A/N:

prompted by a post on Reddit that has barty's text to tom verbatim!

Tags: AU - Non-Magic, AU - Modern Setting, Romantic Comedy, Family Drama, Age Difference, Explicit Sexual Content, Bottom Tom

i'd like to add that in this story, opinions on marriage, divorce, and relationships with an age difference belong to the characters and do not necessarily reflect my personal opinions. tom is the most unreliable narrator you can get.


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Fight Fire with Fire

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Part One


The day his father brings home Lily Luna Potter, a girl who can't possibly be older than Tom is, Tom says nothing. He says nothing, goes to his room, and texts Barty about Tom Riddle Senior's latest mid-life crisis.

does she have a dad? fight fire with fire lol

And, well, Barty means it as a joke, but it gets Tom thinking. So he looks her up. He looks up Lily Luna Potter on Instagram and Twitter and VSCO and TikTok, all the places that girls his age are hanging around on, and eventually comes across her father.

Her father isn't half bad, if Tom's being honest. He's actually rather handsome—defined square jaw and dark, thick hair. Jewel green eyes. Tom imagines, for a moment, fucking Harry Potter at his house, wherever that is, then having breakfast across from Lily Luna Potter the next morning.

The more Tom thinks about it, the more it sounds like fun.

So he thinks about it, and he definitely jerks off more than once to the idea of fucking his father's girlfriend's father in the bathroom during a wholesome 'meet-the-family' dinner.

Then, on Lily Luna's twenty-first birthday, Riddle Senior buys her a car, and Tom decides enough is fucking enough. He's sick of hearing about this ginger-haired angel who can apparently do no wrong. He thinks it's time to give his dear old dad a taste of his own medicine.

By now, Tom knows more about Lily Luna than he cares to, but this is information he can leverage. He knows where she lives, where she goes to school, and most importantly, where her father works. Her single, divorced father.

Harry Potter works as a gym teacher, which Tom doesn't think much about until his stalking leads him to trailing Harry at the gym. Even for a man in his late thirties, Harry is fit. Tom wonders idly after the man's ex—the high school sweetheart that birthed Riddle Senior's latest plaything—before writing her off as tasteless and unimportant.

The plan is to seduce Harry Potter, frighten away the prepubescent girl that Tom refuses to ever call stepmother, then rub his father's face in it. If he's lucky, he'll even get an excellent lay out of all this.

Now, Tom can pass for older or younger if he likes, but on the whole, his past hookups have preferred him clean-shaven—so younger it is, or at least, not older, which would defeat the purpose anyway.

So Tom goes to the gym without changing anything, counting on his good looks and natural charisma to get him what he wants.

He does not get what he wants.

In fact, Harry laughs at his carefully calculated proposition. Not in a cruel way, but humiliation burns in Tom's chest nonetheless.

"You're very sweet," Harry says, smiling, "but I'm not interested." In response to Tom's blank expression, he adds, "If you'd like a workout buddy, then I'd be open to that? It's like pulling teeth to get my friend Ron in here more than once or twice a month."

Unwilling to admit failure, Tom purchases the gym's monthly membership on his father's black card and tries again.

And again.

And again.

"How old are you, even? Nineteen? Twenty?"

Tom, who has been so hellbent on pissing off his father that Harry is all he's thought of for nearly two entire weeks, explodes, snapping out an irate "I am twenty-five," that makes Harry's humouring smile curl even further with amusement.

"So young," Harry teases, mischief dancing in his eyes. "I have a daughter a few years younger than you, you know."

Tom wants to say yes, he does know, he knows very well, but that would be counterproductive to his goals.

So for the first time in his life, Tom keeps his mouth shut and waits. He goes to the gym the same days that Harry does and works as hard as he can.

It pays off in little ways. Harry's eyes are drawn to the lean lines of his arms and legs, to the defined musculature of his chest. Tom keeps himself in good shape, of course, but the regular workouts do wonders for honing his physique.

Tom starts looking forward to their unofficial gym dates. The banter, the teasing. It is absolutely preferable to seething at home while Riddle Senior plans to take Lily Luna on a whirlwind summer vacation.

Then Riddle Senior announces that he's going to propose, and this makes Tom lose his mind. Or whatever tiny amount of it that exists after angrily masturbating to thoughts of Harry every other day. Between all the stalking and gym visits, he hasn't had the time to get actually laid. It's driving him mad.

Tom smiles stiffly all throughout lunch with his father, then excuses himself to his room.

This time, the first person he texts is not Barty.

