"Professor Slughorn," he began, slowly, staring piercingly at the elderly man.
"What do you know about horcruxes?"
Slughorn paled.
"Tom…" He slowly shook his head, staring at his former student with wild eyes. "I thought you were over that—"
Tom slammed a hand down on the desk before him, rattling the few manuscripts on display. For all their historical significance, it would be a pity if he had to break them before the elderly man answered.
"Now, now, professor," he murmured lowly, "Those are the magic words, aren't they?"
Slughorn straightened up, his eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, they are. Although I have no clue how you managed to obtain the secret code for a society of writers you are no longer part of— "
" Tell me where she is," Tom snarled furiously, patience running out, his hand reaching out as if to grab the man's collar.
"Even I do not know where she is," Slughorn cried, veering away, his backside hitting the very door he'd come in from. "The last I heard, she was in Scotland… living in a great big castle…"
Tom's eyes flashed dangerously. "Is that so?"
Right then, Slughorn's phone buzzed on the table between them. A bright message appeared on the screen: the beginning of a text.
Joanne: Professor Slughorn! I'll be in town tomorrow for the Diagon Alley Writer's …
They both stared at it, one in growing horror and the other in vicious satisfaction.
How utterly convenient, Tom thought with glee.
In an action delayed by shock, Slughorn leapt for his phone and dug it into his trousers pocket. But it was too late and they both knew it.
"What a talented liar you are," Tom hummed, a faint smile gracing his features as he walked towards back towards the door. As he passed by his former professor, he muttered into the man's ear.
"Let's keep this between ourselves, yes?"
And as the door slammed shut behind Tom, the elderly man hunched into himself, his head bowed and hands shaking as the shock hit him.
"As if…" Slughorn whispered. "I have any other choice ."
. . .
For the first time in weeks, Tom felt content.
Because even though his work life was shit—Dumbledore and Riddle Sr. had been making his life hell—at least his James Evans business was finally on track.
For one, he'd made up with lightning_boi.
In the two weeks following his comment ("Unsubscribed ;]") on boss from hell, Tom had been too busy adjusting to a certain change in workplace leadership to check his social media. But during his sparse spare time, Tom had taken to stalking the boy's writing on Ao3, reading everything down to his Author's Notes at the beginning and end of every chapter.
A/N, boss from hell : Hello! I'm back from the dead (I have a boss from hell, I swear he's the devil) with a new chapter!
It was strange, how much one could learn about the author from their notes.
At first, Tom had found lightning_boi's Author's Notes silly, albeit humorous and entertaining… much like the protagonist in most of his stories.
A/N, Chained : Sorry, I was going to update a year ago but then my cat ate the chapter ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (yeah bois he eats bytes for breakfast)
A/N, Chained : Hey! I updated! At least it wasn't four months later like last time, right? ^^ *dusts off this fic* *coughs*
After some time, Tom began to find them… dangerously endearing.
A/N, Daddy Firebolt: So it turns out I'm alive. I know, even I was surprised by it.
A/N, Yet Another Slytherin Wins AU : Haha, uh, hi? Don't kill me please. I was trying I swear, but life has been cancelling all of my free time since I signed my soul away to this new job.
Lightning_boi was funny and sarcastic. He had a self-deprecating sense of humor that Tom found himself drawn to, despite his general dislike of those who lacked confidence. And what he found odd in the first place was how much lightning_boi interacted with his readers.
The boy apologized for updating late when he had no obligation to do so in the first place. He responded to every single comment without fail. And he always, always thanked his readers for being patient and keeping up with his updates.
Tom had never paid attention to Author's Notes himself, having rarely written any except for that one time when he announced that he was abandoning The Orphan.
But lightning_boi's notes, which were somehow written in a way that seemed to draw the eye? He never failed to read them.
A/N, boss from hell : No, your eyes do not deceive you. 'Tis I, risen from the dead to give you this chapter. The power of fanfiction has disturbed my slumber once again.
A/N, Chained : *touches this fic like a walkie-talkie from the past century* H-hello? Is this still working?
A/N, Chained : oh look, inspiration strikes again on the story I least expected. Anyways, enjoy!
Witty and creative. Clearly intelligent.
Strikingly honest.
It was no wonder that stalking lightning_boi seemed to have affected his mental faculties.
Settling down on a chair in the Bodleian Libraries, Tom absentmindedly opened his Discord App, searching and scrolling back to the conversation that had happened on that fateful day.
The Inner Circle: #trash-talk
Hadrian_Evans: I'm lightning_boi. Good fucking bye.
Because the mere memory of that message pinging his phone several days ago, of how stunned Tom had been afterwards…
Discord: Hadrian_Evans has left the server.
Of how inexplicably frustrated he had been…
Bella_Tricks: Ha, interesting. A lowly peasant hiding beneath our very noses.
Ra_beast_an: Rather like a rat, except even worse than Peter.
ThunderousThor: Serves him right
SmolDragon: God, how did he get in here? Is there a way to air out a channel?
Oh, the moments after lightning_boi had left his server had certainly been enlightening.
Tom had been horrified to realize that he actually cared what lightning_boi thought of him. And to have him leave like that, daring to take away the last word from Lord Voldemort…
No. No.
Ridiculous. It shouldn't have mattered. Lightning_boi should have meant nothing to him.
But two weeks of stalking the boy's writing on Ao3, reading everything down to his Author's Notes on every chapter with a surprising lack of accompanying disdain… had taken its toll on him.
Tom hadn't realized he desired the other's company until it was gone for good.
The boy had practically been falling into his hands all this time, nearly within his grasp, only to fly away due to a lack of Tom's own— foresight.
Tom's lips had curled in denial, refusing to call himself out on what it really was.
Stupidity.
At this realization many weeks ago, he'd exited out of the exploding server without another word.
