Harry Potter is… an oddity.
A beautiful thing, to be sure, dressed in the most expensive of robes, the softest of silks, but an oddity nonetheless.
The heir to both the Potter and the Black families, as well as the Peverell, he is one of the most powerful people in the room. The most captivating, too, as far as Tom is concerned.
The boy had stayed well hidden in Hogwarts, dodging the public eye, but now, freshly graduated and making his first official appearance…
All eyes are upon him.
He's a recluse. An unknown.
...A half-blood.
A powerful one, at that, but a halfblood all the same.
Just like Tom.
He tracks the boy's movements as he slips through the crowd (and really, could the Potter genes be any more obvious?), occasionally stopped by passerby for a chat or fleeting touch or quick word. First a redhead (a Weasley, most likely) and a bushy-haired young woman (Granger, he thinks, that Mudblood thorn in his side), and then a blonde haired woman that seems entirely unaware of the already drunk couples flailing perilously close to her.
He doesn't seem to notice any of the eyes on him. Doesn't seem to notice Tom's intense, fiery gaze burning holes into the side of his face, his eyes the same color as the glass of blood-red wine he mulls, heady and sweet and with that slight tang of bitterness, over his tongue.
Before long the boy is stopped before Robards, head of the Auror Department, and then an unknown and unnamed Unspeakable, and then, finally, by some divine stroke of luck, the Minister himself.
Tom's eyes narrow in thinly veiled pleasure. What a wonderful opportunity to introduce himself.
He could use one more powerful, pretty thing to further his ambitions. To satisfy this vicious, provocative itching in his chest.
He can think of no better birthday gift than allowing himself this pleasure.
When he comes upon them, the Potter boy looks about ready to tear straight through the Anti-Apparition wards.
Tom would say he pities him, but really, he'd be lying if he said it didn't please him to be granted such a perfect entrance.
"Cornelius," he says, careful to add a certain warmth to his voice. Two pairs of eyes turn to him, and Tom secretly preens at the slight dilating of the Potter heir's pupils at the sight of him. The parting of those cherry-red lips, the clicking of his throat as he swallows.
"Tom! I was wondering when I'd see you," Fudge says, cheerful, gesturing him forward with his free hand, the other holding a champagne flute. Tom smoothly steps into the conversation, just a tad too close to the Potter boy to be acceptable.
He glances over, and their eyes lock; Tom is immediately struck by green, green, killing curse green.
The eyes are like a beacon in his face. The boy is pale, more porcelain than skin, and his robes fit him well––sleek and black and tailor-made as they are. The contrast adds something haunting to him, make him seem more vision than man, even as his round spectacles give him an air of innocence that Tom finds himself coveting. Craving to ruin with his own hand.
The boy looks up at him, facing him fully, neck straining with how close they are. The boy's trademark, wild black hair barely reaches his chin, and Tom feels something hot flutter in his chest at the clear height difference. He could bend this boy in every position that strikes his fancy, could pick him up and fling him on the first surface he finds.
And why shouldn't he?
"And who might you be?" Tom asks, voice low and smooth even to his own ears. A shiver goes down the Potter heir's spine at the tone of it, his eyes going half-lidded. Tom wonders if he knows what a vision he makes, his attraction so blatantly obvious on his face.
"Harry Potter," he breathes, and Tom already knows that, knows what there is to know about the pretty little thing before him, but to hear the sheer yearning in his voice is a euphoria Tom didn't know he needed.
A small smirk slants Tom's mouth. He reaches down with gentle fingers, taking the boy's hand in his as he brings it to his lips. The boy's––Harry's––eyes widen slightly as Tom presses a soft, barely there kiss to his knuckles. Tom breathes over them a moment longer, his voice barely a note on the breeze as he whispers, "Tom Riddle. A pleasure."
The boy's eyes flutter half-shut, dazed and dizzy with Tom's attention. "It is."
Tom holds his gaze, and it's strange, he thinks, how the simmering emotion in Harry's eyes makes his heart beat louder in his ears, the heavy rhythm of one, two, three––
"I had wondered if you two had been acquainted," Fudge booms suddenly, blissfully unaware of the heat blistering just a step away from him.
