A/N:

tw violence and murder and tom being a little shit

Chapter 7: Second Degree Murder

For the next several days, Tom alternated between spending time with Harry and searching for an appropriate terrarium design. He would require, as Tonks had so eloquently described, a 'gaudy old man' terrarium. Something outdated that he could easily reprogram without outside assistance. Something that no one would question if it happened to malfunction.

There were several different terrarium models that could suit his needs. But what was easiest to customize? What was easiest to code? Programming was not his area of expertise. His knowledge of Hogwarts Online code was limited to what he had taught himself or learned from Barty.

However, Tom was leaps and bounds ahead of any common player, and the Dursleys were commoners through and through. His trap would work if he kept a level head.

At the end of the week, Tom put in a request to extend his contract with Harry. There was no real reason for it—Harry had completed all of the planned work and then some—but Tom convinced Petunia that Harry had inspired him to order new additions to the area.

"They're going to suspect something is going on," Harry said when Tom informed him.

"Let them," Tom replied smoothly. "Tell them I'm interested in purchasing you."

Tonks had delivered good news earlier that morning: Tom was the proud new owner of a rundown duplex in west Hogsmeade. Dirt cheap with plenty of room for a terrarium in the backyard.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm very sure," Tom said. "Let them know and report back to me with their response."

"They're not going to sell," Harry said, a tinge of confusion colouring his voice.

Tom only smiled. "Trust me, Harry. I have a plan. All I need from you is for you to do as I ask."

"Alright." Harry nodded reluctantly. "I can do that."

Tom left Harry to his own devices and departed for the new duplex in Hogsmeade. The building was falling apart, the structure so rotted that a stiff wind would flatten it to the ground. Property access was set to private, but Tom would soon be adding the Dursleys to his guest list.

After making a mental note of his exact coordinates, Tom ejected from Hogwarts and jolted to awareness in Myrtle's apartment. Before Myrtle could attempt to instigate conversation with him, he swapped accounts and reconnected.

Tom reappeared in a spot several meters away from where his other avatar had been standing. As Lord_Voldemort, Tom purchased his chosen terrarium—an older model that veteran players often exploited to generate an unlimited amount of Venomous Tentacula plants—and placed it in the center of the backyard, careful to avoid where his other self had been standing.

The terrarium was large enough for many types of plants, but Tom had a specific idea in mind for this one. If it could house the Venomous Tentacula, it could presumably house another plant in unlimited numbers as well.

Prior to the patch release for the most popular terrarium farming mod, many players had run into issues with their Tentacula farms. Such a massive number of plants clustered in the same area meant auto-interaction menus popped up several dozen times a second, faster than anyone could close them. Several players had been stranded in their own properties for hours, waiting for someone in real life to eject their VR implants.

Most people turned off the automatic menu options, but there were plenty that didn't, and even so, Tom could think of a few plants that were rare enough to bypass that setting. The Tentacula was one of them, but that was far too expensive a plant to be wasted on Harry's pathetic relatives.

Tom would spawn the cheapest plant that fit his requirements and test the results with a third account. Myrtle's help would be required, unfortunately, but that could not be avoided.

Once he was assured that his trap was foolproof, he would move forward with his 'request' to purchase Harry. Harry would let slip a vital piece of information—Tom's possession of Slytherin's Locket—to the Dursleys. Their disgusting greed would handle the rest of the job for him. After all, if Tom was willing to part ways with such a valuable item, who knew how much money he really had?

At the very least, Tom expected them to offer further extensions to Harry's contract. Keep the money coming in a while longer, keep Tom under the impression that they would eventually sell.

While they were occupied with their money-grubbing schemes, Tom would liberate Harry from their clutches for good.

The following day, Harry reported that the Dursleys were willing to discuss selling if Tom extended the contract for another week. The lack of subtlety was almost insulting.

Tom glanced at the number on the digital document that Harry had dutifully transferred to him, then stamped his signature at the bottom. The price was more than three times the cost of the first extension, but that was to be expected. It was, in some ways, a test of his commitment.

If only they knew how committed he was.

"You can't keep spending your money," Harry said distantly as Tom forwarded the payment to Grunnings Gardenworks. "They'll keep asking for more."

"I have something to show you," Tom said, ignoring Harry's comment. He opened his photo gallery and brought up the screenshot he had taken of Slytherin's Locket. "Do you know what this is?"

Harry examined the image. "It's a rare item." Then he looked closer. "A very rare item," he allowed. "But even if you sell that—"

"It isn't just any rare item," Tom corrected. "It is one of a kind, a recent release from the Hogwarts Legacy box. It'll be worth at least a million pounds if I can locate the right buyer."

Harry folded his arms over his chest. "You aren't going to give them a million pounds."

Tom's lips twitched. Harry was wearing the most obstinate expression on his face. It was delightful to witness.

"Perhaps not," Tom said lightly.

"You are not going to spend a million pounds on me," Harry said in a firm tone.

"Trust me," Tom said, just as firmly. "Tell the Dursleys that I have Slytherin's Locket in my possession and would like to schedule a meeting for later this week."

