He'd just received a direct message.
From Lord_Voldemort_.
Harry stared at his screen, brimming with confusion and bewilderment and—above all— curiosity. But right as he was about to open the chat, his phone began to buzz, his screen switching to show the familiar icon of his favorite colleague.
Harry frowned. Why was Hermione calling him?
"Is it Riddle?" Ron asked, continuing to keep his eyes on the road.
"No, a colleague," Harry stated, before picking up the call. "Hey, Hermione."
"Harry!" Hermione's voice sounded, stressed and pitched higher than usual. "I came to work early today and… you left a folder titled ' For Trip' on your desk. I just want to make sure that isn't important or anything—"
Harry's stomach dropped.
"It is," he said lowly, quietly, before his voice began to rise frantically. "Oh shit, Hermione, it is. That's the whole itinerary for my fucking trip—"
"Harry!" Ron glanced at him sideways with concern. "What is it?"
Harry dug his fingers through his hair, pulling at his locks. "I forgot something important on my work desk."
"Shit," Ron and Hermione both said simultaneously, unheard by the other. In any other instance, Harry might have done a double take.
"Now what?" Ron bit his lip, glancing at the time. "We don't exactly have time to rush back—"
"Riddle said to be there by four, right?" Hermione confirmed on the phone. "Your flight probably doesn't leave for at least another two hours. I can drop it off to you! If I start now, I'll arrive within half an hour."
"Ah—Mione." Harry slunk into his chair, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "Hermione, I owe you so so much—" He looked at Ron. "She's coming to the airport."
Ron exhaled deeply. "Well, okay. That's great. You go ahead and drop off your luggage to that escalator thing—"
"Did your friend just call the luggage drop-off an escalator thing ?" Hermione intoned judgingly, her words heard only by Harry's right ear.
"—and I'll get the folder from—er—your colleague."
"You said my name three times in the past two minutes and he still can't remember it?" Hermione questioned, sounding more and more unimpressed by the second.
"Yes, Ron. That sounds great!" Harry stated loudly, ignoring Hermione's comment and restraining the urge to tell them to both behave when they met.
Oh, hell. Harry blinked. They were going to meet. RoonilWazlib and HeadGirl were going to—
"We're here, Harry," Ron stated, getting out of the car. "Get yourself checked in and I'll get the folder from Hermione."
He clapped Harry's back reassuringly once they were both out.
"You'll be fine, mate."
Checking into his flight? Not even an option.
"Pack your bags tonight. Be at the airport by four o'clock sharp," his boss had said yesterday. He'd told Harry nothing else—no details about the flight, or where they would be staying every night. He hadn't even given Harry his plane ticket.
And now, Riddle still wasn't here.
Minutes later, Harry was calling him. He didn't even know when the man was coming, because it was already half past four and he hadn't gotten any texts—
A short, bushy-haired woman in black pumps and impeccable office attire came into view. His savior. Harry could almost see a faint halo around her.
"Harry!" Hermione called out, waving the folder above her.
"Wow, she got here fast, " Ron muttered under his breath, whistling and looking impressed.
Harry jumped up, walking towards her with Ron in tow. "Great! Thanks, Mione." He checked the time on his phone, frowning in thought. Clearly, he had some time before his flight boarded, whenever that was, because Riddle hadn't even called him back yet.
Either that, an inner voice muttered, or he's planning on leaving you at the airport—
Harry turned back towards his friends, smiling brightly. "Coffee on me, guys?" he offered, because he was here as demanded and really needed something to distract from his growing worry.
And that was how the three of them, finally united, ended up sitting at a coffee table in Starbucks.
Hermione, who had been talking on and on about work and giving Harry a bunch of editing advice, fell quiet once Ron came back with their drinks.
Awkward silence.
Maybe it was just his imagination, but Harry could feel a weird sort of tension between his friends already.
Should he tell them about the whole Discord—?
Nope. Harry sipped at his chai, perfectly content to just remain in silence as long as he was sitting next to his two best friends.
"So," Ron cleared his throat, looking at Hermione. "I'm Ron Weasley, Harry's roommate."
Hermione raised her eyebrows before offering her hand to shake. "Hermione Granger. Pleasure. " Although her tone of voice really tested the honesty of her sentiments.
Right as Ron was about to take her hand, she took her hand away, staring at Ron's face with an unnerving intensity.
"... What?"
Hermione's lips were pursed. "You've got a bit of coffee on your nose."
"Have I?" Ron repeated, before proceeding to rub his nose in a most unseemly manner. Harry winced. "Better?"
Hermione stared. "Not really, no."
"Alright!" Harry abruptly clapped his hands together, drawing attention to himself before things could get worse. "Well, I am definitely excited for this trip. One of our hotels for the night will be right next to a major poetry slam event."
Hermione's eyes widened with interest. "Oh, Harry! That's wonderful! Have you written anything?"
Harry grinned, shrugging. "Not yet, but you know me. I'll have something in the nick of time." He raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "As Ron once put it, I'm a 'procrastinating fanfiction-obsessed human disaster.'"
Immediately after saying that, Harry froze. Mentioning fanfiction probably hadn't been the best idea.
Fortunately, neither of his friends seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. Ron snorted into his coffee. Hermione gave a bark of laughter, her shoulders shaking in sync.