My father has informed me of his intentions to PROPOSE to his jailbait girlfriend

There is a delay of several minutes during which Tom stares down at his phone screen, waiting impatiently for a response.

That sounds very difficult, I'm sorry

Did you want to meet up? Get some coffee?

Tom texts back right away.

Sure

Harry sends an address along. It's a cafe within walking distance, so Tom snatches up his wallet, stuffing it into his pocket, and heads for the door, ignoring when Riddle Senior asks him where he's going.

Now, Tom hadn't meant to vent to Harry about his problems, but Harry is a good listener, sympathetic and understanding. Besides, Lily Luna has been keeping her relationship a secret from her family. For the obvious, age-related reasons. Tom's father is nearly two decades older than Harry is.

But the important part is Harry doesn't know about Riddle Senior, which means he also doesn't know about Tom. Who Tom really is.

Harry is sitting on a bar stool facing the open glass front when Tom arrives at the cafe. The bell above the door tinkles as he pushes his way inside. He orders an earl grey tea then heads directly to a booth; Harry follows him there without a word.

"Did you want to talk about it?" Harry asks after a few minutes of silence.

"No," Tom says, mostly because he doesn't trust himself to not give away the truth when he's this angry.

Harry immediately launches into some fun stories—stories from his youth, stories from his work. He talks and talks until the little cafe starts to close up for the night, the barista shooting them ugly looks from behind the front counter.

"Are you going home?" Harry asks hesitantly, eyes flickering to the darkening skies just outside the glass window front. "Or to a friend's?"

Tom could call Barty or Lucius. Either of them would be more than glad to have him over. He doesn't want to call, though, so he shrugs.

Harry frowns. "Tom…" he begins in a warning tone.

"I have money," Tom says, vaguely unsettled by the parental edge to Harry's voice. "I'll rent a room or something. You don't have to worry about me."

Harry doesn't say anything further, but he's still frowning. The part of Tom that isn't furious at Riddle Senior is oddly mollified by Harry's concern.

"You could come stay with me," Harry says, after another long, drawn-out moment.

Tom had forgotten about his plans to seduce Harry Potter, but now that Harry is offering to share his home, Tom realizes that what he wants is finally within reach.

"If it's no trouble," Tom says, trying to hide his eagerness.

"Of course it isn't," Harry assures him.

They've known each other for a few months now, almost as long as Harry's daughter has been dating Tom's father. So Tom supposes it isn't very strange that Harry is offering him a place to kip for the night.

"I don't have anything with me," Tom points out.

"You can borrow what you need."

Harry drives them back to his modest flat. It's located in a quiet neighbourhood that Tom takes a liking to right away.

"Do you live with anyone?" Tom asks carelessly as he sheds his coat and hangs it on one of the empty hooks next to the door. He hadn't bothered texting his father that he won't be coming home.

"Just me," Harry says with a rueful smile, "though my daughter, Lily, comes by sometimes to berate me for my slovenly bachelor habits."

Tom scoffs. The little flat is very much a bachelor's pad, though it is a damn sight neater than some of the flats Tom's been to—the rubbish-strewn, pizza-box filled spaces of his indolent peers are vivid in his mind's eye as he surveys Harry's clean hardwood floors and unremarkable leather couch.

"There's a guest room," Harry continues, gesturing off to the side, down a little hallway. "Lily's things are probably all over the place but I have some extra things you can have. Toothbrush, toothpaste. And you can use the shower, as much hot water as you want—"

Tom tunes out the rest, by far more interested in exploring. There are some photos on the side table. Lily Luna features predominantly in nearly all of them. She is clearly Harry's pride and joy.

"Is this her?" Tom asks, careful to keep his voice casual. "Your daughter?"

Harry brightens. "Yeah!" he says, then launches into an entirely new monologue about his daughter's life. If Harry knew just where the path of that life had led recently, his enthusiasm might have dampened slightly.

Tom listens with affected interest; he's already gotten an earful of this from his father and he doesn't really give a shit about hearing more, even from Harry. Tom's main concern, at this moment, is just how friendly Harry is being. Far too friendly to imply the possibility of falling into bed later on this evening.

"I think I'll have a shower," Tom says once Harry's rambling slows enough for a polite interjection.

"Oh, of course." Harry nods. "I don't want to keep you."

Tom intends to shower quickly, to emerge from the bathroom with one of Harry's fluffy white towels tucked around his waist and nothing else, but he finds that he enjoys the respite that the hot water offers him. So he takes his time, cleaning meticulously, combing his fingers through his hair and scrubbing his scalp.