The next thing he'd done was look up LightningVolt. The term had been all over Tumblr, revolving around the very chain of comments between himself and lightning_boi on boss from hell . And there was even fanart about them.
This shipping. It was mad.
He noted that Jarvolo fans (because that seemed to be the demographic mainly involved in shipping LightningVolt) were the thirstiest lot of the James Evans fandom. They weren't content with shipping the main character with one of the greatest villains in twenty-first century literature. No, they wanted to ship the writers of these fanfiction pieces as well.
And the most delicious irony surrounding this all was what they didn't know: that Marvolo Gaunt, Lord Slytherin, was a character based on no other than Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Yes.
Tom leaned back in his chair, taking a trip down memory lane.
Joanne, Joanne.
They'd met at one of Oxford's many libraries, despite Joanne not attending Oxford ( "Exeter College, just three hours south of here!" ). After running into each other a couple of times in the same sections of the libraries, they had become acquaintances of a sort.
"Are you a Latin major?" Joanne asked, her eyes skimming the titles of the books Riddle had accumulated.
"Are you a French major?" Tom replied, with no small amount of derision. What, a man couldn't read anything intellectual for fun?
Joanne appeared friendly as ever, perhaps not picking up on his desire to be left alone.
"French and Classics double-major, actually." She smiled, before narrowing her eyes at one of the titles in Tom's pile. "Well, that's quite a long title for a book."
Tom raised an eyebrow. "Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus." And then, anticipating Joanne's lack of understanding, he translated. "Never tickle a sleeping dragon."
With that, he resumed reading… only to be disturbed once again by the curious woman besides him.
"What is it about?"
Gritting his teeth, Tom turned to face the young woman.
"It's a book," he replied dryly, with an air of long-suffering patience,"On how one should not annoy their superiors." He looked at her meaningfully, but as always, it seemed to go above her head.
She only hummed thoughtfully before proceeding to ask him about every other book in his pile.
Her full name, as Tom had later found out, was Joanne Roaring. And certainly Joanne Kathleen Roaring, as assumed by most. The middle name was fake.
"I need a fake middle initial," Joanne muttered, more to herself than to Tom. "Something that makes my name sound more… masculine."
Tom rolled his eyes. "And what gave you that idea?"
She paused, looking at him in exasperation. "My bloody publishers, that's who." She adopted a fake, mocking voice. "Ah, but you see? Young boys won't read it if they think it was written by a woman."
Joanne stopped, scowling down at her laptop. "I hate this. I dislike having to change myself for the sake of marketing."
"Then find a different editor," Tom offered, still not looking up as he flipped the page of his textbook.
He hadn't anticipated the weighted silence afterwards, or the way Joanne would respond.
"Are you offering, Mr. Riddle?"
And so, through circumstances quite by chance, Tom decided to work with Roaring after carefully assessing the woman's manuscripts and outlines. It was quite fascinating, with intense world-building and character development that would surely leave readers spellbound.
What a fitting start to his Editing career.
Being the perfectionist he was, Tom grew quite invested in the series, researching every little aspect of the story alongside her to make sure it fit together nicely.
"What about 'Toujours Pur?'" Tom suggested, looking over the manuscript on his laptop. "Latin for 'Always Pure?'"
Joanne's eyes widened. "That's brilliant!" She stood up, unnecessarily dramatic. "You know what? We should just use Latin references everywhere—"
And of course, the most important part—the character around whom they tended to get into rather heated conversations.
"Lord Horcrucio?"
"No." Tom shook his head firmly. "Marvolo wouldn't name himself after a mere spell or device." He looked up towards the ceiling, searching for the right words to express the character's motivations.
"He would fashion himself a new name, something original and far more fearsome…"
Joanne raised her eyebrows at him, muttering something along the lines of, "More fond of the villain than the author at this point…"
"Why not Conqueror of Death?" Tom suggested eventually.
"No, no, absolutely not!" She shot him an exasperated look. "He cannot conquer death, that's the point! He fears it… he flees it…"
"Vol de Mort," Tom said quietly.
Joanne looked at him, silently mouthing the translation of Tom's French.
'Flight from Death.'
It was perfect.
"I… quite like that," she said contemplatively, before shaking her head. "But given that Marvolo inherits his mother's last name on his birth certificate, he goes through his Hogwarts years knowing his wizarding heritage. Naturally, he would demonstrate an acceptance of his heritage by assuming the title of Lord Slytherin—"
"He would not." Tom interrupted, his voice going hard. He looked away from the manuscripts, glaring at Joanne. "Marvolo would not credit all of his success to heritage, not when his own family failed him so egregiously—"
"What makes you think," Joanne's voice suddenly turned cold, just like the rest of her pale demeanor, "that you know my villain better than myself?"
"Oh, I'm not sure," Tom replied scathingly, "Perhaps the fact that you based him on me?"
Indeed, the main villain of James Evans continued to be a point of contention between them. And despite their occasional disagreements, he and Joanne had worked surprisingly well together, writing and publishing the first six books of the series… which went on to gain immense popularity and critical acclaim.
Everything had been going very well until halfway through the seventh book.
They were already tired of each other by that point, but the reason for their argument was the same as always:
Lord Slytherin, again. More specifically, whether or not he deserved one last chance at redemption, an opportunity to survive the war.
Joanne slashed her pen across the freshly printed documents. "We kill him off. Struck by his own rebounding spell. Pure symmetry." She leaned back in her chair, sighing contentedly.
Tom laughed mirthlessly. Unkindly.
Joanne tensed immediately.
"What is it?"
"Oh," Riddle tilted his head, "I just find it rather insulting that you base a significant character on me, only to kill him off in such a manner because you decide he doesn't deserve redemption."
J. K. Roaring, of course, had believed Slytherin didn't deserve redemption. In the end, just as she had wanted, Roaring killed him off without a second thought at the end of the seventh book.
Unable to agree on this point, she and Tom cut ties, and Roaring published the seventh book with another company.
