was nothing Harry had expected. At first glance, he thought he might have arrived at the wrong place. The front grounds were full of lush, colourful flowers, and the flowers were grouped together into patches that gave the yard the appearance of a plush child's quilt.
Beyond the path lay what Harry could only describe as a quaint, three-story cottage. It was not sleek, luxurious, or modern. The third floor had a varnished wooden balcony that looked out at the setting sun, and there were no other houses in sight for miles.
This couldn't be the Minister's house. It was too gentle for such an austere, demanding man. Harry couldn't imagine Riddle's tall, imposing frame striding through this vibrant garden, but he tried anyway. How would the sunlight highlight his hair, or accentuate his cheekbones? Harry wasn't blind. He knew the Minister was handsome. But a flawless appearance couldn't possibly hold water here, not in this otherworldly place where nature stretched out with maternal hands.
It was curiosity that dragged Harry's feet to the front door and raised his hand to the doorbell.
Brief silence persisted for a minute or so before the door swung open.
Prior to today, Harry had only ever seen Riddle in his Minister's robes. The man's casual clothes were decidedly different. Charcoal silk shirt tucked into a pair of cream-coloured trousers that hugged Riddle's long, lean legs. And then, to top off the look, a heavy set of crimson robes that cinched at the waist and shimmered with hints of gold and ruby.
Riddle cleared his throat, which put an abrupt end to Harry's ogling. His steady gaze held a hint of curiosity in them as they raked Harry up and down. And Harry, who could hardly fault Riddle this perusal without labelling himself a hypocrite, felt his cheeks flush with colour in response to the heavy attention.
"Ba—Mr Crouch is away on vacation," Harry said, cursing several times over that Barty refused to be known by his surname in private. Then he realized he'd forgotten to say hello. "Er, hello, Minister Riddle, sir." Merlin help him. "I have your requested…" Harry tried to think of a word to describe all of the things he'd purchased. "Your items are here," he finished lamely.
Riddle quirked his lips, drawing Harry's eyes to the motion. "Is that so?"
He did not seem mad, at least. Harry nodded quickly. "I have everything shrunken down." He reached into his pockets and started pulling things out.
"Hold on." Riddle held out a hand to stop him, the flat palm pressing against Harry's wrist.
Harry jerked back, then froze in place, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. The physical contact was so sudden that it burned.
"Come inside," Riddle said, apparently unbothered by Harry's odd behaviour. His fingers were long and slender, curving slightly to accommodate the bone of Harry's wrist, where they lingered before dropping away.
Harry shuffled into the cottage. The interior was a wash of warm, earthy tones with silver accents. Green walls, hardwood floors. The curtains were a deep brown ochre tied with sleek silver ribbons. It did not come as a surprise to Harry that everything matched. Overall, the decor was tasteful and clearly expensive, but the general appearance was friendly and comfortable in a way that matched the casual stance of its homeowner.
"Pay no mind to the mess," Riddle said casually.
Harry glanced around, seeing no mess whatsoever, then made eye contact with the coffee table. Relieved, Harry quickly stepped over to it, eager to offload his offerings so he could escape Riddle's piercing gaze.
"I'll be quick," Harry said, unshrinking a box of tea bags and setting it next to a glass coaster with the initials TMR curved around the border.
"Quite the collection you have there," Riddle said, sounding amused as Harry unloaded bag after bag onto the little coffee table.
Harry felt blood rush to his face. "I can take back whatever you don't want," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the table.
"Oh, I rather think I'd like to keep everything."
Something about Riddle's tone—deeper, warmer than before—caught Harry's attention. He chanced a peek from underneath his lashes.
Riddle was watching him very intently.
"That's good," Harry managed to get the words out. He dropped the box of sugared butterfly wings onto the floor since there was no more room on the table. "I think that's everything," he said, straightening. "Did you want me to put any of this away?"
Riddle raised a hand and snapped his fingers. A tiny house-elf dressed in a light silver tea towel popped into the room. They began to collect most of the purchases and cart them away. In short order, Harry and Riddle were the only ones left in the room.