Harry jumps, head whipping around to look at their forgotten conversation partner. His face flushes a pretty red in seconds, and Tom wants to see if it extends all the way down to his chest, pink and soft as it brushes tight nipples, and Tom wants to follow it with his tongue, wants to trace it with his teeth––
Tom drags his eyes away, forcing the bubbling irritation down at the interruption. "I hadn't had the opportunity. A thank you is in order, for such a gift." The meaningless praise falls from his lips without a thought, the words dripping, empty and worthless, from his tongue.
Fudge chuckles, his hands tugging on the lapels of his formal robes. They're an ugly, horribly ostentatious green tweed; as insufferable as the rest of the man. He reminds Tom of a rather less ambitious Slughorn. Despicable.
"It's no problem––I fear that Harry would prefer a handsome man such as yourself to talking to his Minister, yes…"
But, it seems, just as boastful. Just as unworthy.
Tom smiles blandly, careful to relax his shoulders. As if Tom is inconsequential. He is the Senior Undersecretary, the unsung leader of the government, and everyone is aware that he is the puppetmaster. Everyone but Fudge, it seems, the weak-minded fool.
No matter, an inner voice soothes, With time, you will take his place.
But it isn't enough, something in him argues, not when he says it in such away, says it so flippantly, says 'his Minister,' Potter's Minister, as if it's supposed to mean something––
Who is he to lay such a claim on himself?
Tom can taste the bloodlust in the back of his throat, a quick replacement for his carnal lust just moments ago.
He swallows it down nonetheless, his smile stubborn and smooth on his face. He laughs lightly as he says, "I am sure you must be mistaken. Isn't that right, Lord Potter?"
Harry had still been watching Tom, but quickly looks away at the sudden acknowledgement. "O-Of course. Your presence is always a pleasure, Minister."
Fudge preens under the praise, and Tom has to steadfastly ignore his impulse to sneer at his superior.
Though not in actual content, he thinks. Certainly not in the eyes of Lord Potter.
"Well, I'll leave you boys to it––I do believe I see Madame Umbridge next to the Carrows. It was excellent talking to you," Fudge says, his voice trailing off as he wanders over to that absolute toad of a woman.
Tom looks back at his companion, and sees that he seems to agree, however unconsciously, with Tom's thoughts if the grimace on his face is anything to go by.
"Not a fan of Madame Umbridge, Lord Potter?"
The boy blinks up at him, his pretty green eyes big and brimming with a myriad of emotions, like a whirlwind of colors, like a mosaic. Like an ocean, pulling Tom beneath its tides. Tom just barely restrains the urge to dip into his mind, if only to see what he sees. It would not do to scare him away, should he have some sort of shield lurking beneath those emerald waves.
Harry looks away, lips just barely parting to form the words, "Not exactly," his fingers rubbing over his left hand, as if soothing some sort of phantom pain. Tom's eyes spark with interest.
And what secret lies there?
The conversation dies, a slightly uncomfortable silence between them, charged with something Tom can't put his finger on. They watch the other partygoers, and it's only when the boy has just taken the last sip of his champagne that they are summoned to dinner. Summoned to the main event of the gala, though perhaps not Tom's night.
The boy peers up at him from the corner of his eyes. "I hope to see you again, Mr. Riddle," he says, quiet and just the slightest bit rushed, before he enters the throng of the other dinner guests.
Tom traces his path through the crowd, drinking sparingly from his champagne as the boy joins a group of redheads, a few blondes and brunettes sprinkled in.
Harry glances back only once, and his cheeks color slightly when he realizes Tom is still watching him.
Tom grins, tipping his glass in a toast, and the boy hurriedly turns away, caught.
Tom feels a bubble of pleasure in his chest. That blush is only a hint of what Tom hopes to induce in him tonight.
Tom taps his fingers, one by one, a hypnotising rhythm on the white tablecloth. The ministry officials' table is placed directly behind the other smaller, circular place settings; the perfect vantage point for viewing the stage, as well as the other party-goers. There would be few speakers, tonight––only a quick speech for the New Year by Fudge, and then dinner.
He briefly wonders if the Minister will wish him a public happy birthday, but quickly brushes the thought aside. Tom would outshine him in every possible way should he be brought forward, and even if Fudge was vain enough to believe that he wouldn't, Umbridge certainly is not.
No matter. Tom has something better in mind for his birthday celebration.
He sips from his water glass. He needs his wits about him tonight, if he wishes to get what he wants. The wine was only to ease the way.
The ministry table is empty, his other unworthy colleagues yet to arrive; it's for the better, as far as Tom is concerned.
There's no one there to notice his singular focus on one head of unruly black hair.