"Truer words never spoken." She raised her coffee cup in Ron's direction as if saluting him.
"I like to think I have a way with words," Ron said smugly, looking down to observe his finger nails nonchalantly. Harry hadn't seen him do that a day in his life. "After all, I write… poetry as well."
Hermione looked at him with obvious, somewhat condescending surprise. "Oh?"
Harry shook his head frantically, but Ron didn't seem to notice his warning. Instead, he began to straighten up, puffing his chest outwards.
Harry tensed up in worry, looking between his roommate and colleague.
Ron had dabbled in poetry once, long ago, taking a poetry-writing class in college with Harry. And he'd done great. His poetry wasn't always the best, technically speaking. But it came from his heart, just like everything he wrote.
Hermione would destroy him.
In fact, judging by the look on her face, she was waiting to do exactly that.
But, knowing how his best mate's mind worked, Harry knew that all Ron could see was a pretty face looking up at him, saying, "Read me poetry, darling."
"Yeah." Ron sheepishly rubbed the back of his rapidly flushing neck. "A little something about my pet."
Hermione leaned her chin upon her hands, fingers crossed together. "Well, let's hear it then."
Ron cleared his throat and began.
"Sunshine. Daisies. Buttermellow. My pet rat is bright and yellow."
He finished and looked up at Hermione expectantly.
After a moment—
"That's it? " Hermione questioned incredulously. She gave a quiet, unkind laugh. "Well, it's not very good, is it?"
She shook her head. "Goodness, it sounded like a nursery rhyme. And even if you wanted to get this published… why write about a pet rat of all things? Perhaps choose something the audience will relate to more… like a pet cat."
Ron's face was turning redder by the second. "The point of reciting my own written poetry certainly wasn't to get published —"
"Then why else would you recite such horrid writing to an editor such as myself—"
Harry's phone rang, saving the day.
"It's Riddle!" he exclaimed, immediately grabbing everyone's attention as he swiped to accept. "Yes, sir! Where are you?"
"Why," Riddle spoke at a dangerously low pitch, his voice thick with sleep, "are you calling me at bloody four in the morning?"
Harry shot to his feet.
"Did I just wake you up?" He put his hand on his hip incredulously, "Are you seriously not here yet? You told me to be here at four o'clock sharp. Do you have no respect for my time?"
There was a silence on the line, nothing save for ragged breathing on either side. Hermione and Ron were looking at him worriedly.
And then,
"Harry," Riddle said quietly, his British accent more pronounced than ever. "Our flight is at six in the bleeding afternoon."
What?
Riddle only liked to board morning flights. Harry had booked flights for him countless times and knew all of his flying preferences, despite never having traveled with the man himself.
But—oh. Riddle hadn't directed the booking of these tickets, had he? They'd already been booked.
He closed his eyes, restraining the urge to pour his chai over someone, anyone who looked even remotely like his boss in this coffee shop.
"Oh my god," Harry breathed in shock. "You didn't tell me— "
The line went silent.
Harry was furious.
He couldn't see straight, he was so mad. Anger, hot and heavy, licked down his spine.
As he clicked his phone shut, he looked back to see his friends staring at him, no doubt having heard his conversation from start to end.
"Well," Ron began brightly. "Just… ah… have fun at the airport for a bit, I guess." He looked at Hermione. "We'll just head out."
"Yes," Hermione echoed cheerfully. "At least we know you won't be missing your plane flight."
"Yeah, I'll just go find a sofa near the check-in area and chill." Harry muttered irritably, briefly side-hugging his friends and accepting their best wishes before proceeding to do just that.
. . .
Once he'd found a comfortable place to waste the rest of his day, Harry sank into one of the chairs with a tired sigh and began swiping through his phone apps.
What was he possibly going to do for ten hours—
His gaze landed on the Discord app, and he instantly remembered.
Voldemort.
Without a second thought, Harry tapped on the app and viewed the man's message. His heart rate quickened rapidly, and he could practically taste his own anticipation as he began to read.
Lord_Voldemort_: Greatness inspires envy. Envy engenders spite. Spite spawns lies.
Harry stared at the message in consternation.
No, "Hi there, I'm Voldemort" (which, knowing what he did about the man, Harry really hadn't expected in the first place). But this… strange piece of philosophy? He didn't know what to make of it.
lightning_boi: wut?
He received a response a few minutes later.
Lord_Voldemort_: My most loyal followers—they were jealous of you. It is only natural.
Lord_Voldemort_: No one else has ever dared to be Internet-shipped with me.
Wow. Okay, wow. Talk about an entitled self-image.
Harry exhaled hysterically, not sure where to start.
lightning_boi: "Hello, Lord Voldemort! It's good to connect! I'm a huge fan!"
lightning_boi: That's roughly how I imagined our first actual discussion going.
lightning_boi: "lightning_boi holds no importance to me. You may as well stop wasting time debasing him."
lightning_boi: ^^ This message you sent? This ruined it all for me. Screw your theories on human nature, and your fake-ass attempt at not-apologizing.
lightning_boi: Good bye, again.
Harry was about to exit out, thoroughly satisfied that he'd gotten to say what had been stewing in his head for ages. But then a series of pings came from his recently unmuted Discord app, drawing his gaze to the screen before he could shut it.