Did that mean Harry had succeeded? Had he delivered what Riddle wanted, or was the Minister just being kind?
"I must admit," Riddle said, taking a step closer, "you have been very thorough."
Harry tried to gather enough courage to make his escape. All he had to do was say goodbye. All he had to do was say that he had to leave.
Instead of saying he was leaving, Harry said, "Mr Crouch sets very clear expectations for everyone in his department, sir."
The side of Riddle's mouth curled up. A smile?
"He does do that," Riddle said, sounding almost fond. "Before tonight, I might have said Barty was the only man capable of meeting my own." He was definitely smiling. "Expectations, that is."
Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling the heat prickle over the nape. What should he say to that? Thank you?
Riddle wandlessly summoned the package of sugared butterfly wings to his hand and opened it up. He slipped two fingers into the box and retrieved a pretty purple-blue butterfly dusted in sugar crystals. The creature's wings flapped in a futile chance to escape as Riddle offered it out to him.
"Um. No, thanks," Harry said. "I'm not—" Hungry? It was a piece of candy, for crying aloud. "I should go," he finished awkwardly.
Riddle canted his head slightly to one side. "So soon? Barty often stays a while longer."
Harry had the feeling he was still missing an important piece of this puzzle. "Do you need me to stay?" he asked. "To… do something for you?"
Riddle looked him up and down again, then hummed his approval. "You could say that."
"What does Mr Crouch normally do?"
Riddle pursed his lips, lifting his gaze to Harry's face. "Whatever I'm in the mood for, typically. But you'll do as his replacement."
Harry resisted the urge to check his watch. It had to be well past eight in the evening now. He had only eaten one meal today and his mouth was dry from not having enough water. What he wanted was to go home and sleep for twelve hours.
But the way Riddle was looking at him, with those expectations in his eyes…
It gave Harry pause. It made him think that maybe there was something else he was supposed to want, only he hadn't quite figured it out yet.
"Stay," Riddle said, gesturing at the couch. "And have something to eat. You went to such trouble obtaining these things for me, I believe it's only fair if you also enjoy the fruit of your labours."
Harry licked his lips. "Does Mr Crouch normally do this?"
Again, there was that look. "He does."
Harry sat down, hands in his lap. Riddle offered him a sugared butterfly, and this time, Harry took it and popped it into his mouth. The wings were sweet and light, melting on his tongue like snowflakes.
"Do you like sweets?" Harry found himself asking, just to fill the silence.
"I indulge from time to time," Riddle said, nonchalant as he settled next to Harry on the couch. He pinched a pink butterfly from the box and placed it into his mouth. The sight was oddly transfixing; Harry dropped his eyes to the table laden with purchases in order to avoid staring.
Riddle swung one leg over the other, his foot nearly brushing the front of Harry's left leg. "Tell me, Harry, did Barty explain to you why I summon him to my house?"
"No," Harry said slowly, drawing the word out. Was this a trick or a trap? "He didn't explain."
Riddle licked a piece of sugar off the tip of his index finger, then his thumb. "I see. So you felt compelled to respond to my private summons of your own volition?"
"That—" Harry grew flustered. How was he supposed to explain that Barty was a work fanatic who had forwarded all his mail to the office without sounding like he, Harry, thought that behaviour made enough sense to act upon? "Mr Crouch told me to handle things in his absence. I'm sorry if—" Harry coughed. "If you didn't want me intruding."
Riddle frowned. "I never said that. In fact, I said you were quite the suitable replacement, did I not?"
Harry shrugged.
Riddle set the box of candy back on the table. "Would you like something to drink, Harry?"
It occured to Harry, then, that Riddle was referring to him by name. Harry hadn't thought he was important enough to be known by name.
"I'm fine," Harry said.
Riddle shook his head. "Come now, Harry. You must be thirsty after such a long day. Indulge me."