By the time he's finished, Harry is humming tunelessly in the kitchen, stirring a pot of pasta on the stove top. He doesn't glance over as Tom pads into the living room, half-naked and towel-clad.

"Smells delicious," Tom comments, and this is what makes Harry finally turn around.

Tom watches, pleased, as Harry's gaze lingers on his damp torso, dragging over the muscles that lay flat across his stomach and lead to the v-shape of his hips.

"It's just pasta," Harry says, a beat too late to be normal. Then, in a dry tone, he adds, "Why don't you put a shirt on? Or some pants, at least. You can borrow from my closet."

Tom smirks, but wanders off as instructed. He digs through Harry's drawers until he finds something suitable—loose grey sweats and a thin white t-shirt with a school logo on it. Before he tugs the shirt on, he holds it to his face, inhaling the fresh scent of laundry and a faint, familiar musk that Tom now associates with the gym. With Harry.

When Tom returns to the kitchen, Harry is doling out helpings of spaghetti onto two separate plates. His eyes catch momentarily on Tom, looking him up and down for the second time. Then he frowns.

"Been ages since I've worn those," Harry says, brow wrinkled. "Where did you find them?"

Tom shrugs. "Around." He'd been careful to put everything back in its proper place. Harry won't even notice the digging he'd done to unearth this outfit.

They eat slowly. Tom gets the sense that Harry is waiting for him to speak first. They hadn't talked about Riddle Senior at the cafe, so maybe now is the time to do that—to use it to his advantage.

"My father doesn't know I'm here," Tom says conversationally.

Harry pauses, fork raised halfway to his lips. "Should he know?"

"I'm twenty-five," Tom says for what has to be the seventh time that week, and Harry's lips twitch into half a smile. "I'm not obligated to tell him where I am every second of the day. Not that he deserves to know," Tom adds, pushing a bitter edge into his voice.

Harry chews thoughtfully for a brief moment, swallows, then says, "Have you talked to him? About his girlfriend. Or fianceé now, I suppose."

"There isn't anything to discuss," Tom says blithely. "He's never cared for what I think, and so I endeavour to return the favour. If he doesn't see anything wrong with the idea of saddling me with a stepmother younger than I am, then there's no helping him." He sighs, loud and heavy. "I just want to… forget. Forget about all this, even for a while." Tom turns soft, imploring eyes in Harry's direction.

Harry frowns for the rest of the meal, looking conflicted. His eyes flicker back and forth between his plate and Tom's forlorn face. When Tom's plate is finally empty, Harry seems to come to a decision.

"Did you want something to drink?" Harry asks. "Something to take the edge off."

Tom does, but only if Harry's partaking as well. "It's a Friday," Tom agrees, clamping down on his eagerness.

Harry uncorks a bottle of red wine and pours two glasses. It's lighter alcohol than Tom had expected, but he can make do. Once the dishes are tucked safely in the dishwasher, the two of them move to the leather couch.

Tom sips slowly from his glass and tries to gauge the next best move to make. He has Harry's sympathy and interest, but apparently those do not outweigh the pesky moral issue of Tom's younger age.

When Tom presses his knee casually against Harry's leg, Harry shifts back automatically, like the two of them are magnets. There's always been a funny look in Harry's eyes whenever Tom flirts with him. Not a judgemental look, but something close to it.

Red wine isn't enough to impair Tom, not by a long shot, but it is enough to spur him into a little bit of recklessness.

Tom waits for the right opening, then spills his wine over Harry's lap.

As far as subtle moves go, it's not very subtle at all. It's even less subtle when Tom snatches up a handful of tissues from the side table to blot at the mess.

Harry flushes, immediately flustered, and bats Tom's attentive hands away from his dick. "I can do it," he says, face reddened from wine and embarrassment.

Tom hums, his hand still braced on the couch next to Harry's right hip. They're very close now. Tom can hear each of Harry's quick, nervous breaths.

"I can do it," Harry repeats awkwardly. He's holding himself stiffly, not daring to move and bump against the loose cage of Tom's arms.

Tom doesn't move. He waits, eyes fixed on Harry's face, and licks his lips in a slow, deliberate way that draws Harry's gaze like a moth to an open flame.

"Tom," Harry says, a hesitant warning, but there's a catch in his voice that gives away his arousal even before Tom notes the swell of Harry's dick trapped in his jeans.

Tom throws caution to the wind and slides a leg over Harry's thigh so that he's seated neatly on Harry's lap, his half-hard cock now inches away from Harry's own.