Lord_Voldemort_: You misunderstand.
Lord_Voldemort_: I am trying to make amends here.
Harry raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
lightning_boi: Oh, that's okay. I don't need your excuses. :))))
Lord_Voldemort_: It would be in your best interest to listen.
Harry steamed at that, indignance coursing through his veins.
In his best interests? Oh, the sheer arrogance. What did a stranger online possibly know about Harry's best interests?
Lord_Voldemort_: Greatness inspires envy. They were envious… envious of how far superior you are to them.
Harry froze, completely caught off-guard.
What the fuck.
He huffed in disbelief, typing back.
lightning_boi: Oh please.
lightning_boi: I can smell your bullshit over the Internet. Are you joking?
Lord_Voldemort_: I don't joke.
Lord_Voldemort_: I rarely read first person works, simply because I cannot stand the protagonists. But your stories are some of the most refreshing first person perspective pieces of fiction I have ever read.
Harry pressed a hand to his thumping chest. Stories, plural?
Lord_Voldemort_: Instead of reading like a monotonous trail of thoughts, they read… rather like a diary.
Had I been blind all these years?
Had Padfoot always been this rash, immature, stubborn… this cruel?
He was staring back at me, paying attention to me for the first time since he'd entered the arena. And like clockwork, I found himself clinging to that attention, wanting those piercing gray eyes to stay on me despite hating myself for it.
This—this attention. Was this perhaps the reason I'd been so blind? Seeking a parental figure's attention, my own godfather's attention… all the while remaining completely blind to the man's true nature?
Lord_Voldemort_: This.
Lord_Voldemort_: Your protagonists—unlike most—always demonstrate excellent self-awareness and metacognition.
Lord_Voldemort_: You have a way of expressing a character's inner turmoil that is so delicious. With every word, you expose their innermost insecurities and deepest desires.
Lord_Voldemort_: It gives the reader a heady sense of… power.
Harry suppressed a shudder. Because the way Voldemort had described interacting with his work had sounded so… intimate?
Lord_Voldemort_: And your other work— boss from hell .
Lord_Voldemort_: Comedic brilliance and compelling characterization, wrapped in layers of mouthwatering unresolved sexual tension.
Lord_Voldemort_: Your writing style is gritty, unique. Emotional and evocative in a way most writers cannot achieve their entire lives.
Harry curled into himself, shivering in his sweater.
He had a way with words?
Voldemort made everything sound like dessert.
Lord_Voldemort_: You captured the push-and-pull dynamics between the protagonist and his boss so well. I could feel the genuinity. It comes as no surprise to see that your work has such an impressive following.
Harry stared, still somewhat disgruntled but mostly, begrudgingly charmed.
Because Lord_Voldemort_ was an absolute charmer towards his fans. Unthinkably suave and persuasive. No wonder they were so loyal to him… despite being such savages.
Lord_Voldemort_: I look forward to more. ;]
And holy shit, there it was. The legendary, signature smirk-face that made Harry and the entire Jarvolo fandom flip out.
lightning_boi: thank you, wow. Thank you so much.
Forgiven. Lord Voldemort was forgiven.
Because that was, perhaps, the most magnificent apology Harry had ever received. Despite the fact that the other man had not said ' Sorry' even once.
Harry's mouth quirked in amusement. How sneaky of him.
But then he stared at the message he'd sent, biting his lip in contemplation. His simple thanks seemed rather insufficient, but he just didn't know how else to respond. He was flattered beyond measure, confused, and a bit overwhelmed because this was all so sudden.
One thing was certain, though. He was finally beginning to understand the power he had—sitting here conversing with the Lord Voldemort.
So he began to ask the man questions.
lightning_boi: If you don't mind me asking… what other Jarvolo works have you enjoyed recently?
Harry winced, feeling his own awkwardness in the message.
But it seemed Lord Voldemort wasn't quite ready to give up on him yet.
Lord_Voldemort_: The majority of my reading and writing has been gen-focused. I only got into the Jarvolo fandom recently.
Lord_Voldemort_: Obviously, I've read many of the main ones. A Dangerous Game by Cybrid, Aconitum by VivyPotter, I Will Possess Your Heart by Leontina, and The Root of All Evil is Love by Crystia… to name a few.
Oooh. Good taste, as expected from Lord Voldemort.
Harry smiled at his phone, leaning his head against his backpack as he continued to read.
Lord_Voldemort_: TanninTele's The Matchmaker is an underrated favorite of mine — a delicious and somehow fitting reversal of the villain-hero roles.
Lord_Voldemort_: But—
Lord_Voldemort_ is typing...
Harry leaned forward, buzzing with anticipation as he waited for the man's next message.
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. The man liked to keep his readers in suspense even when it was a matter of simple direct messaging.
Lord_Voldemort_: Well, my tastes tend to run rather… dark.
Harry's eyebrows rose at that. But before he could ask further, he received another ping.
Lord_Voldemort_: Perhaps you could recommend something, seeing as I'm quite new to this pairing?
Lord_Voldemort: Though I must warn you, I'm quite picky… and I will not hesitate to reject your recommendations if they do not meet my tastes.
Lord_Voldemort_: Think of this is a test, even.