Meanwhile, Tom had been furious. He had, perhaps foolishly, grown emotionally invested in the series with which he had begun his Editing career. And after years of seeing this character and his backstory being developed, inspired by none other than his own?
He despised the fact that there was no redemption for this villain that was so much like him.
And thus, the birth of Lord_Voldemort_.
Tom fashioned himself a new name, a name he knew James Evans fans everywhere would one day speak with awe, when he had redeemed and reaffirmed Lord Slytherin as the greatest villain of twenty-first century literature.
Through Fanfiction.
He wrote a variety of Lord Slytherin Wins AUs—his favorite trope. He posted works like No Glory, where James Evans started off as a mere enslaved Horcrux to the victorious Lord Slytherin. He wrote shorter stories like Mine, where James Evans was trapped, buried alive in a coffin, as Lord Slytherin continued his plans for world domination.
Tom gained over three thousand followers on No Glory within the span of months. His favorites-to-followers ratio was rather impressive. In fact, while he rarely read reviews, he tracked his Traffic Stats obsessively.
Power was in the numbers, after all.
Tom knew that was where the masses were. It was where he rapidly collected followers, and more followers meant more people reading his work and spreading the word to others until — yes.
Lord Voldemort succeeded in establishing a loyal following.
(Of course, he discovered Archive of Our Own later on. It was a… cute platform, Tom supposed. He'd begun to cross-post once he'd found out it existed.)
So unlike ninety-nine percent of writers on the website, he did not start off writing James Evans fanfiction for the purpose of pure entertainment or shameless smut. Tom wrote it because he wanted to give the series's villain the ending he deserved.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before he was writing shameless smut. And it was all thanks to him.
Harry Potter.
Because now that Tom knew the younger man was reading his fanfiction, a thrilling rush of adrenaline tingled down his spine each time he updated.
Much in the way Lord Slytherin enjoyed pushing the boundaries of magic, Lord Voldemort enjoyed testing the limits of projection. The fine line he walked between fiction and reality grew finer with every chapter of his Green-Eyed Monster .
It was laughable to think he would ever be caught, least of all by his sweet, tempting personal assistant—his hopelessly oblivious muse.
Tom refreshed and Ao3, checking his stats one last time to see how his latest update of Green-Eyed Monster was faring . Then he launched a new Word document to begin the next chapter of his rom-com Office AU… as opposed to working on his other WIPs.
Harry Potter always ruined his plans.
As if hearing his words and wanting to prove otherwise, his iPhone X pinged with a notification from Discord—one of the few types of notification he had turned on for his exclusive server.
Discord: lightning_boi has joined the server.
Tom's mouth curled upwards against his will.
Well, Harry Potter and lightning_boi, both.
. . .
Harry couldn't believe they'd gotten stuck with a room like this.
It was—it was—
Oh god, were those rose petals on the bed sheets?
Silken, red sheets were laid out over a surprisingly small queen bed, contrasting tackily with the petals strewn upon it. Pale, gauzy curtains hung around both sides of the bed like a canopy, providing the illusion of privacy while allowing light to stream in.
Not like there was much light to begin with. The room was dimmer than Harry on a bad day.
"I hope this meets your expectations?" Romilda asked, having guided Harry straight to the room. At least Amortentia Inn didn't cut any slack on customer service—he couldn't recall ever being escorted to his lodgings.
As he turned back to view the room, his eyes widened on a big box near the TV, very explicitly labeled: Toys.
Toys?
Oh hell, no. Harry really hoped that wasn't what his dirty fanfiction-mind thought it was. Because if Riddle saw that and thought the same thing—
"Sir?" Romilda questioned.
—he was dead.
Harry choked on what might have been his most diplomatic response (a sarcastic "Above and beyond, ma'am, mind if I vacuum the bed sheets?") and ended up nodding silently.
"Please," Harry began once he'd finally found his voice once more, "give the second key card to Tom Marvolo Riddle when he comes to the front desk."
Because he didn't want to be in the room when his boss saw it for the first time. In fact—a nice cup of authentic English tea sounded splendid. Harry would definitely be exploring the town outside later today.
"Very well." Romilda nodded brusquely before promptly exiting the room, leaving Harry alone to bond with his new love shack.
Sighing, Harry shrugged off his jacket and opened the closet to hang it—
His eyes widened in disbelief.
Oh fucking hell.
Two towels lay hanging inside, one with a heart pattern and the other decorated with a collection of many different hand symbols. Harry swore the second towel contained two adjacent symbols that looked distinctly like 👉👌.
At this point, he dearly hoped it was just his dirty imagination.
But there were a couple of articles of clothing in the closet that even Harry couldn't have dreamt up: two of the most transparent bathrobes he'd ever seen in his life hung from hangers at the right end of the closet, the wall behind them clearer than daylight.
Closing the closet with a definitive click, Harry proceeded to walk across the room and shove the toy box underneath the bed. Because with the kinds of symbols that were decorating its exterior, Harry had a feeling its contents were exactly what he was thinking of.
Afterwards, he got out his laptop and fell onto the bed. Wow, it was surprisingly comfy? He supposed this was where Amortentia Inn's investments had been focused.
Then, realizing he had a whole hotel room to himself with nothing to do but "stay put" until evening, Harry decided to mess around. After all, since he'd started living with Ron, he hadn't had this kind of privacy in ages...
So he watched some porn. He drew smutty Jarvolo art... which came out looking like a banana fucking a slug but, hey, who was watching? Who was there to criticize his every word, every action, every breath? Nobody.
And because nobody was watching, Harry connected his laptop to his portable bluetooth Bose speakers (a beloved birthday present from his godfather, who loved music just as much as him — Harry took them wherever he went), turned on Spotify, and had a mini dance party too.
After tiring himself out and finding that he had nothing else to do, he logged onto the Jarvolo Discord server. He swiped through some of the channels—every one of them was highlighted as unread because he hadn't been on in days—before deciding to stick with one.