"Water?" Harry hedged in a timid voice. Then, when Riddle fixed him with a flat stare, he added, "Or… gillywater?"
Riddle huffed what might have been a laugh. "Gillywater, then."
Two glasses appeared in midair, likely the work of Riddle's house-elf. Riddle plucked his own drink with a casual hand. His glass was also gillywater, Harry noted. Had Riddle chosen that to put Harry more at ease?
As they sipped at their gillywater, Harry found himself wondering what he was supposed to be doing here. Apparently, Barty and Riddle were friends. But Barty was away, so Riddle wanted someone else to share a drink and some sweets with. This made sense because Harry was acting in Barty's role and that was what they were currently doing.
But that couldn't be all of it, right? There had to be more.
"Did you…" Harry trailed off, trying to find a non-invasive way to phrase what he was thinking. "Do you want to talk about something?"
Riddle shot him another look, this one full of bemusement. "What do you imagine I'd wish to talk about?"
"Anything," Harry offered. "Whatever's on your mind." Whatever Riddle might want to get off his chest. "I won't tell anyone," he added. "You can tell me anything you're comfortable with."
Rather suddenly, the bemusement faded and Riddle was smiling again. "It's very kind of you to offer, darling, but I'm afraid that isn't what I'm looking for tonight."
"What are you looking for, then?" Harry blurted. His hands were clasped around the cool glass of gillywater, the damp condensation sinking into his sweaty palms. Harry set the drink down on the table, on top of one of Riddle's fancy coasters, then surreptitiously attempted to dry his hands on his robes.
Riddle shifted forward, an indecent smirk on his lips as his eyes met and held Harry's own. His hand reached out to press the pads of two fingers against the left side of Harry's jaw. "I find myself looking for whatever you are willing to offer."
Harry's breath caught, and for half a second, he couldn't move. Then he came to his senses and swung back, nearly toppling off the couch in his haste to put distance between him and Riddle. After placing a steadying hand on the armrest, he shot to his feet and coughed to clear his throat to speak.
"I should be going, really," he said, backing towards the door. "Thank you for the gillywater and the, um, butterflies." Literally and figuratively.
Riddle rose smoothly to intercept him before he could get very far. "My apologies. I didn't mean to offend you." Then he took Harry lightly by the forearm, holding him in place.
"You didn't," Harry said quickly, torn between keeping his eyes fixed on Riddle's face and watching the unthinkable progress of Riddle's hand as it travelled up his forearm, towards the crook of his elbow. "I'm not… offended. Or anything. It's just that it's late and I really should be going. You probably have better things to do. Enjoying your new candle."
Riddle's hand stilled. Maybe the mention of the terribly-overpriced, Lockhart-approved candle had done the trick. Then his fingers closed around Harry's elbow, applying a brief amount of pressure before he withdrew.
Harry's throat felt very dry despite the glass of gillywater he'd had. "Um," he said, "maybe have a hot bath? Or ask your house-elf to cook some steak." He was spewing nonsense, but he couldn't seem to stop doing it.
Riddle was smiling again. It was a lopsided smile, one that disturbed the perfect symmetry of his face. The dark lock of hair that curled over his forehead bobbed in the air as he shook his head. "I'm afraid my plans for the evening are rather... different. Although," he continued, in a warm, casual tone, "I would not be opposed to either of those if you were to join me."
"You want me to stay for dinner?" Harry asked, dumbfounded.
Riddle's brow crinkled, further dispersing the flawless mirage of his handsome face. "I don't believe I can make my intentions any clearer," he said after a moment, a hint of frustration audible in the emphasis he placed on each word spoken. Riddle reached for Harry's hand and smoothed his thumb over the knuckles. "Would you like to stay the night, Harry?"
"Oh," Harry said, feeling as though the breath had been knocked out of him.
This was Barty's superior. This was the Minister for Magic.
This could not be happening right now.