Harry let out a sound of amusement, imagining he could hear a responding soft chuckle on the other side of the line.
Challenge accepted.
Harry leaned back on the airport chair, running a hand through his flyaways. Man, there were so many works he loved and could think of on the spot, it was like he read fanfiction for a living (if only he actually could).
lightning_boi: Well, surely you've read Eternal Hilarity by Luxis?
Lord_Voldemort_: I don't believe so.
Harry sent him the link. Because, oh Lord, this was one of his favorite fics and the man had better appreciate the author's knack for pure comedic fluffiness—
Lord_Voldemort_: Oh.
That… didn't sound promising.
lightning_boi: You've read it?
Lord_Voldemort_: Only the summary. But as I mentioned, I'm quite particular about what I read.
Harry frowned. What was wrong with the summary ?
Lord_Voldemort_: On principle, I don't read Master of Death James fics. Or Soulmate AUs—not unless they are done exceptionally well.
Harry gasped.
lightning_boi: You don't like MoD James fics? Those are the best ones. BAMF James is the bomb.
Lord_Voldemort_: I personally find it such a turn-off when the Boy Who Lived is as or more powerful than Lord Slytherin.
lightning_boi: Seriously? You're missing out on so many good fanfics!
lightning_boi: And not liking Soulmate AUs?
lightning_boi: Your Name on My Heart by whitedandelions? And Six Seconds by Acnara? How can you not have read these within six seconds of joining the Jarvolo fandom?
Lord_Voldemort_: ...Those happen to be exceptions.
Oh thank the Lord.
Lord_Voldemort_: But generally, the concept that one is destined to be with only one person in the world...
lightning_boi: It's so romantic.
Lord_Voldemort_: It's ridiculous. Suffocating. And depressing. So much could go wrong —
lightning_boi: But so much could go right!
Lord_Voldemort_: They could be mortal enemies, not knowing they are each other's soulmates until it's too late—
lightning_boi: Which only makes it all the more delicious when they realize they are! And the angst factor? Yessss.
Lord_Voldemort_:
Lord_Voldemort_: Are you always this optimistic?
lightning_boi: Love is supposed to be messy :)
lightning_boi: I love works that are filled with misunderstandings and miscommunication (hidden identities are the bEsT), because then it's so much sweeter when the couple inevitably ends up together in the end.
lightning_boi: 33333
Lord_Voldemort_: … Inevitably?
lightning_boi: ...yes. Yes. Happy endings are a necessity.
Lord_Voldemort_: Ah.
Lord_Voldemort_: It is becoming clearer to me by the second how much our tastes differ.
Harry paused, thinking, drumming his fingers against the back of his phone cover.
lightning_boi: Well, then, Mr. Too-Vanilla-For-Me…
lightning_boi: Have you read any of Katsitting's works?
Lord_Voldemort_: ...possibly. I'm pretty bad with names.
Without further ado, Harry sent him a few links to her stories.
Twenty minutes later—
Lord_Voldemort_: Oh
Lord_Voldemort_: Interesting. Very well-written and unique.
Lord_Voldemort_:
Something wrenched in his stomach, petrified and noxious at the same time he saw Slytherin move and turn.
Slytherin was—
James gagged, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment to brace himself, to find the strength he didn't possess. Slytherin was monstrous, deformed. There was no word in the English language that could describe just what Slytherin was.
lightning_boi: Ahh I love Primeval! God, that fic gives me chills every time
lightning_boi: I just reread it and
lightning_boi: my heart is pounding so fast right now. I can't get over how deliciously dark and terrifying and seductive this is. Every time I read it.
Lord_Voldemort_: So you like Monster Slytherin?
lightning_boi: Ohhhh yes. I like scary men, hahahaha
Harry snorted as an image of his scowling boss came to mind, unbidden.
Lord_Voldemort_: I prefer it when Lord Slytherin retains his mental facilities, but this was quite the horror piece. I liked it.
Something fluttered in Harry's stomach at receiving the other man's approval.
lightning_boi: Well if you liked that, wait until you read her Priest James AU...
Lord_Voldemort_: Oh?
And so they continued like that, with Harry and Voldemort taking recommendations from each other, reading them instantaneously and gushing about them.
Well, the gushing was more on his part. Voldemort just gave a subtle "hmm" of approval followed by a comment or two when he liked Harry's reccs.
Harry was buzzing with excitement, with the energy that reading incredible fanfic usually gave him. Though he read the occasional dark fic (whenever he fell in love with an author, usually), Harry had always read more Marvolo Gaunt/James Evans than Lord Slytherin/James Evans in the past. This had resulted in him often turning to lighter works with Time Travel tropes and Same Age AUs and Fluff and Crack.
And then Lord_Voldemort_, perhaps one of the only horror writers whom Harry consistently followed, had gone and completely turned him to the Dark side.
Lord_Voldemort_: Did you enjoy them?
lightning_boi: JAIELT:JRPOELJTWY"EO"PQ20I (#$UTY
Lord_Voldemort_: I'll take that as a " yes, my Lord."
lightning_boi: OH
lightning_boi: MY
lightning_boi: LORD
Lord_Voldemort_: ...I'm listening.
lightning_boi: exarite's Prison Blues was absolutely incredible. The coercion… the power imbalance…
lightning_boi: You're corrupting what remains of my sweet vanilla sensibilities with all these dark works, I'm never going to recover :sob:
Lord_Voldemort_: Oh, darling, you think these are dark?