"Let's get you out of these," Tom murmurs, reaching for Harry's belt. He manages to work the tail end through two of the belt loops before Harry's hand snaps out to stop him, calloused palm rough against the smooth skin of Tom's wrist.

So Tom rolls his hips forward, a prolonged, sinuous motion that draws a deep groan from the back of his throat. He's waited so long for this. His skin prickles all over, excited by Harry's proximity.

Harry makes a noise—soft and reluctant. His other hand moves to Tom's shoulder, holding him away. "Tom, you're not thinking straight."

"Of course I am," Tom says breathlessly. He rocks his hips closer, grinds himself against Harry's thigh. "You want this, too. I know you do."

Gazing into Harry's eyes, Tom knows that it's the truth. So he sways forward to capture Harry's lips in a slow, dirty kiss. It's so very warm, the kiss. The lingering taste of wine combined with the firm grasp of Harry's hand on the nape of his neck. Harry's touch burns him from the inside out; every second of contact serves as kindling for the forest fire of his obsession.

All of Tom's convoluted dreams and plans have finally come to fruition and it feels positively divine. After weeks of endless chasing, Tom has his prey right where he wants it—aroused and helpless beneath him.

When Tom reaches for the zip of Harry's jeans, however, Harry jerks back as if stung.

"You know—this isn't—I'm not your father, Tom," Harry says hesitantly, his palm braced awkwardly against Tom's chest, like he's not sure if he ought to shove Tom away.

"I sure as fuck hope not," Tom breathes, then lowers his mouth back to Harry's.

Harry responds very nicely for a few seconds before he retreats again. This time, Tom makes his frustrations known in the form of a drawn-out groan.

"I just mean I don't want this to be because you're angry and confused," Harry tries to insist.

Tom pushes Harry roughly back against the couch and glares at him.

"I promise you I'm not trying to fuck away my daddy issues," Tom says emphatically. He presses his hand over Harry's clothed erection and rubs gently. "I want to fuck you, and I've wanted it since I first laid eyes on you." If they don't fuck tonight, Tom is going to kill someone, maybe his father for causing this stupid fucking situation to begin with.

Harry swallows, but he doesn't pull away, and so Tom takes that as his cue to sink to his knees in front of the couch and yank the fly of Harry's jeans down. Once Harry's cock is down his throat, any and all protests will die a quick death.

But even as Tom gives the world's most amazing blowjob, Harry is strangely restrained; he bites his lip, he squeezes his eyes shut, he stifles his moans. Tom can't help but wonder who else Harry has shared a bed with aside from his ex-wife. If he's always this quiet with sex or if Tom is simply a shameful exception. He can't imagine that Harry has fucked any other men as young as him before.

Before Harry can come, Tom pops off with a wet, lewd sound. He knows he must look quite the sight: cheeks dusted with pink, lips red and stretched from Harry's cock, and dark ringlets gorgeously mussed from Harry's desperate, fumbling hands.

"Bedroom?" Tom asks hoarsely, glancing up from beneath lowered lashes.

Harry is breathing hard, seeming half-dazed as he nods.

There's lube in the side dresser of Harry's bedroom. Tom knows this because he'd gone looking for it earlier when deciding what clothes to borrow.

Tom drags Harry to the bed, shoves him onto it, then works the rest of their clothes off. Harry is flushed and wide-eyed the entire time, not in the blushing virgin way but in a way that makes Tom feel powerful and attractive.

Mostly, Harry looks at him like he can't quite believe they're about to fuck. Which is ridiculous, honestly. Tom's been throwing himself at Harry since the beginning to no avail. He's been fucking himself with toys to release his pent up sexual frustrations, but it hadn't worked. It wasn't enough.

Toys don't offer him the intoxicating rush that sex with another person does. They aren't what he wants—who he wants. They aren't Harry.

It doesn't take much time to slick up Harry's cock and sink himself down onto it. The stretch is difficult but not impossible; Tom is too horny and impatient to wait for his muscles to properly relax. He welcomes the temporary discomfort in favour of having Harry buried in him as quickly as possible.

Once fully sheathed, Harry bucks into him, whining lowly, a sheen of sweat glistening across his face and chest as he grips Tom's hips with trembling, white-knuckled hands.

Tom seizes Harry's jaw with an iron grip. "I'm going to ride you as long as I want," Tom bites out. "And you don't get to come until I'm finished."

Harry chokes out something that might be a yes. The look of rapture on Harry's face floods Tom's body with unbridled arousal and desire. As soon as he's certain that Harry isn't going to move, he lifts his hips and sinks back down with a low purr of pleasure that sends a shiver down his spine.