Tom knows that the Ministry arranges name tags by family and typical associations, as well as station (and, to a lesser degree, blood purity), so it is then of slight surprise that Lord Potter is forced to sit with the Malfoys.
It takes a moment, but then realization dawns. After all, the boy is related to the Malfoy matriarch through Sirius Black. The man himself isn't in attendance––Tom is sure he would've heard Lucius's endless complaints, otherwise. And Bella... well, she is already occupied with far more important matters. A good thing, too; Tom doubts she would be able to watch quietly as Tom gives someone else what she so clearly craves for herself.
Tom looks at them, the odd amalgamation of platinum blonde and raven-wing black, taking in the obvious discomfort of dear Lord Potter as he steadfastly looks out the window, the hungry glint in the Malfoy heir's eyes, and finds that it is unacceptable. Hadn't he heard tell of them being childhood nemeses? He will not watch someone else make Lord Potter squirm.
Tom looks down at the long, rectangular table the top government officials will soon be seated at, and feels an idea ignite in his head.
Careful to be discreet, Tom's fingers twitch under the table, and he feels the cold threads of a Disillusionment charm settle over his side of the place settings. Then, with a faint, near-silent pop, he vanishes the chair to his left. Umbridge's chair.
He disables the charm, leans back in his seat, and waits.
"Tom," a sweet, overly saccharine voice greets. Tom looks up at Umbridge, her robes a truly hideous shade of pink, before smiling, even as he does his best to keep his eyes averted from that abomination she calls fashion.
"Madame Umbridge," he says, voice low, just barely on the knife-edge of disrespectful.
She smiles, wide and toad-like, her eyes too wide, her cheeks too strained. Vicious, and just as ugly as the inside of her. "I fear we're short one seat. Isn't that right, Cornelius?"
She turns, and Tom glances past her to see Fudge strutting over, pompousness oozing from every pore. He looks over at his name, and his face goes slightly blank in surprise as he realizes, indeed, that there is one seat missing.
"Hm? Oh, yes, it does seem so. Blasted house-elves, can't even count––"
Umbridge turns back to Tom, eyes gleaming, mouth twisted into some approximation of what she must think is an apologetic smile. "You wouldn't mind moving too terribly, would you, Tom? It's just that Cornelius and I have so much to discuss…"
Fudge frowns, just the slightest downturn of lips. "Now, Delores, I really don't think that's necessary––"
But Tom waves him off, already standing, the picture of the obedient assistant, of altruistic pet. No matter that he's the Senior Undersecretary, instead of this vile woman. No matter that he could break her neck with a snap of his fingers. "It's no trouble, truly. What sort of man would I be, not to offer my seat to an old woman?"
Umbridge's expression sours at the words, but Cornelius only laughs, hearty and full. "Tom, a perfect gentleman, as always! You put us old men to shame, you do."
Tom grins, blinding and sharp. Of course he does. To think he wouldn't; he's the most powerful wizard to walk the earth, the most intelligent person in this room, and to think otherwise means treason, to think otherwise means death––
"I fear I could never, sir," he says, and without more than a farewell, he slips away. Slips over to his true target for tonight.
"Lucius, old friend."
A head of sleek blonde hair turns, platinum strands glinting in the low light, and Tom watches as a certain blankness settles over the other man's face.
Good. It would never do for one of his best men to let their guard down around a predator.
In the corner of his eye, Tom sees Harry whip around at the sound of his voice. He smothers the urge to preen, smothers the burning sensation of green eyes in the side of his skull.
"...Tom." He can almost hear the quiet my lord hidden underneath. "I had feared I wouldn't see you tonight. Please, what can I do for you?" Lucius's voice is steady, his blue-grey eyes focused on some point over Tom's shoulder. There's a hint of warmth to his voice, of congeniality, but Tom can hear the faint notes of apprehension, too. It is not often that Tom approaches Lucius in settings such as this, where anyone can see.
Tom pastes on his best smile. "It wouldn't bother you terribly if I sat over here, would it? I fear we are short a place setting at the Ministry's table and it seems you have an extra."
Lucius's wife––Narcissa, Tom recalls––answers before Lucius has the chance to open his mouth. "Of course, Mr. Riddle. It would be an honor."
Tom watches with an absent sort of interest as she and Lucius share a look, their son watching on with a faint air of displeasure.
"Yes, Tom. Join us, please," Lucius finally murmurs, gesturing with a dismissive hand to the seat next to Lord Potter.