Darling ? Harry's heart skipped a beat at the pet name, perhaps typed out unthinkingly.
Lord_Voldemort_: How... open are you?
Harry hesitated before typing out a message.
lightning_boi: I don't have any severe triggers, if that's what you're asking.
Lord_Voldemort_: Hmm, good.
Lord_Voldemort_: How do you feel about torture?
Harry raised his eyebrows at the question. That certainly wasn't a question he got asked everyday.
Lord_Voldemort_: Because there is this fanfiction, nevermind the end by slexenskee…
Half an hour later, Harry was curled up in a corner of sitting area with another Starbucks drink, trying and failing not to openly sob. By the way some of the kids from a neighboring family were watching, he definitely hadn't succeeded.
lightning_boi: I was
lightning_boi: so not prepared for that
lightning_boi: How can authors torture James like this? All that torture and cruelty and then—somehow consensual male pregnancy and then—in the end, they're having a nice little family breakfast together?
Lord_Voldemort_: Nevermind the end — did you like it?
Harry nearly snorted out loud at that.
lightning_boi: I see what you did there.
He paused, thinking back on the fanfic.
He wished he could whisper on Discord, because that was certainly how he would have said his next few messages.
lightning_boi: yes, I did like it.
lightning_boi: I loved it.
Harry exhaled slowly, before continuing.
lightning_boi: The cum play, exhibitionism, the rough sex at the beginning vs. how it began to change when they developed feelings for each other… oh.
lightning_boi: It was so hot.
Harry swallowed as he sent his last message, waiting.
The chat remained silent.
And then—
Lord_Voldemort_: I'm glad you liked it.
Simple, distant, impersonal. Harry visibly deflated at the message. Of course, he shouldn't have expected anything different. The man played hot and cold better than Katy Perry.
Sighing, Harry brought his cup to his mouth, taking another sip—
Lord_Voldemort_: I climax every time I read the Love Potion scene.
—and spat his hot chocolate out. All over himself.
No flight necessary. Harry's jaw had fallen straight through the earth's core to London.
He was speechless. Because until now, despite his glorious writing, Lord Voldemort had been a faceless, somewhat unknown entity… somewhere between God and bot. But after chatting with him for so long, seeing him say that was like…
Harry shuddered, something strange and warm curling in the pit of his stomach as he looked back down at the chat.
Lord_Voldemort_: I have to leave now.
Harry stared, whiplashed to the point of incomprehension.
What?
He couldn't just drop a bomb like that and leave. God, Voldemort was some kind of mastermind terrorist… terrorizing Harry's sanity….
Lord_Voldemort_: But perhaps we can message later?
Harry's heart skipped a beat. He smiled warmly to himself.
lightning_boi: Absolutely.
For that matter, Harry probably had to leave soon too…
He checked the time, double-taking in surprise. It was already three o'clock in the afternoon. He'd spent hours talking to Voldemort.
With an hour left until boarding began, Harry was surprised Riddle hadn't called him yet—
Ring! Ring!
He picked up.
"Sir," Harry greeted, looking at the board for his gate. "Already here. Early."
"That's a first," said a low voice right behind him, making Harry spin around.
Tom Riddle was standing behind him, his hand still holding up the phone that had called Harry. He was wearing business casual attire—a white shirt and gray, cashmere sweater that should have made him look about a seventy-two-years old but only flattered his damn fine figure instead—
"What did you do to yourself?" Riddle asked as he came closer, staring down at Harry's figure in disgust. "Are you twelve?"
Harry looked down at himself, and sure enough, hot chocolate was dripping from his clothes down to the floor from when he'd spat out his drink earlier.
Immediately, he scrambled for the napkins in his bag and began to rapidly and roughly clean himself off.
"Ugh, just—" Riddle put a hand to his forehead, turning away as he wrinkled his nose in distaste. How the man looked attractive even while making such an ugly expression, Harry would never understand. "Just go do that in the bathroom. And hurry. Boarding starts soon."
. . .
Whoa. Business class. Hell, planes. So cool.
Sitting on the cushioned black seat, Harry watched the mini-screen on the back of the seat in front of him as it played American Airlines' safety video.
Riddle, who had been looking outside from the window seat the entire time, continued to actively not look at Harry. Strange, it was like he'd been avoiding Harry for some reason. If anything, he should have been the one avoiding Riddle, given his earlier mistreatment.
Harry began to mess around with his seat for a bit.
"Sir, look," Harry grinned as he pushed a certain button that caused his seat to move back, "I'm reclining… "
Still looking out of the window, Riddle muttered sharply, "Stop. You're embarrassing me." His mouth curled in annoyance. "It's as if you've never flown before."
Harry remained silent, stopping momentarily before continuing to recline his seat.
"... I see," Riddle's eyes finally flashed in Harry's direction for the first time since they'd boarded. "You've just lived here your entire life?"
Harry stopped messing with his chair's settings. "Yup. Born and raised in the Seattle area."
"College?"
"University of Washington," Harry shot back, looking at Riddle with raised eyebrows. "Haven't you seen my resume?"