From there, their pace is rough and frenzied; Tom only cares about getting himself off, chasing his orgasm with single-minded intensity. Harry doesn't seem to mind, anyway—he pants and gasps Tom's name, runs his hands up and down Tom's body like he can't get enough of touching him.

When Tom comes, he sees odd splotches of colour spread across the darkness of the bedroom, he sees Harry's beautifully strained face as Tom's muscles convulse viciously on his cock.

Tom leans in to dig his teeth into the soft flesh of Harry's neck. Then he gives his command—"Come, Harry"—and listens to Harry's pitched cry as release crashes down on him.

The afterglow is nice. Harry is considerate; he rises from the bed to grab a damp cloth for them to clean off. And when they cuddle, it isn't the usual kind of cuddling. Harry holds him silently and it feels almost nice.

Tom falls asleep having completely forgotten the original reason for his seduction. It is only when he wakes the next morning to the smell of french toast wafting from the kitchen that he remembers.

He and Harry have fucked, which was what Tom had wanted. Something to rub in his father's face when Tom is inevitably introduced to Lily Luna's family and vice versa.

The problem is, Tom doesn't really want that to happen anymore. He wants to keep fucking Harry, but his status as Harry's daughter's fiance's son will probably prevent that from happening.

This is annoying.

Tom showers quickly and pulls on another one of Harry's shirts before padding into the kitchen. Harry notices his bad mood, of course, and seems to attribute it to the sex they'd had, which is the last thing that Tom wants.

"Tom?" Harry begins, caution evident in his voice. It's difficult to tell what the predominant emotion in his eyes is: guilt, shame, or hurt.

"Can I stay here a while longer?" Tom interrupts, which is the only thing he can think of to reassure Harry that he's interested without resorting to talking about his feelings.

Surprise flashes across Harry's face. "Um, sure! Of course. As long as you want."

Tom attempts a smile. "I'll have to pick up a few things at my house." He's still wearing Harry's sweatpants and doesn't particularly want to change out of them, but he does need some other things if he's going to stay here.

"I can drive you," Harry offers, ever the gentleman.

Tom's first instinct is to say no. He doesn't want Harry within a fifty-yard radius of his father. But then again, it might be interesting if they do meet. It might be fun.

Whenever Lily Luna introduces Riddle Senior to her father, it will be great fun to watch the world burn.

On some level, Tom is aware that he has, in his hands, a metaphorical shovel three times bigger than his own head and is using it to dig his own grave. Somehow this fact isn't enough to dissuade him.

"Sure," Tom agrees.

Which is how, after breakfast, they find themselves in the massive driveway of Riddle Manor, car running while Tom tries to convince Harry to enter the house with him.

"I can wait outside," Harry says awkwardly. He's clearly intimidated by the size of the manor.

"Nonsense," Tom says. "I've seen yours, it's only fair you get to see mine." Then he winks, which has the desired effect of making Harry roll his eyes.

Harry follows him into the house, hands tucked into the pockets of his sports jacket, out of place in the magnificent splendour of decor that Tom couldn't give less of a shit about.

"Don't feel a need to compliment the house," Tom says absently as he scans the halls for signs of his father. "I could care less whether you like it."

Harry coughs. "Is your dad home right now?"

"No idea."

Tom packs his toiletries, some clothes, and a few other important items into a duffle bag. Everything is fine until they run into Mrs. Cole on their way out.

"Your father's been asking after you," she says to him, sounding resigned.

Tom retrieves his phone from his back pocket, turns the screen on, and shows her the distinct lack of texts and calls. "I can tell," he drawls, giving the mobile a shake.

Mrs. Cole says nothing, but her eyes flicker to Harry. The only sign of her disapproval lingers in the flat line of her lips. Not for the first time, Tom is glad that Lily Luna looks nothing like her father; he would hate for his little surprise to be ruined.

"I'll let you know if I decide to come back," he adds, because as irritated as he is, he isn't about to be rude to her in front of Harry.

Harry drives them back to the flat in silence. Tom has the impression that Harry isn't one for long, emotional talks about feelings, and therefore isn't about to ask why Tom had said if instead of when.

"I have dinner plans with Lily Luna tonight," is what he says instead, while Tom is setting some of his things on the vanity in the guest room.

Tom controls his reaction. "Oh?" he asks, voice casual. "Did you want me out of the flat, then? I can head out for dinner by myself."