And Tom finally looks at his prize.
Lord Potter is watching with wide eyes, his eyes flitting from his unfortunate table companions to Tom himself, then back again. That just won't do.
Tom, in a move that is an uncanny mirror of his actions just a half hour previous, leans down, gently plucking Harry's hand from the soft, white cotton of the table. He ghosts a kiss over his knuckles, listening intently for the stuttering of the other man's breath, the pounding of his heart, and then flips his hand to press a kiss to his palm, his fingertips.
"Lord Potter, we meet again," he murmurs, voice husky and low, and Harry absolutely shivers at the sound.
"Y-yes," the boy stutters, sighs, the sound punched out of him as if by a blow, rather than a kiss. "I had not expected to see you so soon."
Tom grins against his hand, before releasing it, slow. "Fate looks kindly upon us tonight, it seems."
The boy nods, enraptured, gently cradling his hand to his chest, as if by instinct. He doesn't even seem to realize he's doing it; just a thoughtless reaction to worship such as that.
A cough sounds from the other side of the table, and Harry blushes fiercely, resolutely looking away from their forgotten companions. From Tom himself.
Tom watches him a moment longer. What is it about this boy that makes him feel as if they are the only two in the world?
He drags his gaze away, heavy with intent, before turning his attention to Lucius and the Malfoys once more.
Lucius's face is set in stone, his wife's covered in only a bland, carefully blank smile. It's the son, though, that really draws Tom's attention.
It seems that he has yet to master the art of the mask, because he wears his absolute loathing at the slow falling taking place directly in front of him on his face, in full view, with no regard for societal politeness or empty subservience.
The Malfoy heir meets his gaze, then, and freezes. Tom's eyes bore into his, dark and dangerous and heavy. He's mine, he thinks. You're pathetic, and he's perfect, and he's mine.
And perhaps the boy does have a shred of self-preservation after all, because he pulls the corners of his mouth up into some approximation of a smile. "Yes," he says, and maybe it's just the sudden atmosphere of cold fury or the silent pleading of his parents that makes him continue, "A pleasure to have you, sir."
Tom inclines his head. Acceptable, it says. "Thank you, Lucius, Narcissa… Draco. I shall remember your kindness, tonight."
It's a threat and a promise.
With that, Tom finally takes his place beside the Potter heir, a little too close to be appropriate. An empty seat separates Tom from the Malfoy matriarch. Bellatrix's, Tom assumes.
"I do apologize for my sister's absence, Mr. Riddle. She was… otherwise occupied," Narcissa says, following his gaze.
Tom knows. It was he who sent her to find and capture the Longbottoms just hours prior, after all. "It's of no consequence. Tell her I hope to see her soon."
Narcissa inclines her head, acknowledging the order hiding underneath his words. "I will."
The Malfoys lapse into silence, and then Narcissa asks her son about Hogwarts matters, and Tom accepts the distraction for what it is. He turns to Lord Potter, only to find the boy already watching him. Harry doesn't look away when he's caught, this time, just meets Tom's burgundy eyes with his sizzling green.
They don't speak, just watch as the other watches them, a moment for Tom to envision all the things he wishes to do to this man tonight. A moment to visualize the heat building between them.
"I have heard about you," Harry blurts out suddenly, quietly. Tom looks on, a faint amusement building within him.
"Oh?"
Harry swallows, looking down as he plays with the cuffs of his dress robes. "Yes. The youngest Senior Undersecretary in the history of the Ministry."
Tom pushes down his disappointment. For a moment, he'd thought––
And then the boy looks up, eyes blazing as he says, "And one of the most dangerous men in the room."
The disappointment leaves him in a rush, replaced with the fierce urge to absolutely consume the treasure before him. To hide it away, where it is only his. Where he will only know Tom's touch.
Tom leans in closer, watching in fascination as the other man's face cants up to follow the movement, to copy the slight motion of his head. He can feel the man's breath, warm and sweet, on his chin, a heady tease.
"And if I said yes, Lord Potter?" he murmurs, lips a few scant inches away from that plush, rosebud mouth. His eyes fall half-lidded, eyes heavy with indecent intent. "Are you afraid of a little danger?"
The boy's eyes watch his lips avidly, his tongue darting out to wet his own, and Tom follows the movement with a singular focus before his eyes flit back up to meet Harry's. The boy's hand creeps onto his shoulder, steadying himself as his fingers clench in the fine fabric.