Did Harry truly believe that Tom would spend exorbitant amounts of money simply to keep him around? Did he think Tom was that stupid? Or did he think Tom was so extremely wealthy that he could afford to pay out?

"I'll tell them," Harry said with a faint grimace. Tom suspected he was agreeing because he had no choice. The Dursleys would want to know what Tom had said in response. "Would you prefer phone or video call?"

"Neither. I have purchased a second property that I will be giving you the freedom to landscape. I'd like to walk them through the space and explain my desire to have you on my permanent staff. If they decide not to sell, I shall request a new contract with you."

"There's already a waiting list," Harry said, lips slanting into a frown. "Eventually, it won't matter how much you can offer them. They'll find someone willing to pay more. Or they'll decide it isn't worth offending their other clients." His hands twisted together, a rare display of anxiety. Harry sucked in a slow breath—habitual, human —and shook his head sadly. "You can't keep me forever, Tom."

Tom placed his hand over Harry's restless ones. "I have the invitation prepared. I will forward you the link, which includes details on the time and date." Given the ease with which he had agreed to the costly extension, he was certain they would accept the time slot he offered them. They wouldn't want to offend a wealthy client. "The link will permit two visitors and can only be used once. You will keep them occupied until I arrive."

Harry's expression of dismay and confusion did not clear. He did not understand the lengths that Tom was willing to go to. The lengths Tom had already gone to.

"Do as I say," Tom said gently. "I will give you further instructions when the time comes. I promise you, Harry, by the end of this, you will be free of them."

Harry shook his head again. He glanced down at where Tom's hand covered his brown, calloused ones. "Don't say that."

Something sharp and ugly twisted up inside of him, lodging in his throat. Tom's mouth ran dry, his free hand balling into a fist. Harry did not dare dream of a life by Tom's side because the cruel hand of fate had taught him to expect the worst.

"The only hands that ever touch you will be mine, " Tom said fervently. The idea was immensely satisfying. Harry would live with him. He would trust Tom to take care of him, keep him safe.

For a moment, Harry only stared at him.

Tom's breaths remained slow and measured, the product of years spent exercising restraint while under stress, but his heart pounded loudly in his chest. He was getting carried away. To calm himself, to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing, Tom placed his hands delicately against Harry's shoulders. His palms lay flat against Harry's virtual form, fingers uncurled.

Harry did not pull away, or ask Tom to stop, or exhibit any sign, however faint, of fear. But several other emotions did play across Harry's face, each of them so subtle that if Tom was to blink, he would have missed it. Resignation. Sadness. Guilt. Very soon, Tom would erase all of those terrible feelings and Harry would be happy. Soon, Harry would be free to design an infinite number of gardens, free to smile and laugh without orders to stop him.

"I will never harm you," Tom promised.

Harry pitched forward and wrapped stiff, clumsy arms around Tom's upper torso.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. His voice did not tremble, but his form flickered with static, and Tom felt it was nearly the same thing.

Harry lay his head against Tom's shoulder. Tom pressed a hand to the nape of Harry's neck and let it rest there. There was no warmth in this embrace—with his lack of user status, Harry could not emulate the heat of a human body—but it was pleasant. The knowledge that Harry wanted to embrace him was pleasant.

"I'm grateful that you want to help me," Harry continued in a soft voice, "but please don't do anything else—"

The tender moment shattered like glass.

"Stop that," Tom snapped. "Stop saying those things."

Harry fell silent and pulled away. Tom caught him by the elbow before he could drift very far and fixed him with a severe glare. The hug, Tom thought with no small amount of ire, had been Harry's blundering attempt at manipulation. Perhaps Harry had once widened his bright green eyes at other men, idiotic men who caved to such transparent acts, but Tom was not one of those men. He was doing this for Harry's own good.

"You will not change my mind," Tom said sharply. "You will do as I say. If you ruin my plans, I will be more angry with you than I would be from wasting several thousand pounds on pointless garden architecture."

Harry stared at him, face now devoid of emotion. "I didn't ask for you to do this."

"You didn't," Tom agreed. "But I am."

The night before his meeting with the Dursleys, Tom woke to loud banging on his door. Borgin had come around more often these past few days, asking why Tom was never home. The man was determined to find any reason to harass him.

When the sale of the locket went through later today, Tom would leave. Borgin was the one who preferred under-the-table payments, after all. Tom did not owe him anything. Most of the things in the flat were replaceable. There was nothing worth keeping from this shithole.

"Knock-knock, Riddle," Borgin hissed, voice muffled by the door.

Tom could picture Borgin's hunched, hulking form looming in the darkened hall, the disgusting leer on his sallow face, and the faint stench of alcohol wafting forward with every heavy breath the man took.

Borgin was a waste of oxygen, a gutter rat of the lowest caste. His pitiful attempts at power plays were laughable. He could intimidate Tom all he wanted, but he would never amount to anything other than a schoolyard bully.

"Open up, you little bastard!" Borgin snarled, each word accentuated by a solid bang of his fist on the door. "You might hide from me during the day but I know you come crawling back here every night. I want to talk to you about your rent."

