Part Six: Harry

After that first night, Harry had sworn that would be the end of it. But the funny thing about thinking of Riddle as a one-night stand was just how… often… it kept happening.

No matter where Harry went, Riddle was always there. In public spaces as well as private ones. Somehow, someway, Riddle would find his way there. They would end up talking—if their heated arguments could even be considered talking—and from talking they would inevitably end up against a wall, snogging as if their lives depended on it.

It did not seem very fair. Then again, none of this had been very fair from the beginning. Harry's bed sheets were getting too used to having Riddle's scent buried in them.

The thing was, Riddle was just as frustrating as he was a good lay. Constantly pushing Harry's buttons, constantly trying to get a rise out of him. It was like he got some sort of sick pleasure from making Harry angry. But then, inexplicably, Riddle would say something completely disarming, something genuine, and leave Harry feeling confused and off balance.

It was a vicious cycle, one that Harry found increasingly difficult to break free from. He could admit that he found Riddle attractive, that their banter was even fun, and that there was some satisfaction to be had from physically wrestling Riddle into bed. But Riddle was the one person that Harry should hate more than anyone else in the world. And yet, here Harry was, tangled up with him in more ways than one.

Since the charity event, Riddle had invited Harry to several more dinners at Grimmauld Place. It was as though he knew that Orion—who reminded Harry painfully of Sirius—was the key to obtaining Harry's agreement.

Harry continued to decline these offers; he knew Riddle was only trying to wear him down. And so they went on with their questionable interactions—Riddle never spoke of his plans for Britain and Harry never asked after them. It was during this period that Harry could pretend, at least some of the time, that Riddle was no longer destined to become Lord Voldemort.

The morning after was the worst. Riddle was an extremely early riser, and he had no problem with opening the curtains wherever they were so he could get dressed. Harry, who had grown accustomed to working late shifts, would roll away from the light and pretend to sleep until Riddle left.

"I'll see you on Saturday for dinner," Riddle said from across the room.

They did not have dinner together. What happened was Harry went to the Leaky for his evening meal like usual, and Riddle inevitably showed up and inserted himself next to Harry. He would order two glasses of single malt whiskey for them, and after Harry spent the first fifteen minutes or so pretending Riddle did not exist, Riddle would say something utterly unbearable that required a response.

Then they would end up at Harry's place, or Riddle's place, or—on one spectacular occasion—in the alley opposite the Leaky, and they would have mad, frenzied sex that always left Harry exhausted and slightly pissed off.

"I'll see you on Saturday," Riddle repeated.

"Go away," Harry said as loudly as he could.

"Not an option." Riddle leaned over and kissed Harry on the cheek, his lips lingering a little longer than they should have. Harry let out a frustrated noise and rolled over to watch Riddle leave the room.

Only Riddle did not leave. He was still pulling on his trousers.

Unfair, Harry thought for the umpteenth time, though he was pleased to note that Riddle's gait seemed at least a little unsteady after their midnight romp.

"Saturday," Riddle said, once his clothes were in the right place and he no longer looked like the indecent scoundrel Harry knew him to be.

Harry gave Riddle the finger, and Riddle left.

Saturday night, Harry went to the Leaky for supper only to find Riddle was not there. The Leaky was very busy tonight; busier than usual, even. Harry supposed that Riddle might be somewhere in here, lurking about, or perhaps flirting with some high-brow witch or wizard he'd noticed on his way in.

Harry settled at his usual booth and waited fifteen minutes for an available waitress to take his simple order for some fish and chips.

More minutes ticked by, but Riddle did not show up.

Harry grew irrationally irritated. Though he himself had been the one to deny any dinner plans, he had begun looking forward to their Saturday night altercations, if only because it was a great way to unwind after a long week of dealing with troublesome customers.

Riddle didn't mind if Harry was a bit rough, and Harry didn't mind having a bit of that in return. There was danger whenever they clashed, a rush of adrenaline that Harry could not get anywhere else, not even if he went looking for one-night stands in Knockturn. Riddle was singular—both in his affect on Harry's life and his maddening personality.

After an hour had passed with no sign of Riddle, Harry paid his bill and left the pub, feeling more than a little put out. He told himself that it wasn't a big deal, that he would see Riddle next Saturday and they could resume their little dance. But as he walked home, Harry couldn't help but feel as though he'd been stood up.

Harry shoved open his front door to find a letter waiting from him on his rug. It had been sent through the Floo, judging by the mess of soot surrounding it. Harry vanished the mess and held the letter up gingerly. It was from Riddle, who had known Harry would not be home to receive an owl and sent a missive this way instead.

Still bad-tempered from earlier, Harry threw the letter onto his coffee table and went to the bathroom for a shower. Once he was clean and towelled off, he stepped back into his sitting room to regard Riddle's letter. The envelope was a little lumpy, and when Harry picked it up, the contents slid around, making noise.