Harry seems flustered by the implication. "No, it's not that. You're fine to stay here on your own, Tom. I trust you. I just wondered if you'd be alright… on your own."

Tom spins around to flash Harry a gentle smile. "I'm perfectly fine," he says smoothly, stepping forward to lay his hand on the man's shoulder. "Have a nice night with your daughter."

Harry smiles in response, relieved by Tom's acceptance. "I'm not going anywhere just yet."

Tom raises a brow, keeps his expression slightly dubious as he permits his gaze to drag up and down Harry's body. "Is that an invitation?"

Harry's eyes narrow, but there are delicate splotches of colour on his cheeks that give away his interest. "No," he says stubbornly, "it isn't."

Not right now, maybe. But certainly later. Tom smiles again and turns back to the vanity, pretending to shuffle things around until Harry leaves the room.

Then his mobile buzzes.

Martha told me you came by the house.

I expect you to be available for dinner tonight with Lily.

She wants to meet you.

The bursque text is followed by a time and an address to an expensive restaurant that Tom is vaguely familiar with.

You will dress well and behave yourself or there will be consequences.

Tom stares at the messages for several minutes. Does Riddle Senior not know that Lily Luna has invited her father to dinner? Or has he purposefully omitted that fact, hoping to keep Tom in the dark and unprepared? Either way, Tom has already sunk his teeth into the situation, both literally and figuratively speaking.

Cool

Tom switches on 'do not disturb' and tosses his phone onto the bed. Maybe there's time to see if Harry's changed his mind about the invitation business. It would be excellent to leave a few choice marks on the man's neck before dinner tonight.

When Tom re-enters the living room, Harry is curled up on one end of the couch with a book in his hand. Tom hadn't thought of Harry as much of a reader, but apparently that isn't the case.

Harry shuts the book and sets it aside as Tom comes up to him. "Sorry," he says automatically, wincing. "I'm a bit boring, aren't I? Did you want to do something?"

Well, now Tom feels slightly bad about coming over just to ask for a good fuck. It won't be conducive to a longer term relationship if Harry thinks he's being kept around purely for sex. Which he is. Revenge sex still counts under the same umbrella.

"My father wants me for dinner tonight," Tom says. "He wants to introduce me to his girlfriend." There isn't much he can do to avoid a meeting anymore. He'll just have to convince Harry to keep their association going despite the strange relations between their families.

It'll be a nail in the coffin of Riddle Senior's relationship if Harry's daughter becomes disgusted with Tom's entanglement with her father. Tom is certain Harry will prioritize him over his daughter's desire to marry a man nearly three times her age.

"Oh." Harry pauses. "Did you want me to drop you off? Pick you up?"

It's such a fatherly response that Tom resists an urge to scoff. He drops down onto the couch and crosses one leg over his knee. "Harry," he says, injecting a measure of exasperation into his voice, "I like your company just fine. You don't need to do anything for me to keep me around."

Harry's expression turns hesitant. Doubts again? Tom knows how to solve those.

He takes Harry's hand and sits himself on the man's lap. "Having second thoughts already?" Tom drawls.

Harry flushes, shifting in place as he adjusts to Tom's weight resting on his thighs. "You're young," he says carefully, his free hand settling on the small of Tom's back.

Tom shrugs. "I know what I want."

"Then why do you still live with your father?" The way that Harry blurts out the question, half-confused, half-embarrassed, makes Tom pause to consider his answer more seriously than he might have if Harry had asked in a concerned, cautionary way.

"It's easier like this," Tom says slowly. "If I were to leave, he'd come after me. He wouldn't rest until he had me under his roof, under his thumb." As he speaks the words, he knows that they're true, truer than he would have liked to admit. "If I stay," he adds, a hard edge to his voice, "then I can punish him in other ways."

"That doesn't seem like a good way to live."

Tom shrugs again. Someday, when his father is older and made powerless by Tom's own machinations, Tom will take great pleasure in crushing him, in destroying everything his father has built and watching it burn.

"Let me drop you off tonight," Harry says suddenly. "Because I want to, not because I feel I have to." He squeezes Tom's hand in a sign of reassurance.

Tom imagines him and Harry walking into the restaurant together. He imagines the look of horror on his father's face when the man realizes what Tom has done. It would be nice if Harry was in on the plan. He surveys Harry with an assessing glance. What will Harry's reaction be? Is it better to let him realize now, or later?

"I left my phone in the other room," Tom says. "It has the address for the restaurant. I can go grab it."

"Is it nearby?"

Tom nods.