Perhaps that was the cause of the trouble. Perhaps Borgin had realized that Tom was going to leave and this was his attempt to stop that from happening.

Tom withdrew the dagger he kept under his pillow and rolled to his feet. From outside the door, Borgin continued to toss insults through the keyhole. Tom closed his hand like a vice around the handle of his weapon and crept up to the door. The floor was cold under his bare feet.

Borgin beat on the door a third time, his coarse voice grating on Tom's ears.

Tom had dreamt of this moment often. Bludgeoning his landlord to death, blood splattered up and down the hall, the man's balding head broken in like a deflated sports ball. Choking him until the delicate veins in his eyes burst red and his rotten, rancid mouth gasped wetly around pleas for mercy. Gutting him with a knife, diseased organs spilled across the floor, hot blood soaking Tom's hands and shoes.

In this case, however, Tom would settle for efficiency. He undid each lock on his door, swung it open, and slammed his dagger into the man's heart.

Borgin's sour breath expelled in a long, sickening wheeze of surprise. Tom savoured Borgin's wide-eyed fear, every flinch and twitch of the man's face and body as Tom plunged the blade further in, sliding past flesh and muscle until the pristine gleam of sharpened silver was no longer visible.

"Now, now," Tom murmured as he clamped his free hand over Borgin's spluttering mouth, muffling any potential cry of pain, and forced the man to his knees with a quiet thump, "is this how you treat a man who has finally put you in your rightful place?" He punctuated this statement with a vicious twist of his wrist, dragging the serrated edge of his dagger another thirty degrees clockwise.

Borgin sagged towards the ground, a heavy weight that Tom couldn't be bothered to carry. "A shame you couldn't learn some respect," he added, nonchalant, and withdrew his hands.

The body tipped over in degrees, like a weak sack of flour, to sprawl unattractively upon the floor. Tom watched in rapt fascination as the dim light of consciousness died in Borgin's dull, bloodshot eyes.

The threat of Borgin was nothing to him now. Tom had originally moved here because the flat was all he could afford. He had let Borgin live because to draw attention to himself was to court danger.

Now Tom was a man of means, the likes of Borgin would obey or pay the price.

Dispassionately, Tom nudged Borgin's dead body with his foot. What to do with it now? Myrtle would wake in a few hours, enter the hallway, and begin screaming. Did he care about that? The noise would be terrible, surely, but Myrtle hated Borgin almost as much as Tom did, and she had never been particularly righteous in nature. She would be glad their landlord was dead, though perhaps less glad that his body was decaying on her doorstep.

Carefully, Tom wiped the blade of his dagger off on Borgin's shirt. Leaving the corpse here did not matter so long as he cleaned up after himself. Tom retreated to his apartment to sanitize his hands and the murder weapon. Then he changed into trousers and a hooded sweatshirt. He would burn his sleep clothes later.

Next, he dumped all the incriminating evidence into a plastic bag, which he buried at the bottom of his backpack. Then he packed his VR gear, hard drive, and computer on top. Everything fit snugly with room to spare.

Checking the time revealed there were hours to go before his scheduled meeting with the Dursleys. Tom added a bottle of water and a handful of energy bars to his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He was not sorry to be seeing the last of his flat. There was no square meter of this place worth shedding a tear over.

Tom laced up his sturdiest boots. He cleaned Borgin's fingerprints off his front door. He surveyed the apartment one final time in case he had missed anything else.

Nothing else. He was free of it. There was no paperwork to tie him to this apartment, only the word of the half-witted destitutes that lived in this hovel. The police wouldn't care unless someone made it their business to care. The building tenants would enjoy a lovely week of peace before a new brute arrived to take Borgin's place.

Tom exited his flat. He shut and locked the door like usual. He snatched up Borgin's key ring then headed for the lifts. He still had to wipe the security footage before he left the building.

The elevator ride to the bottom floor was slow. Tom's foot tapped impatiently on the ground. When the lift doors opened, Tom entered the empty lobby and went to the security office. There were no guards because Borgin was too cheap to pay for them, but the door to the office was very securely locked. Tom selected the appropriate keys and let himself in.

As expected, the security system was ancient and outdated. Tom connected his computer and wiped out the entire cache of footage, which totaled a month's worth of comings and goings. When the tapes were clear, he shut down the entire system before removing his prints from everything.

Borgin's connections might come for him, but the man was not particularly likeable. No one would bother to seek revenge on Borgin's behalf. Besides, Tom would soon have money to spare. He would discard his father's surname and leave the past behind for good. Shed his old identity and begin a new life with Harry somewhere else.

Tonks and Moody had promised him his money before noon. If the sale fell through, Tom would rent a decent room with his own money until they found a new buyer. If the sale succeeded, then he would make the down payment on a property he had been eyeing.

Tom pulled on his hood and his face mask. He had switched the building's system off, but the footage from the surrounding buildings could still expose him. He would keep his face covered until he hit the nearest train station.

Outside of the building, the streets were mostly deserted. A result of the ungodly hour, most likely. Tom kept his head down and maintained a brisk pace. It was time for him to pay a visit to Number 4, Privet Drive.