"Never bothered," Riddle replied, his body shifting to face forward instead of leaning in the opposite direction of Harry. "Narcissa hired you, and I didn't think you'd stick around for so long. By the time you had, I didn't care to look at it."
Harry huffed, not sure whether to feel insulted or amused.
Right then, a flight attendant came up to them. "Mr. Riddle, yes? Your request for an upgrade has been approved—please follow me."
An upgrade from this ?
Riddle stood up, grabbing both of their bags before Harry could blink. Harry unbuckled his belt quickly, standing in the aisle to let his boss step out first before following him and the attendant to the front of the plane… to the completely empty, jaw-droppingly luxurious first-class cabin.
Oh, damn, Harry's first flying experience was going to ruin all flying for him.
There was nothing to recline here. The cabin contained two comfortable-looking, twin-sized beds, separated by a foot-wide armrest with cupholders in it.
It was a barrier that only gave Riddle all the more faculty to silently avoid him.
As the plane took off, the older man got out his laptop and began to go through the contents of a two-hundred-page Word document.
A few hours later, Harry had watched a movie, gotten a drink, played Scramble (with himself), and was about ready to resign himself to a fully conversation-less rest of his nine-hour flight to London.
Sighing quietly, Harry began to play the movie's sequel— James Evans and the Chamber of Secrets (damn, young Christian Coulson made a spectacular Marvolo Gaunt)—while intermittently observing his companion in the window seat.
Harry had nothing better to do. He was curious. Bored.
Riddle, it seemed, was neither of those things.
The older man was pouring rapidly over the Word document, marking it up with brutal efficiency. His face would twitch oddly every now and then. In fact, it seemed Riddle had started to pick up strange new habits in the past few hours—such as running a hand through his locks and messing up his usually elegant curls, tugging somewhat harder than necessary.
He had ordered wine at one point, and the glass was already half-empty. Odd . Harry had never imagined his boss being much of a drinker—
Suddenly, Riddle was coughing, spilling droplets of wine on his lap. And then he was clutching his head in visible pain, glaring back down at the documents like they had committed a sin.
Harry pounded his boss on the back, instantly handing him the napkins he'd stocked up on from Starbucks earlier.
He tsked teasingly. "Now who's the twelve-year-old, sir —"
"Harry," Riddle said in a strangled voice. "Have you read Fifty Shades of Purple? "
Harry blinked at the sudden change of topic before slowly shaking his head. Nope, only thing he read these days was fanfiction.
Riddle handed him his own laptop in a get-this-thing-away-from-me sort of manner. "Read this."
Harry did, with Riddle breathing down his neck, looking over his shoulder. He got through the first few chapters, and then—
Oh, man.
His eyes went wide.
"Now I know what all the fuss is about. Two orgasms—coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine."
Oh, Lord.
"I had no idea giving pleasure could be such a turn-on, watching him writhe subtly with carnal longing. My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves."
Inner goddess? What the fuck? Harry could barely breathe; he was too busy trying to suppress his laughter so that he didn't wake any of sleeping occupants on the other side of the plane—
Harry stopped, slowly turning to look at Riddle.
Because, this whole time, Riddle had been reading smut next to him?
"Focus, Harry," Riddle said firmly. "Let's get done with this."
Before Harry knew it, he was reading the document along with Riddle, editing the Word document chapter-by-chapter while discussing it with him.
"Mentally girding my loins, I headed into the hotel, " Harry read out loud incredulously. "The woman's about to have sex, not go to war."
Riddle snorted. "It gets worse." He adopted a slightly shriller voice than usual. " My flan-mounds were at war with his meatstick."
He looked ill just from reading it, and quite frankly, Harry didn't blame him.
"Yeah, I'm never eating flan again." Harry ran a hand through his locks—really, no wonder Riddle had been doing that so often. "This protagonist is really getting on my nerves."
"At least she has an excuse."
Harry looked at him incredulously. "What excuse? "
Riddle shrugged, loosening his tie. He'd lost his sweater at some point. "She's incurably stupid." Ignoring Harry's glare, he pointed a few paragraphs down and continued. "But the man— I'm thoroughly disappointed in him. No self-respecting CEO would act like this—propositioning an incompetent stranger after the first meeting."
Harry scoffed. "She's not stupid. " And suddenly, he had no idea why, but he was defending the stupid heroine. "The man's an incredibly powerful, wealthy, and influential executive officer. Maybe she felt like she had to accept his contract or face consequences."
Riddle raised his eyebrows. "Oh, if she'd felt like that, I'm positive her inner goddess wouldn't have been egging her on the entire time."
The corner of Harry's mouth curled upwards against his will.
They continued to edit over the next few hours, and pretty soon, Harry was right there with Riddle, gripping his forehead agitatedly.
"This is shit," he exclaimed breathlessly after laughing over yet another washing machine reference. "Oh my freaking god. I write better romance than this."
Riddle's eyes flickered unreadably at Harry's words, before he casually said, " I would write better romance than this."
Harry snorted, turning to face Riddle. "Oh, please. You don't have a romantic bone in your body."
Riddle raised an eyebrow in amusement, the corners of his mouth tipping in a wry smile. "My point exactly," and at this, Harry couldn't stop the laughter that erupted from his mouth.