Chamber of Secrets: #general
lightning_boi: hey boisssss
A flurry of replies met his message mere moments later.
GaliLEO: lightning man! How you been boss?
ChoAegyo: lightning uwu, how does it feel to be famous?
TheSnapeThatSmilesBack: Our new celebrity…
Lav: omggg lightning where's Volt 3333
Harry held back a smile as he absorbed everyone's enthusiasm. He hadn't realized how much he missed his fellow Jarvolo fans until coming back here.
lightning_boi: hey guys! Oh yeah, tea—I was dm-ed by Voldemort the other day.
As soon as Harry sent the message, he slid down all the way until his shoulders were touching the bed, grinning with anticipation.
He was not disappointed.
HeadGirl: What?
RoonilWazlib: DUDE!
AngelinaJolie: OHmygo
Lav: hhhhhhh
GaliLEO: holy shiT… pics plz?
Harry held back his grin with a fist to his mouth, responding with his other hand. He navigated to his earlier conversation with Voldemort and screenshotted sections of it.
lightning_boi: alright, no distributing beyond this chat (looking at you GaliLEO ;])
ChoAegyo: awwwww
Lav: hhakhefekahaf I RECOGNIZE THAT SMIRK
AngelinaJolie: looks like someone's already adopting Voldemort's infamous habits~~
GingerGorl: Just don't adopt his habit of staying aloof and unresponsive because we missed you! 3333
Forge: whoa ^^ someone's not a fan of LV
Harry sent them images of his conversation with Voldemort, once again awaiting their reactions with anticipation. Man, this was almost as bad as waiting for comments on his chapters.
He needed more. He needed validation —proof that he wasn't freaking out over nothing—
HeadGirl: You. Are. So. Lucky.
HeadGirl: To be on the receiving end of such eloquent compliments? From arguably one of the best fanfic writers ever?
GaliLEO: boy don't you ever ask me for validation again because that right there is the cherry on Top
SeanTheSheep: don't you mean Harry is the cherry and Voldy is the top? ;) | 7 lenny reacts
Harry felt his ears redden at that. Good thing he hadn't shown the whole snippet where they had discussed nevermind the end. For some reason, that had felt too private.
Ha. Imagine telling the whole Jarvolo fandom that Lord Voldemort wanked to fics…
AngelinaJolie: Mannn I am so binge-reading all of those fics you and Voldemort discussed
ChoAegyo: sameee
Forge: Lightning! Congratulations—
Gred: On your impending wedding—
Forge: When can we expect invitations?
Harry continued to chat with them for a while before deciding to wrap up his conversation to write fanfiction for a bit. It felt like it had been ages since he'd touched his writing folder at all.
Did he even remember how to write anymore?
Harry placed his fingers on the keyboard and began to type whatever came to mind—his usual process.
… And suddenly, I was falling down, pushed onto the other man's lap.
My lips were a mere breath away from Marvolo's.
As Marvolo continued to talk on the phone, unaffected as always, I held my breath. My muscles tensed up. I was starting to sweat and I highkey wanted to sniff my armpits to make sure I hadn't forgotten to put on deodorant that morning—
Harry stopped, resisting the urge to headbang his keyboard because, Ugh. What the fuck was wrong with him? Could a scene get any unsexier?
He sat up on the bed, craning his neck and cracking his knuckles deleting all of the text and started anew.
"Greatness inspires envy, envy inspires spite, spite spawns lies," Marvolo said eventually, his voice low and enchanting.
I stared at him with a clear lack of comprehension.
"What are you trying to tell me?" I returned incredulously, perhaps a bit more sharply than intended. Most likely because the man, as always, had me utterly confused.
Marvolo finally turned to face me, his dark eyes boring into mine with an almost frightening intensity belied eerily by the faint smile stretched across his face.
"All I am saying is that my fans are jealous of you, because you possess an opportunity they do not."
He leaned in, his mouth brushing the tip of my ears.
"After all… no one has ever dared to spend the night in the same bed as Lord Slytherin."
Harry paused in his typing, grinning at the scene he'd just written. Now he was getting somewhere. A bedsharing trope, how… fitting.
I raised my eyebrows at him, suppressing the urge to grin outright. "Are you saying you're a virgin?"
Marvolo's own eyebrows shot upwards at that, his mouth twitching downwards momentarily. But moments later, his expression had been smoothed out, every last indication of emotion ironed out of his features.
"Spending the night and having sex are two entirely different concepts—of course, you wouldn't know, having never experienced the latter."
At that, I felt myself heating up, blood rushing to my head in mixture of anger and embarrassment—
Harry was disturbed by the gmail notifications popping up on the bottom right of his screen. He skimmed over the subject line, ready to ignore it, but froze once he'd actually managed to grasp what it had said.
[Ao3] Lord_Voldemort_ posted Chapter 9…
Suddenly, Harry couldn't have cared less that it was cloudy and raining outside, or that he was sleep-deprived, because his day had just gotten so much brighter.
Bless. Praise the Lord.
He clicked on the email and was navigating towards the link before he could stop his own fingers. Lord_Voldemort_ had just updated Green-Eyed Monster, his favorite work by the author yet. Well, technically not his favorite work… Harry couldn't really decide on one when it came to Voldemort.
Without further ado, he began to read.
"Sorry, sir. The elevators aren't working," James gasped as he scrambled in, his face flushed (somewhat appealingly) from running. His hair, as always, was a bedraggled mess, and his apparel was in far worse state.
The boy had a prophesied knack for testing his patience.
"Are the stairs not working as well?" Marvolo intoned sarcastically. Because any normal human being who arrived at least five minutes early would have had no trouble being on time.
Harry snickered. Marvolo's reactions to every little thing James did were priceless, especially since James remained oblivious to them.
The protagonist was clearly obsessed with the other man.