"We don't really know each other," Harry heard himself saying. He could have kicked himself for stating the obvious like an idiot. "Sir," he added as an afterthought, trying to remind himself that yes, this was the Minister, not just some random bloke hitting on him at a bar.
Riddle offered him a contemplative look and took a step closer. "And does this bother you?"
"You're my—you're Barty's boss," Harry added.
"If that makes you uncomfortable," Riddle said smoothly, "you're free to leave. Rest assured my interest in you is purely personal and has no bearing on our professional relationship."
"Won't Barty be—upset? With me?"
Riddle frowned. "I suppose he might. But I believe I have made it clear that our arrangement is nothing more than that—an arrangement. Besides," he added, a crooked smile returning to his lips, "it has been a long day. I'm sure you'd like to unwind as much as I do."
The pieces, confusing as they were, finally came together.
"You ask Barty to come over for sex?" Harry asked, incredulous, before he could think better of it. Then, horrified by what he'd done, he clapped a hand over his own mouth, as if he could take the question back by doing so. His mind was whirling, but somehow it managed to come up with a few more unhelpful questions. Had he been supposed to bring lube?
Riddle's eyes were positively shining with mirth. Harry wanted to hit him.
"I don't really do that…" Harry trailed off. "Hook up thing." That was a total lie. It did not help that Riddle was exactly the type of man that Harry might have gone home with if he'd been in the mood for a fun night with no strings attached. Someone a little older, a little more willing to get rough…
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Riddle hummed, his hand sliding to Harry's wrist, thumb brushing over the pulse point. "Would it alleviate your concerns if I offered it as a standing arrangement? That is, of course, assuming a level of compatibility between us." Riddle paused, dark eyes searching Harry's face. "But I have the impression that won't be an issue."
The way Riddle said that, all matter-of-fact, stirred a terrible want in Harry's chest. This was the worst idea and it wasn't even his idea.
Then Riddle leaned in, lifting his hand to cradle Harry's chin, freezing Harry's breath in place for the second time.
"Care to test my theory?" Riddle murmured as he raised Harry's head by the slightest of degrees.
"Theory?" Harry echoed, his own voice barely above a whisper.
"On our compatibility," Riddle replied, and then, without waiting for an answer—probably for the best, Harry wasn't making any headway on forming coherent sentences—he swept in for the kill.
The kiss was impossibly soft. So, so gentle, like the brush of silk over his lips. Harry gasped, the noise torn from him, his hands flying to clutch at the front of Riddle's robes as the man bore down on him. If not for Riddle's free hand sliding to grip his waist, holding him steady, he might have fallen over.
Riddle swept over him, his very presence an overwhelming, intoxicating warmth that flooded Harry's senses. When Riddle moved to mouth at his jaw and neck, Harry panted, dizzy and clinging for dear life.
"You taste divine," Riddle purred as he nosed against the soft skin just below Harry's ear and dragged his teeth over the muscle next to it, like he wanted to chew Harry up. Harry felt his knees tremble in response.
There were so many reasons to shove Riddle away, to leave and never look back. But, fuck, Harry couldn't seem to think of a single one as Riddle whirled them around and flattened Harry against the nearest wall.
Embarrassingly, Harry's legs spread of their own accord, making space for Riddle to slide between them and grip a handful of Harry's arse with one hand, clearly intent on renewing his efforts to devour Harry whole, starting with the delicate column of the neck.
From there, Harry could confidently state that he'd started to lose his mind a little. The potent combination of his utter exhaustion after such a long week and his unfortunate attraction to being manhandled had crushed any hope of resistance.
When Harry next came to his senses, he was rutting against the solid muscle of Riddle's thigh. Half of the buttons on Riddle's shirt were undone, and Harry's trousers looked like—felt like—they would be the next to go.
Instead of working Harry's belt out of the loops, Riddle simply vanished it with a lazy gesture of his hand.
Harry thought he probably should have been annoyed about that, but then his trousers were pooled around his ankles and there were more important things to think about, things like Riddle vanishing his shirt.