And then he was looking at Riddle, really looking at him.
Somehow, seeing his boss like this—ruffled hair, missing tie, the top few buttons of his shirt undone—made him catch his breath. Harry didn't feel that vicious satisfaction that he might have felt days ago at seeing his boss so unkempt. Instead, there was only the buzzing realization that, wow, Riddle was even hotter like this.
"I can't get over the BDSM scenes," Riddle was shaking his head disapprovingly. "So unrealistic. "
Harry let out another huff of laughter, smirking at Riddle tauntingly. "And how would you know?"
And suddenly, the atmosphere seemed to thicken with tension.
Riddle tilted his head, his eyes darkening and falling half-shut.
"Christian Grey is far too selfish and impatient to make a competent Dom, let alone experience the true joys of BDSM."
Riddle leaned forward on the shared armrest between them, looking straight at Harry. And when he spoke, his voice was low, quiet, and heart-stoppingly seductive.
"Had I been holding my partner captive contractually, I would have kept them chained to my bed for hours. I would have used all manner of toys on them until they were left begging for more."
Riddle smiled slowly, his hooded gaze heated.
"And only after edging my partner for hours on end would I, being a merciful master, allow them to come."
Harry stared back at him, mouth slightly open. It took him a moment to get his bearings back, but when he did, something strange and familiar had uncurled him… the very same feeling that had struck him back in Riddle's office…
"That's it?" Harry breathed challengingly, his lashes lowered unconsciously.
At that, Riddle gave Harry a distinctly odd look, shocking Harry out of his trance.
He scrambled to amend his statement. "I mean, come on, details, boss. We practically have to re- write this scene," Harry trailed off with nervous laughter, and Riddle was back to being his impassive, business-like self as he proceeded to read the next part.
"... You're going to unman me, Ana…"
Riddle paused, looking extremely pained.
"Delete this entire scene," he uttered, and Harry, holding back laughter, did exactly that.
. . .
After editing, sleeping, and editing some more, they reached London around noon.
"Wow," Harry murmured as he looked outside the large wall of windows. The sky was gray and cloudy, rather nondescript, and tall buildings were visible in the distance.
"Do you like it?" Riddle asked, checking their documents as they went to stand in line.
"It's like another America," Harry said, provoking glares from a couple of passerbyers. "But with shittier weather." He turned to look at his boss. "I'm excited. How far away is the Manor from here agai—"
"We are not going there," Riddle said abruptly. "We will be checking into a hotel near the Diagon Alley Writers Conference, the one we're scheduled to attend tomorrow." He checked his watch. "However, our check-in time is at one—we need to hurry."
They breezed through security and car rental, and before long, they were parked outside of Hilton hotel, carrying their luggage inside using the golden rack provided to them.
"Unfortunately, this is the best I could book us within a day's notice," Riddle said as he hefted the last of their luggage onto the rack, primly gesturing for Harry to push it. "I will be out running some errands. You may find the room and settle in as you need, but leave the bed farther from the entrance for me."
"We're sharing a room?" Harry asked, looking back at his boss in surprise.
Riddle's jaw ticked. "Like I said—there were few vacancies left in the good hotels of this area. Now, stay here. I'll check us in." He began walking towards the front desk.
Half a minute later, chaos had erupted at the front desk.
"What do you mean you gave our spot away?" Riddle seethed, his eyes darkened with fury and his jaw clenched. "We are twenty-five minutes early."
"Sir, we've had so many walk-ins this past week. It's summer hols for many at this time of the year, and your reservation was one of the last we gave up." The woman—Marie Malkins, by the looks of her nametag—looked at him pleadingly. "I'm sorry, but we simply cannot accommodate—"
"Where's your manager? I could sue you for this." Riddle scowled, crossing his arms.
"Bloody Americans," muttered a low voice standing in line behind both of them. "Always threatening to sue over everything that happens to them."
Oh, no.
Riddle turned around, giving the man a death glare.
"Mr. Riddle, sir," Harry interrupted with enthusiasm, lightly setting a hand his boss's upper arm. "Er—let's just go somewhere else." He tossed his own glare at the man behind them, who was wearing a shiny name tag that implied he was also faculty—huh, how rude he'd been. "Let's not waste our precious time here."
Waste our precious time? Harry ran silently over his tongue again as they were exiting the building.
Heh, Riddle had definitely rubbed off on him.
"There's an inn two streets down that should have vacancies," Malkin called out to them as they were leaving. Harry didn't turn back, but he could have sworn he'd heard snickering from the hotel man besides her.
After loading their luggage back inside, they returned to the car and began looking up alternatives.
Tom's hands clenched around the driver's wheel. "The nerve ." His upper arm muscles tightened as he shifted the gear. "I have errands to run, I don't have time for this nonsense."
"Let's try the inn nearby." Harry showed him his phone. "The nearest hotel is twenty minutes away, and it'll take at least half an hour in this traffic."
And so, to the inn two streets down, they went.
Amortentia Inn.
It was small, shabby, its brick walls clearly eroded over the years. Even in comparison to the shady neighborhood sharing its street, the motel was easily one of the more decrepit buildings there. How much the atmosphere of London could differ from street to street, Harry would never be able to understand.