Marvolo scowled darkly as James continued to scramble for excuses. He gritted his teeth, his mind automatically cycling through about fifty possible ways to berate his incompetent assistant for disrespecting his time.
"...And, well." James bit his lip, looking at him sheepishly. "I know those all sounded like excuses—"
Marvolo paused in disbelief. Was the boy finally going to admit the error of his ways?
"—but the coffee line was way longer than usual!"
Nevermind .
Marvolo turned away from James to avoid being swayed by his naturally sympathy-inducing demeanor. Few things could phase him. But those large, pleading green eyes (the same eyes James showed him whenever Marvolo was on the brink of firing him) were practically his kryptonite.
Harry grinned, rolling onto his back and settling the bottom edge of his laptop against his stomach. He rather enjoyed getting the inside scoop on how it felt to be attracted to one's subordinate.
He continued to read the chapter, enjoying many of the tension-ridden interactions between Marvolo and James. As it progressed, Marvolo seemed to grow more and more hassled as his project deadline approached, mostly because his 'bloody assistant' wasn't doing his job.
Of course, given that work was written in third person limited, Harry was inclined to believe that the (poor, overworked) assistant was doing his job and that Marvolo was merely exaggerating for the sake of being dramatic.
Harry rolled his eyes, biting back a grin as he scrolled down on his laptop. The protagonist was reminding him more and more of a certain someone—
He cut that train of thought off quickly and continued to read.
As they were traveling upwards, the elevator suddenly stopped.
James narrowed his eyes, jabbing at the buttons. None of them lit up.
He slowly looked back at Marvolo, dawning horror etched across his face. They were the only two people in the building past midnight, and neither of them had their phones.
"Shit!" James cried, evidently having reached the state of mind where he felt comfortable swearing in front of his boss. "Oh my god, oh my god—!"
"Stop," Marvolo said calmly. As usual, he had to be the wiser one in a time of crisis. "Just breathe. Getting nervous will only make things worse—"
"I'm claustrophobic!"
"Shit."
Oh, yes! Harry mentally fist-bumped at that. Now that the main pair were alone, trapped in a confined space, things were sure to escalate. Of course, claustrophobia might get in the way sexy times, but there was a chance that something would happen.
And sure enough, Lord Voldemort did not disappoint.
Marvolo leaned forward, grasping James's perpetually messy locks and pulling his head back.
James's green eyes began to water deliciously, blinking in pain at Marvolo's grasp. But he was stubborn as ever, and he did not utter a word of complaint.
"If we ever contractually engaged in BDSM," Marvolo began softly, "I would have you begging for release for hours on end. I would keep you chained to my bed, using all manner of toys on you until you were sobbing."
Marvolo came closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. He felt the other man shiver as his lips brushed against James's wet cheeks.
"And only after edging you to the brink of your limits would I, being a merciful master, allow you to come."
At that, the fixed elevator finally dinged and conveniently opened. Marvolo unceremoniously let go of James and stalked away without a second glance.
Because if all went according to plan, the younger man would be crawling back to him… preferably, on his knees.
At the very least, with the completed version of last week's overdue report.
Harry slapped a hand against his mouth as he came to the end of the chapter, his eyes wide behind his glasses. His heart rate was elevated, his thoughts scattered in every direction, blown away by Voldemort's incredibly awesome portrayal of sexual tension.
That had to be the hottest thing he'd read in a while. And by 'a while,' Harry meant since he'd started reading fanfiction.
Shit. Fuck.
Harry hadn't thought he liked BDSM. But now? Damn, he was willing to give it a try, thank you very much, Lord Voldemort.
After a few moments, he began to wonder what everyone else had thought about this update. He really wanted to fanboy over everything that had happened, preferably with a whole bunch of Lord Voldemort's rabid fans.
Without a second thought, Harry navigated back to the link R.A.B. had sent him a while ago and clicked on it, relieved that it hadn't expired. While he wasn't sure why he wanted to go back to chatting with them, a part of him wanted to give the Inner Circle another chance… perhaps for Voldemort's sake. And, of course, another part of him was very curious.
But right as he was logged into the server (under his lightning-boi account this time), his built-up exhaustion from the previous day's events seemed to catch up with him.
He closed his laptop and lay still on the bed for a while, soaking in everything that had happened while enjoying the feeling of the soft, satin bed sheets beneath his limbs. A stray rose petal caught between his fingers, and the warm, dim lighting of the hotel room suddenly seemed more appealing than it had earlier.
Harry drifted off to sleep.
. . .
Harry awoke to a violent bang as the hotel door slammed open, hitting the wall behind it.
" Harry, " Riddle snapped, his biting tone making Harry want to curl back into the bedsheets. "Do you know how many times I called you?"
Crap. He'd fallen asleep.
Harry rubbed his eyes sleepily, wincing as the door slammed shut with an almost deafening click. He stretched against the sheets, restraining the urge to yawn. For some reason, he felt that showing hints of humanity in front of the man would only further piss him off.
"No message, no response, nothing, " Riddle continued scathingly as he stalked into the room, his handsome, angry visage coming into view. "I pay you to put my concerns above your own and you can't even respond? "
Harry pursed his lips in annoyance. Well, that was an asshole-ish way of putting it. But also…
Shoot. Messages?
Harry's eyes widened as the last of his sleepiness left him. He began patting his hands across the bed he'd been sprawled upon as he searched for his phone. It was nowhere in sight; it must have fallen under the bed at some point.
He looked back up at Riddle sheepishly. "Sorry, I accidentally dozed off for a bit—"
Riddle's back faced Harry as he took off his coat, opening the closet to hang it. "Of course you did. Usele—"
His boss suddenly fell silent, pausing almost comically in the middle of reaching for a coat hanger.
Harry cringed knowingly.
Riddle must have seen the towels.