"Hey," Harry protested as the shocking cold of the ambient air hit him all at once. "That's cold."
"You'll be warm soon enough," Riddle promised almost absently as he examined Harry's nude torso.
Harry flushed.
"I should have cornered you sooner," Riddle said, sounding pleased with himself. "You're quite the delight."
Then he lifted Harry clean away from the wall and carted him off to the bedroom.
"Where have you been all morning?" Barty demanded.
Harry had been nearly to the lifts, his glasses askew and his tie dangling loosely over his half-fastened robes, but he froze at the sound of Barty's irate tone.
It was Monday morning and the Atrium was quite deserted given the late hour. Harry couldn't even pretend that he thought Barty had been shouting after someone else because there was no one else around.
"Um," Harry said, slowly turning on the spot, trying to think of an excuse that wasn't 'I had a weekend-long sex vacation with the Minister for Magic and he wouldn't let me out of bed to get dressed for work because he said I looked better naked'.
"Harry came by Friday night with the usual," Riddle said lightly, appearing behind Harry's left side and laying a firm but possessive hand on Harry's shoulder. "Since you were unavailable."
For the span of several heartbeats, no one said anything. Harry wondered if it was possible to quit his job and move to Albania. The weight of Riddle's hand on his shoulder, long fingers curled in, nudged against a rather sensitive spot on Harry's collarbone that made his dick twitch in response. That had to be deliberate. Evil git.
"I see," said Barty. His eyes were fixed on the Minister's face, his expression utterly impassive. "And will this be… a recurring event?"
"If Harry is willing to oblige me," Riddle responded in a pleasant tone, "then yes."
"Very well," Barty said, looking resigned. "Come, Harry, there's much to do and no time to waste." He crooked a hand in Harry's direction. To Riddle, Barty added, "Good day, Minister."
"Good day," Riddle echoed.
Harry obediently followed Barty into the lifts. He felt like a cute little cow that had just been bartered away. Still, he couldn't help but glance back at where Riddle was standing.
Riddle winked at him. Harry raised his line of sight to the ceiling of the elevator and prayed for the elevator doors to shut faster.
Once ensconced in the privacy of Barty's office, Barty gestured sharply for Harry to sit down.
Harry sat down. He was expecting to be lectured on propriety, or maybe scolded for trying to sleep his way to the top.
Barty did not disappoint. He began his lecture without preamble. "There are things you must know before you accept your new role with the Minister," he said firmly. "You should have come to me straight away as soon as you realized he was interested in you."
Harry shrunk down in the chair. Albania was sounding better and better, actually.
"Do sit up," Barty reprimanded. "The Minister hates poor posture."
Harry reluctantly sat up.
Barty folded his hands on the desk, seeming quite serious as he continued, "Now, Tom is a man of very particular tastes. Obviously we have missed our window of opportunity for preliminary preparations…" His lip curled briefly in displeasure. "But there is time to rectify your shortcomings before they become a problem."
Harry nodded. Okay, he could do this. Right? He could do this.
Barty narrowed his eyes. "Where is your quill and parchment? You must note these things down. And I'll have to start looking for a new assistant to replace you…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Once we're done here, I'll need you to begin the hiring process. I have the documentation for you to follow."
"But—" Harry faltered. "I like working here, sir."
"I've been telling him to get his own personal assistant for years," Barty said irritably, as if Harry hadn't spoken. "He said he'd make do with whoever was available. Then he goes about demanding tasks from everyone he comes across to the point where I have to instruct Amelia to include it in our training sessions." He summoned an empty roll of parchment from across the room and shoved it in Harry's direction. "And now he's stealing my assistant out from under me."
"Sorry, sir," Harry said. "I hadn't realized I would cause so many problems."
Barty made an exasperated sound. "Don't be. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Better you than some idiot."
Harry didn't think being better than an idiot was much to brag about.
"What I mean to say," Barty said as he uncapped a quill and stuffed it into Harry's hand, "is you are my assistant, trained to my standards. You'll be more than capable of fulfilling Minister Riddle's needs."