"No wonder that lady mentioned that there would be vacancies here," Harry muttered. "I would be surprised if there were any occupants at all."
Harry turned to look at his boss, only to find him putting the keys back in starting up the car again.
"Whoa, whoa," Harry splayed an arm out. "Hey, chill— "
Riddle's voice went eerily calm. "Did you just—"
"With all due respect, sir," Harry interrupted, and damn, being in the U.K. was already bringing out a posher side of himself. "It's one night. What could possibly happen?"
He sighed, leaning back in his seat as he maintained eye contact with the man. "And don't you have somewhere to be?"
Harry's hand crept towards the door handle of the car, opening it slowly before Riddle caught on. "Just leave the luggage with me. I'll get us a room and let you know which one we're in." He got out of the car, removing the luggage from the boot before saluting his boss. "Call me when you're on your way back."
Once he had everything outside of the motel's entrance, he waved to Riddle—who was still staring at him from the driver's seat, looking at him through the passenger seat's open window.
"I'm trusting you," Riddle said sternly, his mouth frowning to show his displeasure at the thought.
"Good choice," he replied, sending his boss a thumbs-up.
And as the black Bentley drove away, Harry muttered under his breath. "About time. "
Because, in all honesty, it was a lack of faith that made their relationship so strained in the first place. It was probably what had gotten every one of his previous personal assistants fired as well. Distrusting as always, Riddle often woke up at ass o'clock in the morning to redo the work of his subordinates himself. He didn't trust his own assistants with flight information, so kept the information to himself.
And then, of course, he yelled at them for doing and knowing nothing.
Classic Riddle.
Rolling his eyes to himself, Harry entered Amortentia Inn without further delay .
A tall, dark-haired, pretty lady with light blue eyes looked up at him from the front desk as he arrived. Her name tag read, "Romilda Vane," and a box of customary chocolates had been placed on the shelf.
"Hello!" She smiled brightly, giving a little wave. "Did you have a reservation?"
"No," Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "But I only need a room for tonight."
She gazed at him with an almost predatory look. "Just a… single?"
"No, sorry," Harry shook his head, blinking. What the hell was wrong with him? Something about the hazy atmosphere and pink decor (which reminded him almost revoltingly of his tenth grade P.E. teacher, Mrs. Umbridge) was making him feel rather out of his depth.
"Sorry—two rooms. Two singles. My colleague will be coming in later this evening."
Romilda sighed, shaking her head slowly. "Unfortunately, we don't offer singles here."
Harry's brows furrowed. What kind of inn didn't offer singles?
"Two doubles, then," he demanded, crossing his arms. Because there was no way he was sharing with his—
"Actually, I just checked the system, and it looks like only have one double left. A queen-sized bed." Romilda looked up at him apologetically. "It's very much hotel season, what with school kids off for the summer hols."
Oh for the love of God. Even such a wretched place like this was fully-booked?
Since Riddle had taken the car, he couldn't even try looking somewhere else.
"Will that be okay?" she asked.
It has to be, Harry groaned internally, begging someone above to take mercy on him.
He ran a hand through his messy locks. "Yeah, that should be fine. Two key cards, please."
Romilda nodded, rounding the corner of the front desk. "Absolutely, right this way."
As Harry followed her, he could have sworn he felt eyes watching him from the darker, hazier corners of the inn. Quiet, hysterical giggles followed his footsteps.
And whispers.
"Bottom… definitely the bottom ."
. . .
Finally. Oxford.
Tom got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him as he headed straight for his first stop.
The library, of course.
He skimmed through the books on display, sweeping across the grandest parts before walking towards a closed door at the quietest end of the room.
Locked, as expected. But, Tom slipped a pin from under his sleeves, he had his ways.
The door softly clicked open, opening to reveal his one of favorite rooms in the entire campus. The Bodleian Libraries' Special Collections, keeper of manuscripts and rare books.
He switched on the lights and walked in, closing the door behind him as he ran his eyes over the illuminated papyri and paintings in various languages. Sanskrit, Aramaic, Egyptian, Armenian, Tibetan… Tom looked on in contentment.
This was where history really seemed to come alive— here, in this room filled with medieval Biblical translations and Roman treaties.
It was no surprise that this had been the headquarters for many secret societies during his time here.
"Tom?" spoke a booming, pleased voice. "Tom Riddle?"
Tom slowly turned around, a faint smile whispering across his lips. He'd been so lost in the manuscripts before him, he'd barely noticed the sound of the door opening. His former professor, Dean of the Saïd School of Business, stood behind him, his walrus mustache and rotund figure as definitive as he remembered.
"Professor Slughorn," Tom said, allowing delight to color his voice. "I was wondering when we'd run into each other."
"My boy, " Slughorn said heartily, a warm smile gracing his features as he walked forward to greet his greatest former student. "Back from the U.S. already?"
Tom chuckled. "Not for long, I'm afraid."
He paused, as if in deep contemplation. Slughorn, unable to restrain his curiosity for long, was looking at him with burning expectancy.
"... Well?" Slughorn asked, unable to restrain his curiosity for long. He looked at his former student with burning expectancy. "What is it, Tom?"
"Professor Slughorn," he began, slowly, staring piercingly at the elderly man.
"What do you know about horcruxes?"