The older man closed the closet without hanging his jacket inside. Slowly, he turned towards Harry, finally looking directly at him for the first time since he'd arrived. A series of indecipherable expressions flickered over his face.
"Harry," Riddle began quietly, dangerously. His tone of voice, though far sweeter than before, held a poisonous lilt. "Why are we sharing a bed?"
Harry's fingers curled into the silken bed sheets beneath him in fear.
"Th-they don't have any more rooms," he replied shakily, continuing to maintain eye-contact with Riddle. Then Harry straightened up, speaking more firmly.
"We're both men here," Harry began boldly, "Surely we can survive one night together in a less-than-ideal rooming situation?"
He didn't really like pulling the manhood card, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Riddle straightened up at that, his arms flexing as he pulled his shoulders back. Okay, hot, but completely unnecessary. It wasn't like Harry had questioned his masculinity—
"You're right," Riddle said softly, his tone light and almost delicate in comparison with the rest of him. "We are both men. Surely we can make adjustments. "
Minutes later, one of the four pillows had been chucked onto the floor, along with the thinner blanket.
"Oh come on, " Harry groaned, looking at Riddle in exasperation. "Seriously?" He glanced longingly towards the bed, which he now realized he hadn't truly appreciated until it was gone.
He turned towards Riddle, his mouth opening and ready to argue—only to see the man in the process of stripping his shirt.
Harry stared.
Mother of God.
Riddle was ripped. His chest and lower stomach were more defined than Harry's sense of justice. And, fuck, there was obviously no justice in the world, of course Riddle looked like that.
His shoulders were as broad as they appeared when clothed. But Harry was completely unprepared for the way his back muscles rippled as he worked his shirt up, the way his abs flexed as he stretched his arms above his head.
It lasted barely a second.
It would last forever in his mind.
"Holy— dude—bro —" Once he'd found his voice, Harry couldn't stop spluttering nonsensical, unprofessional titles. Although to his defense, this situation had rapidly become rather unprofessional. "There's a bathroom for a reason— "
Riddle raised his eyebrows at that, his mouth tilting faintly.
"We're both men here, Harry," he replied smoothly, opening the closet to remove both towels from the closet and leaving none for Harry. Jackass. "But since I'm going to shower, I'll spare your pride for now."
Spare his pride?
Hah. Harry rolled his eyes. Thankfully, he was (mostly) secure in his sense of self-worth. He didn't feel (completely) emasculated after seeing his boss half-naked.
If only Riddle had spared his memory. Because that visual was burnt into his mind like a Dark Mark, and the only natural next step was to compare himself to that monster.
Harry looked down at himself, cracking his wrists and flexing his forearm a bit. The only visible thing that moved was a tendon.
He sighed, lying down on his makeshift bed. Years of soccer practice had developed his reflexes, but they'd done absolutely nothing to build him up. And while Harry consistently worked out these days, his naturally slim form—possibly a product of childhood undernourishment—would never come close to a figure like Riddle's.
God, what did the fucker eat? Baby cows for breakfast?
He was hot as fuck—
Harry groaned out loud, throwing a hand over his face and cutting that train of thought before it escalated.
Riddle was the one person he'd sworn off fantasizing about ages ago. Nevermind that Harry had been horribly unsuccessful lately. Of all the days to think about his boss in a sexy manner, today was absolutely not an option.
Hell, he couldn't even jerk off if necessary; the bathroom wasn't very private. The walls were so thin he could hear Riddle moving around in the shower—
Harry resisted banging his head against the wall to clear his mind.
Eventually, he found a way to distract himself. Through fanfiction, of course—giving up one kind of thirstiness for another. Because when Tom Riddle couldn't do it for him, Marvolo Gaunt certainly could.
Harry leaned back against the hard floor, curling into the blankets as he selected a nice, relatively clean work of fanfiction to re-read during these dark times. Oh, yes. One of his favorites: In the Heart of the Sea by KaedeRavensdale. A heartwarming mermaid AU with compelling, unique word-building and a well-developed plot.
He was so absorbed in the story that he barely heard the click of the bathroom door as it unlocked, or heard the soft footsteps of cloth slippers upon carpet until they were too close.
"Reading fanfiction?" Tom asked casually.
"No," Harry lied instinctively, rolling onto his back so that his phone faced away from Riddle.
Seconds later, he was still staring at his phone screen, but his mind was completely blanking out. No, freaking out.
Had Riddle just… addressed the elephant that had been in the room since he'd caught Harry reading Green-Eyed Monster at work all those weeks ago.
No, nope. In fact, what elephant? There was no elephant—
"I'd almost forgotten that you read fanfiction," Riddle murmured, beginning to dry his hair. Wet droplets fell on his face, and Harry wiped his cheeks, glaring up at the older man and trying not to focus on the way his shirt clung to his wet figure.
The next words out of Riddle's mouth made that a lot easier.
"You were reading something by Lord Voldemort last time, yes?"
Harry dropped his phone on his face.
"No," he heard himself say faintly, his phone still blocking his vision. Harry picked it up, his heart rate speeding up as he stared intensely at his black screen. "That's my pseud, remember? I am Lord Voldemort."
Riddle stopped wiping his hair with the heart-patterned towel, narrowing his eyes at him.
In a sudden flash of movement, the older man was kneeling beside him on the floor, gripping Harry's jaw between his fingers. As Riddle harshly tilted Harry's face towards himself, his dark eyes grew ever darker.
"Such lies, " the older man spat, leaning in closer. "Do not lie to me, Harry Potter."
Whether it was a trick of the light or reflection of the room's rosy demeanor, his burgundy irises seemed to flash bright red.
"If you enjoy reading another's work, the least you can do is give due credit."
Give due credit?
And all of a sudden, Harry's lingering irritation from the past few days—hell, the past few weeks—bubbled out him, seemingly from nowhere.
Harry snarled viciously, tearing himself away from Riddle's grasp. "Giving due credit? Since when do you do that?"