Harry nods back. "Then it should be fine. I'll have the GPS if I get lost. Which," he says sheepishly, "I'll probably need anyway. Lily's sent me some new place I've never been to. It'll probably take me ages to find it."

Tom smiles indulgently. Perhaps it's better to wait. If Harry finds out now, his anger may wane, giving way to rationality.

Then Tom's mind provides a new, delightful idea: Harry punching his father in the face, breaking his perfect nose and splattering blood all over his expensive suit.

"We can leave early," Tom says, now excited to go, "I can help you find it. What time are you meeting her?"

"Eight," Harry says. His arm wraps tightly around Tom's waist, his hand rubbing up and down Tom's back in a familiar, soothing manner. "It's in a fancier area, so I suppose you'll know it better than I do."

"I'm meeting at eight. So we'll have plenty of time, and I don't mind if you drop me off early."

"If you're sure." Harry smiles back, but then hesitation touches his expression again.

Tom ignores it and lays his head to rest on Harry's shoulder. He doesn't feel like sex anymore, but he also doesn't feel like getting up to do something else.

"I do like you, Tom," Harry says softly, after a few moments have passed.

"I'm just young," Tom echoes. "I understand." He doesn't, not really, but if it makes Harry feel better, then he'll pretend to.

"I haven't really had a proper relationship since…" Harry trails off, his hand going still against Tom's spine. "A while."

"That's fine," Tom says. He can count on one hand the number of 'proper' relationships he's had with other people. "I don't care about that."

"This is just strange to me," Harry continues quietly, dipping his forehead to the side of Tom's head.

Tom says nothing, his breath caught uncomfortably in his throat as he swallows. He doesn't like these conversations. They're always so drawn out and he hates having to put so much energy into figuring out the right thing to say.

"It's not strange to want someone," Tom says eventually. He takes Harry's hand back in his and stares down at it. "I want you, too. So nothing else should matter."

Harry exhales—a quiet, slow thing that fans against Tom's neck. "I suppose you're right."

There's a sudden tightness in his chest. It tugs on his nerves, making him feel restless. Tom shifts, pivoting so he can look Harry in the eyes, and pulls him in for a fierce kiss. Quick and violent, like the wild crash of thunder in a large field.

Harry's hands clench against the fabric of his shirt—still the borrowed shirt, the one that smells like Harry and fresh laundry.

Tom wants to get rid of the emotional moment between them. He wants to bury it under something else. "I want you to take me, this time," he breathes into Harry's ear, then nips at the man's earlobe for good measure.

Harry groans underneath him, helpless to Tom's whims, and the rush this gives him is unbelievably thrilling.

They fuck on the couch, with Harry's chest pressed to his back, his skin hot and feverish as Harry's hands wandering over his waist and ribs and chest. Tom is panting, moaning like a whore while Harry fucks him from below, each upward thrust of his hips so rough that Tom feels the impact shudder all the way up his spine.

Afterwards, all Tom can manage is the blissed-out thought that Harry is a fantastic lay, much better than the boring uni hookups he'd made do with, or the half-assed Tinder dates he now goes on when he can't be bothered to sit around at a bar to find a bloke to take home.

Pleased with himself, Tom turns his head to capture Harry's mouth in an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss. He feels so much calmer like this, with Harry pliant and submissive beneath him, kissing back with an eagerness that steals the breath from his lungs.

Harry eventually pulls back to tip his forehead against Tom's. He sounds only vaguely out of breath as he caresses Tom's hipbone with a gentle hand.

"We should tidy up if we don't want to be late."

Tom kisses him again, quick and dirty. "Or we could stay here," he says, and he half-means it. Another hot, lazy fuck is much higher on his list of priorities than dinner with his arrogant father.

Harry laughs and lightly pinches Tom's waist. "Shower," he chides. "And if you're good, I'll let you pick out what I'll wear."

"Hmm." That offer does have its appeal. Harry's outfit choices often do nothing to flatter his impressive physique. "Alright," Tom allows. "We can shower." If he misbehaves in the shower, he knows Harry won't really punish him for it.

As predicted, Tom gets off a second time in the shower, much to Harry's embarrassment. The shower is a bit cramped, but there is enough space for him to seal his mouth against the damp column of Harry's throat while Harry jerks his dick with a practiced, calloused hand.

Afterwards, Tom picks out Harry's outfit—form-fitting charcoal trousers and a navy blue dress shirt that clings to Harry's arms rather nicely.

"I don't know where you find these things," Harry muses as he fixes his cuff links on. "I think Lily must have gotten me this shirt, but I can't remember when."