His eyes look back and forth over Tom's face before he breathes, "I have never been afraid of a little danger, Mr. Riddle," and as if that isn't enough to make Tom want to ruin him right there, it's nothing compared to when he whispers, "And you don't strike me as a little of anything."
Tom can hear his blood roaring in his ears, can feel the urge to dig his nails into the soft, pale skin, to mark that beautiful little body, to claim those hands, that hole, that mouth––
But he only smirks. Leans back, an arm carelessly draped across the back of his companion's. Ignoring the Malfoys and their fierce determination to remain oblivious to what is happening right in front of them.
He looks at the boy, watches the hypnotized look on his face, and grins, a promise. "I swear to you, Lord Potter, that I will never give you just a little of anything."
And Tom looks to the stage, where Fudge's speech begins.
The speech is a quiet affair, filled only with Fudge's endless drivel and the scorching heat of Lord Potter at Tom's side, the heady weight of his gaze on Tom's face every few moments.
Dinner, too, is uneventful––up until the lights dim further, and an orchestra comes out onstage. The couples leave for the dance floor, others to find friends, and still others, those lonely hearts seeking to find a companion for the night and into the morning.
Dinner and a show.
And what a show Mr. Potter makes.
It isn't long after dessert is served and the Malfoys leave that Tom casts a Notice-Me-Not on their table, choosing instead to savor the delicious little thing seated next to him. To touch and tease and enjoy.
"Tell me, Lord Potter––"
"Harry," the boy says, and normally Tom would abhor an interruption such as that, but his eyes glimmer with such an earnestness that Tom can't help but find it endlessly endearing. "Please, I–I'd like it if you called me Harry."
Tom resists the urge to smirk. It's all just so easy, isn't it?
Tom leans in close, an echo of their before-dinner affair, his hand sliding onto the edge of the other man's chair. "Harry. Of course. Tell me, out of… professional curiosity… have you ever experienced the pleasure of a man?"
Harry shivers, desperately attempting to conceal his hopeless attraction. It's almost cute, Tom thinks.
"No," he breathes, soft and barely there in the din of the auditorium.
Tom smiles, sharklike, against the boy's ear. He breathes steadily over the shell of it as he whispers, quiet and sinful, his hand slipping onto the boy's thigh, "Have you ever experienced pleasure from another's hands at all?"
"No," he whimpers, puddy in Tom's hands.
Tom grins. Perfection.
He rubs back and forth, up and down the boy's thigh, his other hand playing with the material at the boy's shoulder from where it is draped around his chair. Tom watches in fascination as the boy struggles to keep his eyes open under the onslaught, barely holding back the keen he obviously wants to let out for everyone to hear.
Tom bites lightly at his earlobe, his white teeth a sharp contrast to the soft flesh. "You spoil me, my sweet."
And the boy, ever contrary, turns to look at Tom, that beautiful defiance burning in his acidic eyes. "I haven't promised anything. And even if I did, who's to say that you are worthy of such a gift?" he teases, flirtatious and light. And then, in a bold move, he presses the entirety of his thigh up against Tom's, rubbing it lightly.
Tom feels a hot surge of possessiveness rise up within him. Oh, the absolute beauty of this boy.
"I assure you, darling, I will exceed any and all expectations you may have."
Harry laughs, breathy, the sound swiftly turning into a low, near-silent moan as Tom's fingers gently tease the crease of his thigh. Tom's head dips down, smiling against the pale column of the boy's neck.
"Tom––Tom––"
"Yes, sweetheart?" he asks, nipping lightly at the boy's throat.
Harry gasps, and Tom wishes with a sudden fervency that he could bottle the sound, could trap it in his chest, play it over and over again until it becomes a part of him.
"Tom, my friends––I need to––to––" he moans, high and pleading, "I need to go––"
Tom pauses, just a moment, before pulling away slightly, staring into the other man's eyes, that devilish smirk of his still in place. "You could…"
And he leans in, humming in his ear, "Or you could come home… and spend the night with me."
The boy suddenly freezes. And oh, shouldn't Tom have seen this coming? He's untouched, hesitant. Tom restrains himself from running his hands all over him, rubbing some pliancy into those limbs. Not so eager to lose himself, after all.
The boy's breathing is heavy, anxious, as if scared to know how Tom will react. How many times has he turned down someone's advances? How many times has he denied the hands running all over him?