Deciding it was best to get it over with, Harry pried open the envelope and dumped the contents into his hand. A folded piece of parchment and a handful of buttons. Shirt buttons, specifically; ones that had to have come from Riddle's collection of perpetually unbuttoned shirts.

Harry barely had time to be annoyed with Riddle's shamelessness before a horrific jerk at his navel sent him tumbling through the nothingness of portkey travel.

As soon as Harry landed in an ungainly heap upon the floor, he knew where he was. Number 12 Grimmauld Place, right next to the stupid troll's foot used to prop open the front door.

His ears registered the loud, obnoxious noises of laughter from the next room over, and then someone was hauling him to his feet.

"Harry!" exclaimed Orion, clapping Harry on the back. "You made it. Oops, watch those buttons! Don't want to slip."

Harry was still damp from the shower and dressed only in a pair of sweatpants he'd transfigured for himself after being unable to find anything suitable in Muggle London.

"I'm going to kill him," Harry said savagely.

Orion laughed as though Harry was the funniest person alive. It was then that Harry got a good look at him and realized Orion was not at all sober.

"Well, come on then," Orion said cheerfully, tugging on Harry's arm. "He's in the next room."

Harry let himself be pulled along until Orion released him. He staggered a few steps before catching his balance and looked around.

The room was full of people in various stages of inebriation. There were tables piled high with food and drink, and the atmosphere was one of revelry. In the center of the room, seated on a large, luxurious couch, was Riddle.

The buttons of his shirt were indeed missing, leaving his undershirt exposed. He was surrounded by a group of admirers, all men, and he was laughing uproariously at something someone had just said. When his eyes caught sight of Harry, they lit up.

"Ah, there he is!" Riddle exclaimed, getting to his feet. He pushed past his admirers and came to stand in front of Harry. "I was just telling everyone you would be here soon."

Harry shoved at Riddle's shoulder. "You sent an unauthorized portkey to my flat," he hissed. "I don't want to be here."

"Oh, come now, Harry," Riddle said, putting on an injured expression. He sidled close again and trailed a hand down Harry's bare chest, which Harry slapped away. "You're our guest of honour! We wouldn't want to upset Orion by refusing his generous hospitality."

"Are you drunk?" Harry asked dubiously. "Is that what this is?" He shook his head. "You know what—it doesn't matter. I'm going. Have a good night, Riddle."

Riddle caught him by the arm and tugged him back. The joviality was gone, replaced by an earnest pensiveness. "Please," Riddle said. "Stay. I'm sorry I missed you at dinner tonight, but—"

"But you had places to be," Harry said flatly, tossing a glance at Riddle's gathered companions. "I can see that, thanks."

"Tom bet all his shirt buttons that he could get you to show up," Avery slurred. Then he raised his brows at Harry's nude torso and added, "Maybe he thinks you need them!" He dissolved into laughter, falling back against the couch.

"He doesn't mean that," Riddle said. He looked contrite, and his grip on Harry's arm loosened. "I just wanted to see you, that's all. Please, stay for a drink."

Harry looked at him for a long moment. Was Riddle drunk? His eyes were imploring, and his mouth was set in a pleading line. It made him look vulnerable, which was the last word anyone would use to describe Tom Riddle.

"It's just a party," Riddle said softly. "No politics."

"Fine," Harry snapped. Despite everything that had happened, Riddle had yet to lie to him. Maybe Harry could get a good lay out of this after all. He sat down on the couch, and Riddle settled beside him, a little too close for comfort.

The conversation picked back up again, and much to Harry's relief, he was left out of it. Riddle's hand settled on his knee, however, and remained there despite Harry's attempts to shift it off.

The evening unravelled much the same way the charity gala had gone. Riddle charmed and teased his way through the group, and was no stranger to a light touch or flirtatious smile when he felt it was warranted. Harry's nerves, already strung tight, wound tighter with each passing interaction. He did his best to keep to himself, but as the night wore on, he was less and less successful.

By the end of the evening, Harry was exhausted and agitated, and nothing Riddle did was making him feel any better.

"I think I'm going to go," he announced, rising unsteadily to his feet. There was nothing to be gained from being Riddle's lapdog.

Riddle's brow furrowed at Harry's proclamation. "What? Why?"

"I have to get up early tomorrow," he muttered. It was only half a lie. Harry left for the hallway and was unsurprised when Riddle followed him out the door and onto the street.

"I'll go with you," Riddle offered.

"And miss out on your party?" Harry laughed. "I think Mulciber might actually cry if you left."

Riddle frowned. "I thought you'd prefer to be left out of the conversation. If I was mistaken—"

"I don't want to be here," Harry said, enunciating each word. "I shouldn't have stayed to begin with."

"If you'd come on a different night," Riddle said in a placating tone, "they aren't always like this."

"Drunk off their arses?" Harry retorted, folding his arms over his chest.

"We have quieter evenings," Riddle finished with a faint smile. "It's important for them to get away from their responsibilities from time to time, and Orion wanted you to come."