"It's quite easy," Tom replies blithely, running his hands over Harry's broad shoulders. "I simply dig straight to the bottom of your drawers, which is where all the nice, decent clothes have been abandoned to die."

Harry snorts. "Funny." He examines himself in the mirror and seems to like what he sees, because he adds, "What was the address of your restaurant, again?"

Tom feels his heart twitch. "Let me grab it."

When his mobile has been safely deposited into Harry's waiting hands, Tom waits for a response.

"Huh," Harry says. "Same restaurant." He lifts his eyes to Tom's face. "Must be fancy, then," he teases. "Wonder why Lily's picked it."

Tom tries to look at the situation objectively. He supposes that to Harry, it must look like a coincidence. "My father likes it," he says, nonchalant.

Harry frowns. "Must be some big news."

Harry has no idea. Tom shifts onto the balls of his feet to plant a distracting kiss on Harry's cheek. "Don't worry," he says. "How bad can it be?"

Harry smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I don't see her as often as I'd like to. She's been busy with classes, with her own life, but I can't help but wonder if I'm not doing enough. Or not doing what I should." He sighs and shakes his head. "Lily didn't exactly have the most stable childhood. A loving one, sure, but we moved around a lot, spent a lot of time around different people. Whoever was willing to help."

"You did the best you could," Tom says reflexively. "No one would blame you for how it turned out."

"It's just that Ginny and I were so young," Harry says in a distant voice, "we had no idea what we were doing. I know Ginny didn't want to raise a baby, but her mum was really insistent that we do things right…" He shakes his head a second time, his expression clearing slightly. "But Lily is the best of my life, you know. I love her more than anything in the world."

Tom wonders if Harry will feel this way once he learns what she's done. "I can tell you care very much about her."

"Yeah." Harry sighs again, but the sound is lighter. "Anyway, enough about my teenage angst," he jokes. "Let's go scope out the restaurant so I can decide how nervous to be."

The drive to the restaurant is quiet. Tom watches their reflections in the mirrors and wonders how he ought to react once they arrive. Shocked and horrified? Angry and disgusted? There are plenty of options.

"Turn left up ahead," Tom says absently. "The lot is there."

When they exit the vehicle, Harry examines his clothes for wrinkles. "Do I look alright?" he asks.

"Of course you do," Tom says. He doesn't have a great deal of patience for Harry's lack of self-esteem at the moment. The pivotal moment is so close that Tom can taste it.

Harry exhales noisily and checks his watch. "We're early," he adds unnecessarily.

"My father is probably here already," Tom says. There's no familiar car in the lot, but if Riddle Senior has arrived with his fiancée, they probably had a driver.

Harry fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and Tom decides to put him out of his misery.

"We can wait inside," Tom suggests. "See if your daughter is there."

They go in. Harry does not ask the hostess about a reservation; he scans the restaurant for signs of his daughter.

"Reservation for Riddle?" Tom asks smoothly.

While the hostess checks her list, Tom looks around. He catches sight of Lily Luna long before Harry manages to; Tom knows where his father likes to sit. Even so, Lily Luna's flaming hair and cream-coloured cocktail dress cause her to stand out from across the room.

She is quite beautiful, Tom will admit. He'd only glimpsed her the one time, ignored her in favour of holing up in his room, but the memory lingers. Ivory skin spattered with faint freckles, perfect red curls that hang halfway down her back, and the gorgeous green eyes she has inherited from her father.

"Table for Riddle right this way," the hostess says, gesturing.

"Thank you," Tom says, smiling at her. "I'll be just a moment."

The hostess looks at him strangely, then at Harry, but she nods and leaves them be.

Next, Tom turns his attention to his father. Mrs. Cole says they look alike; Tom refuses to see it. They may share the same name, the same basic traits of dark hair and high cheekbones, but they are not alike. They are nothing alike.

When Tom makes eye contact with his father, triumph swells in his chest. His father has not yet noticed Harry's presence by Tom's side, much as Harry has yet to notice Tom's father seated next to Lily Luna, but soon their worlds will collide.

"Oh!" Harry says, having finally noticed his daughter in one of the large booths in the back corner. "I see her."

Tom counts to three, carefully arranging his face into a blank, confused expression. He will be the only one to emerge unscathed from this particular battle. "Is that her there in the back?"

"Yeah," Harry says, already moving towards the table. "I think she's with someone."

"Yeah," Tom echoes, trying to sound dazed. "That's my father."


A/N:

part two is complete and will be posted soon!