He stood up, the blankets falling around him.
"The only thing you give me credit for are mistakes, but what about the countless reports I've done? What about all the angry phone calls I've handled for you?"
"That's your job, idiot," Riddle hissed in turn, standing up as well.
Harry stalked closer to Riddle, his fists clenched at his sides. "What about all the times I've performed just fine despite your tendency to miss telling me anything important?" Just remembering how hassled he'd been at the Sea-Tac airport yesterday made him angry all over again.
He crossed his arms, teeth gritting as he finished. "I do all of this and I don't even receive a word of thanks!"
"You receive a paycheck," Riddle enunciated dryly, stepping even closer so that Harry had to look up. "And I consistently give you raises." His voice grew even dryer. "Interpret that as a sign of my gratitude."
Interpret that as a sign of my gratitude.
God, Harry was about ready to murder this man.
He ran an agitated hand through his hair. He needed to cool down before he said something he regretted later—though he had a feeling he already had…
"I'm going to shower," Harry said abruptly, drawing vicious pleasure from pushing past Riddle, knocking the other man's shoulder away with his own as he walked towards the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
Of course, it was then that he remembered that Riddle had used up both towels.
Opening the bathroom door seconds later, Harry grabbed his key card from the desk and exited the room without another word.
As he made his way down to the first floor, he noticed something odd about the inn. For a place the receptionist had claimed to be completely booked, he didn't bump into a single person. Not even staff.
As he approached the front desk, the tall, dark-haired girl from earlier—Romilda—looked up tiredly from what seemed like a textbook.
"May I help you?" she asked, looking at Harry expectantly.
"Yes. I need an extra towel."
Romilda hummed, leaning down to extract a pink towel from the shelves beneath the desk. As she was handing it to Harry, her arm slipped and knocked over a plastic box of chocolates that had been at the edge of her desk.
The girl sighed before walking around the side of the desk and crouching down to stuff the wrapped chocolates back into the box.
Harry crouched down beside her to help gather them. Up close, Romilda looked a lot younger than he'd originally thought, and if the textbook she had been reading was anything to go by…
"Thanks," she said, smiling at Harry for the first time. She held the box out to him. "Would you like a chocolate?" She rolled her eyes before smirking almost conspiratorially at him. "They're for guests anyways."
"Oh," Harry muttered, hesitating before grabbing a wrapped chocolate from the box. "Er, thanks."
"Of course. Anytime." Romilda shot him a cheerful thumbs up, and wow , her personality had completely flipped from three minutes ago. He would never have guessed her to be the tired student she'd come off as at the beginning.
Harry turned away, unwrapping the chocolate and sliding it into his mouth. Delicious—crispy on the outside, creamy and almost buttery on the inside. It coated his tongue like silk, and it was the sweetest thing he'd had in a while.
He hummed contentedly.
Had he turned back, he might have seen the way Romilda's smirk grew, or heard the way she dissolved into snickers and she continued to speak.
"Nothing like a healthy dose of chocolate Viagra to speed things up . "
Excited murmurs of approval from the rest of the hotel staff echoed down the barren hallways.
. . .
Harry had just gotten into the shower when it began.
The familiar tingle of arousal traveled down his spine, going straight to his cock.
Shit.
Not now.
Harry tried to ignore it—tried to think about how thin the walls were and how his boss was on the other side. Strangely enough, he hadn't had time to jerk off at all lately, with how much Riddle had been after him.
But, really. Now, of all times, he grew unbearably hard?
Harry bit his tongue as another flare of arousal traveled down his spine, wreaking down his whole body. He tensed up, determined to ignore it, clenching his jaw as he reached for the soap.
But then arousal hit him again, as suddenly as it had before. And then his back was arching in response, his ass clenching as he bit back a gasp, hitting his head against the back wall because what the fuck.
It was so intense.
Harry took himself in his hand and began to wank, quickly, routinely. He closed his mind and attempted to think of nothing but the feeling of his hand on his cock, wet skin on wet. Just the right amount of friction.
And thank god, he came rather quickly. Harry leaned his forearms against the back wall of the shower, panting. He'd definitely been quiet enough—
Heat pulsed down his limbs once more, spreading across his flushed body, and he nearly collapsed on himself.
What the fuck?
Harry looked down at himself.
He was hard again. So hard he was visibly throbbing.
Harry let his head bang against the shower wall as he began pumping himself in earnest. God fucking stop getting hard you stupid piece of— uhhhh—
"Harry?" Riddle called from beyond the bathroom walls, no doubt having heard the way Harry's head slammed against the wall a couple of times earlier.
Harry ignored him, intent on finishing before he even spared a thought for the man outside. God, he could kill for a little more privacy right about—
He came, his back arching and hips thrusting into the shower's back wall. His head tilted backwards, the water gushing out of the showerhead was starting to feel rather tepid (what kind of inn, honestly).
And now he had to clean himself again. Harry frowned, staring down at the creamy cum dripping down his upper and inner thighs.
Cracking his wrists after their uncalled-for work-out, he reached for the soap again—
Harry stopped.
He closed his eyes, attempting to control his breathing as relentless heat rippled down his limbs once more. He opened his eyes and watched, almost helplessly, as his cock slowly rose before his eyes.
Why … wasn't… it… going… down?
Harry growled in frustration and set both of his forearms against the back wall once more, losing patience and thrusting his reddened, chafed cock against the wall. The shower tiles were cold and hard enough to kill any hard-on, but even they couldn't kill his.
He continued to drive his hips forward, panting. God, it was hurting so much now, Harry was so sore, but it still felt so— uhhh— good. He hated this, hated—nnghhh— this.
"Harry," Riddle called out, annoyance and impatience clear in his voice. "You've been inside there far too long."
Fuck. Riddle.