"Fuck off with what Orion wants," Harry snapped. "I know you're only using him to get to me."

Riddle's eyes darkened. "So what if I am? You're so stubborn, Harry, it seems the only way I can get you to talk to me is if I plot for hours on how to trick you into it."

"Yeah, well, maybe there's a reason for that," Harry bit back. This was not a new argument between them, but there was a bitterness in the back of his throat that had never been there before. "I mean, look at you."

Riddle's lip curled. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"This is an act," Harry accused. "This is all an act! From your fucking coiffed hair to your stupid open shirt. You'd flirt with anyone who could give you an advantage. It's all just a game to you."

There was a brief pause, and then Riddle smiled. "You're jealous," he said, and he sounded pleased.

Harry felt his face contort in outrage. "I'm not jealous! You are just—impossible," he seethed. "I don't want to be here and I don't want to see you."

Riddle was grinning now, a laugh bubbling past his lips as he took Harry by the hand and pulled him back. "Don't be upset with me, Harry." His fingers brushed at Harry's tangled hair. "You are correct," he added. "I flirt with them for their wealth, their political power. So there's really no reason to cause such a fuss."

"I'm not causing a fuss," Harry bit out angrily. He tried to pull away but Riddle held him fast. "Let me go, you bastard!"

"I don't care about them," Riddle continued earnestly. "You're different than they are. I don't want you for your money."

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. "Well, what a fucking relief that is."

"You don't understand," Riddle insisted, and he looked serious. "All that I do, every choice I make, is for the future. But with you, I don't have to think about that. At least, not in the same way."

"Then what do you want?" Harry demanded. "What could you possibly want from me? You keep trying to recruit me." His face felt hot, anger still coursing through his veins. He would not give in this time. He would hold his ground until he got the answers he wanted. "Don't say it's because I duel well, either. There are plenty of duelists out there."

"I want you," Riddle replied. He ran his hands over Harry's shoulders and pressed him close. "I want you, Harry."

Harry stared at him. "Then it's the Parseltongue—"

"A bonus, I admit," Riddle interjected. "And I would greatly enjoy the secrets behind that particular talent, someday, if you would be so kind as to indulge me. But no, that is not why I want you." His hand traced Harry's jawline, tilting Harry's chin up so their gazes met. "Simply put, you have fire in your eyes."

"I have—what?" Harry spluttered.

"When I met you in that bar," Riddle said, "you held your ground against me. When we duelled, you continued to do so. You are at war with your instincts, Harry—but your instincts are exceptional. When you give in to them, wholly and truly, you will be a force to be reckoned with." His eyes gleamed, predatory. "And I would love nothing more than to see you flourish."

Harry stared at him, at a loss for words.

"I have plans to travel the world," Riddle continued, his voice pitched low. "To explore magic which only exists in rumours and stories." He ran his hand up and down Harry's back, tracing the line of his spine. "The favours I've obtained, the connections I've made, they will ease my way. But that isn't all I want."

"What, then?" Harry asked, though he felt he knew what was coming.

Riddle smiled, and his gaze was intent and hypnotic as it roamed Harry's face. "I want to see you by my side as I do so. I want to duel with you and study with you, and I want to fuck you in every city we visit."

Harry swallowed. "And if I refuse?"

"I would go alone," Riddle replied quietly. "But I would prefer it if you came with me. In fact, it would please me greatly." And then his hand touched Harry's cheek, a fleeting touch that made Harry's heart twist. A gesture that said more than Riddle's words had.

Harry's breath held. He could stay here, in England, and continue on with his mundane job. Or he could go with Riddle and experience things he had only ever dreamed of. The life he never thought he would get to have.

Riddle dipped his head so that their lips were nearly touching. "So what do you say, Harry? Will you give in to your instinct to be with me?"

Harry knew what had happened when Riddle originally travelled abroad. He knew there were oceans between them, that Riddle would never be satisfied with mediocrity and he certainly would not be satisfied with working at Borgin's for the rest of his life.

But he could also feel Riddle's breath on his lips, and he knew what his answer would be. In this world, one with no diary and no locket and no cup, he could take the risk.

He could follow his instincts.

"Yes," Harry whispered. "I'll go with you."

Riddle's smile was triumphant as he leaned in to kiss Harry, a promise of things to come, and Harry let himself be swept away.

After all, he had already dedicated years of his life to stopping Lord Voldemort. What were a few more?

.

END.

A/N:

i could see one future chapter after this for an epilogue. i don't know how long it will be before that is written out, or if it will happen for sure, so for now the story is considered complete!

i like to think this ending is realistic without being too out-of-character. this tom is not the exact same one from canon, and while they won't have the healthiest relationship in the world, i think they can make it work in their own weird way. there's always room for things to go off the rails in the future.

thank you all for reading along, this was a very fun story to write out and i'm happy it had such a great reception 🌹🌹🌹 i'd love to know what you think, or even anything you personally imagine for their future together.