It was getting difficult to tell what was innuendo and what was not. It wasn't like Harry could ask for clarification.
"Now," Barty said, nodding down at the parchment, "we'll begin with what happened last Friday."
"Last Friday?" Harry said, barely stifling his mortified squeak of embarrassment. Surely Barty didn't expect him to go over… all that… in detail?
"Yes. What did you bring him?" Barty asked. "Did you purchase the wine he likes?"
"Um, I had a list. I asked Percy for help and he told me everything that the Minister likes."
Barty clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Any child could memorize a list of items, Harry. To succeed, you must know when he prefers his tea and why. He only enjoys it prepared in a particular way. Even his elf gets it wrong sometimes. You must understand him more than he understands himself. Anticipate him. Provide for him."
"Not to change the topic," Harry said, dragging the words out syllable by syllable, "but don't we have other work to do? Couldn't this wait until later?" Or never. He would also be fine with never talking about this ever again.
"This is quite possibly the most important training I will ever deliver as your mentor," Barty said severely. "I will redistribute your work across the department until I am assured that your transition to becoming the Minister's personal assistant will be flawless."
Harry wasn't sure when he'd agreed to that. Although he supposed that, over the course of the weekend, he had already agreed to a lot of things he wouldn't have normally agreed to.
"Alright," Harry said. "So long as nothing's falling behind, I guess."
Barty had already moved on; he opened a large drawer and retrieved a stack of notebooks. "This is your required reading. I expect to hear your insights by the end of the week."
Harry reached for the topmost notebook and opened it. There were lines and lines of Barty's writing that documented Tom Riddle's preferences and behavioural habits.
"Of course, there are pieces you'll have to pick up on your own," Barty said with a frown. "But as I said, we've skipped a number of the steps already…" He narrowed his eyes. "Have you been taking notes?"
"Sorry," Harry said hastily. "I'll start now."
Riddle was waiting for him outside of Barty's office when the day ended. Harry had a stack of notebooks and five rolls of parchment stuffed into his bag. His eyes were tired from all the reading he'd had to do. Tomorrow, Barty said they would go over seasonal apparel. Harry didn't think he could handle any more doublespeak.
"Dinner?" Riddle asked. He seemed to be affecting boredom, but Harry could hear the underlying interest, the hint of a tease in the request.
Harry quietly closed the door behind him so that Barty wouldn't hear them, then said, "I have homework."
Riddle's lips pursed. He glanced at the lumpy book shapes that stretched the material of Harry's bag. "Did Barty not instruct you to be agreeable?"
"Yes," Harry said, deliberately holding Riddle's gaze, "he did. Then he told me I have to read all of his documentation on you by Friday."
Riddle grinned. "Very thorough, isn't he? That's what I like about him."
"If you like him so much," Harry said grumpily, "then maybe you should go back to seeing him."
"Now, now, there's no need to be jealous," Riddle said in a breezy tone, straightening from his casual position against the wall. "What Barty and I have has always been casual."
"I'm not jealous." Harry tried to walk past, but Riddle stopped him by placing a hand on his chest.
"It's fine if you are. I only wanted to reassure you there isn't any reason to be."
Harry stared at Riddle's hand until it fell away. Then he resumed walking to the door.
"Shall I owl you, then?" Riddle called after him, his voice deceptively casual.
Harry paused in the doorway, considering his options. If the situation had involved anyone other than the Minister, Barty would be disappointed in him for breaking rule number one.
"I'll owl you," Harry said grudgingly. Then he tacked on, "About dinner."
Riddle's amused chuckle followed him out into the hall. Harry ignored it.
.
Rule number one:
Do not make mistakes.
.
Yes, agreeing to date Tom Riddle was most definitely the biggest mistake in the world.
.
END.
A/N:
i don't know exactly what this is but it was fun to write! i feel like i write way more build-up than actual stuff with them together but building the tension is half the fun. please feel free to let me know what you think in the reviews!