Harry's eyes fell shut as something coiled tightly in his stomach. And suddenly, all he could see were Riddle's back muscles rippling as he stripped, the way his jaw clenched when he was angry ungh and how his cheeks hollowed when he pursed those sinful lips—
"C- Coming, " Harry gasped, his voice rough and low and strangled despite all of his attempts to sound casual.
Pure pleasure shot through his limbs, his eyes rolling back as he came again, much more powerfully than before. He slid down the wall, utterly exhausted, cum splattered across his thighs.
Why, Harry wondered dazedly, were his orgasms only getting worse each time?
It wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. The water had turned fully cold, and he was still hard. He was screwed, so so screwed—
"Harry," Riddle growled, "What the hell are you doing?"
He sounded suspicious, and rightfully so.
"C-conditioning, you fucker," Harry retorted, his voice still rough, his teeth chattering because the water was freezing cold. Had he mentioned the fact that he was still nursing a hard-on?
Harry got to his feet again, feeling his back beginning to numb at the pattering pressure of cold water against it.
"What did you just call me?" Riddle uttered menacingly, his voice low and hard and unforgiving.
Harry blinked, feeling water droplets on his eyelashes. What had he called him? His mind was in shambles, his limbs shakier than a colt's.
Oh. Oh.
"Sorry ," Harry replied breathlessly, searching for a way to distract his boss. "I just… er, threw up, " It was a wonder his erection hadn't gone down by this point, "and I really need medicine. Can you please get me some? I'm sorry. I can't leave the bathroom in this state."
Had he been in a better state of mind, he would have been berating himself for begging his boss like that. It wasn't as if Riddle would go anyways; the man was a selfish, self-absorbed prick who only cared about himse—
"I'm leaving," Riddle announced right outside of the bathroom door, his voice louder than before due to his startling proximity. Then, after a pause, "You may take the bed if you're feeling unwell."
Harry's eyes widened at the other man's unprecedented generosity. But before he could–er— thank him, the door had swung open and firmly fallen shut, leaving him alone in the room.
Relief filled him, his body releasing tension he hadn't known he'd been holding.
Cleaning himself off quickly and jumping out of the shower, Harry tugged his clothes and got out of the bathroom. He plugged his phone charger into the lamp and packed his laptop back into his day bag, which he placed right next to his bed. He dragged his suitcase all the way until it was next to the bed.
That way, Harry would be able to reach everything while staying in bed, thus hiding his uncomfortable situation.
Satisfied with his work, he got into bed—damn, the layers. The blanket beneath the silken cover was warm and fuzzy and furry. He sat back against the headboard, running his fingers through the fur before losing interest at the way his own cock seemed to tent against the blanket.
His furry little problem.
Right then, the door clicked open, and Harry quickly slid completely under the sheets, submerging himself up to his neck in the soft, warm blankets.
Riddle walked in, a polythene bag of medicines on one arm. Despite only having gone to the department store, he'd redressed in trousers and a button-up shirt before leaving.
He held out the bag to Harry.
"Take a tablet every night for three days, starting today," Riddle instructed. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, absentmindedly pinching the bridge of his nose. Wow, he was human after all. "The specialist I talked to suspects you may have gotten food poisoning." He raised his eyebrows at Harry. "Either that, or a certain strain of stomach flu."
Harry took it from him, thanking him pleasantly and setting the bag on his bedside table. Huh, Doctor Riddle.
Riddle continued to stare at him.
"What?"
Riddle looked at him expectantly. "Well? Take a tablet."
Harry felt his stomach sink. He hadn't planned on letting the ruse go this far…
"Now? " He rolled his eyes, trying to brush off Riddle's show of concern. "In a bit. I'll swallow it while you're changing." Yes, good plan. He would hide it away while Riddle was in the bathroom—
Riddle began stripping right there and then.
Harry's cock jumped.
He looked away firmly. " Bathroom, Riddle."
"I don't fucking care about your virginal sensibilities right now," Riddle growled, suddenly irritable. "I fetch you medicines late at night and you can't even take them?"
Something guilty twisted in his stomach, but he pushed it down. Harry turned back to him, a remark ready on his tongue—
Only to have it dissipate as Riddle's trousers pooled around his feet, leaving him only in boxers.
Harry's mouth went completely dry.
His heart rate skyrocketed. Somewhere in his chest, a monster awoke, and it was thirsty.
Riddle was sculpted. His creamy thighs were thick and roped with muscle. Fuck, Riddle could choke him with those thighs and Harry would thank him.
He was lean muscle all above, broad and strong shoulders slimming down to narrow hips. But his thick, solid thighs and long legs and just, how huge he was downstairs… uhhh.
Riddle was so solid, so rock-solid, and fuck, Harry was rock- hard now. Painfully hard.
The taller man walked forward to the other side of Harry's bed, still naked, before ripping off the blankets and getting in.
Wait.
"Whoa, " Harry yelped, curling into himself beneath the blankets while keeping a tight grip on them. "You said I could take the bed—"
Sharing was not an option. Harry would go insane—
"Did I?" Riddle asked lightly, his tone of voice growing soft and dulcet. His tone grew scathing rather quickly. "Well, that was before you ungratefully spurned the medicine I brought you."
He reached away towards his bedside table, switching off his lamp's light. "Be glad I am a merciful boss and will gracefully allow you to share the bed with me." With that, he turned away from Harry, tugging a good portion of the blankets with him.
Unfortunately, on a queen bed this small, the line of Riddle's back was mere inches from Harry's shoulder.
Harry tried not to scream.
He gave a small cough.
Briefly, Riddle twisted his head back towards Harry to toss him a glance of derision. "Don't get me sick."
At that, Harry sniffled loudly and exaggeratedly. "Don't come near me then."
He saw the way Riddle's neck muscles tightened as the older man clenched his jaw. "Don't make me. Switch off your lamp and go to sleep." The older man turned away for good, leaving him to stew in his own thoughts.
Harry stared up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep.
Seeing as he was still unbearably hard.