The thought makes fury simmer in his veins.
Still... the boy seems simultaneously excited, like he's never had the opportunity to experience this sort of bliss. So, so quiet, as if attempting to conceal just how perfectly wanton he is.
Tom tucks the boy under his chin, appropriately caring, resting his jaw against the boy's fluffy, wild black hair. He still feels that bubble of disappointment, but no matter. He has plans. He can play the waiting game. "Sh, it's alright. I should've known better. Perhaps one dance before you leave, hm?"
The boy nods, hesitant. He looks up at Tom, smiling, a question.
Tom lets a smile slant his lips, lets the boy find comfort in the gentle curve. He presses his forehead to Harry's, before slipping his hand in his larger one and pulling him up, into his chest. The boy goes with the motion, soft and supple.
"Come. A farewell for intimate strangers is best seen in a dance."
And with that, Tom guides Harry to the dance floor, amidst the other spinning and swaying couples.
It's only when they come upon the edge of the dance floor nearest the stage that Tom gently spins Harry to face him. The boy looks up at him, still with that slight uncertainty, and Tom won't have it.
He casts a Muffling charm, the better to speak, to listen.
"Do you know how to dance?" he whispers, because this feels intimate, somehow, more intimate than the way his hands ran all over the boy's body, staking a claim that no one was to see. Now, chest to chest, scant inches between them, Tom can almost fool himself into thinking they've known each other millennia, rather than moments. Can trick himself into believing this is their own private party, rather than a performance for the sake of political ambitions and personal pleasures.
"Not well," Harry returns, enraptured and bashful and lovely, dipping his head in slight embarrassment.
Tom tuts, before taking Harry's chin in the lightest of touches and tilting his head up to look at him. He strokes a thumb over the boy's bottom lip, and he wonders what it would taste like, for just a moment. But Tom has never wanted that affection, and he refuses to let himself start now.
"Don't hide from me, darling," he admonishes, the soft, low tone of voice taking the sting out of it. "I'll guide you."
Harry waits, just a moment, just long enough for Tom to wonder if he's going to have to alter his approach, though he's loathe to do so; to be more forceful, be more aggressive, when this––this is some sort of sacred he had never experienced before.
But then, like an angel, like an answer to a silent prayer, Harry's hand hesitantly comes to rest on his shoulder, fingers flexing nervously on the curve of sleek black fabric.
Tom's lips part in a smile, one of the few genuine expressions of the night, and takes the boy's right hand in his left, holding it loosely.
He brings it to his lips. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Harry's face turns a lovely, gorgeous pink, and he's Tom's. Even if he is just a pawn, he's Tom's to use. To own, completely.
"W-Well… I… I must say you make me feel beautiful, Tom."
Tom feels pride well within him, the likes of which he hasn't felt since he was a child, realizing he was special. Realizing he could do things no one else could.
And then, they move.
Tom guides the boy patiently through the motions, pushes and pulls as they spin. He greets Harry's nervous laughter when he messes up with his own warm chuckle, meets his mistakes with warm words of praise, of adoration, and Tom swears that he can feel Harry's heart falling for him with every twirl, can feel that swooping in his chest every time his big green eyes reflect the light, making Tom's hand tighten on his waist.
They dance and spin and twirl for what feels like hours, feet falling into a rhythm, one, two, three, step, step, slide––
At some point it devolves into a glorified sway, and Harry leans his head on Tom's chest, eyes fluttering closed. Tom takes the moment to admire how the boy's coal-dark lashes fan out against the pale skin of his cheek, how his rosebud lips part in a blissful sigh.
Without noticing, Tom presses closer, leans down, breathes the same air as the boy, so close they almost meld into one.
The manipulation is going perfectly.
(He never once considers that, perhaps, he has manipulated himself in the process.)
"Harry!"
Tom doesn't startle, but the boy must sense the sudden tightness of his shoulders, hear the call of his name, for he lazily blinks his eyes open, before springing up and out of Tom's space. Tom feels cold, all of a sudden, where Harry's body was pressed so tightly up against his.
"Hermione! I, well, I was just, um––" Harry says, his cheeks bleeding from white to red, steadfastly ignoring Tom, and Tom feels something dark inside of him snarl at it, growl at the way Harry's attention is away from him, is on someone else.
"Harry, we've been looking all over… Mr. Riddle," she says, finally noticing him, and Tom tears his burning gaze away from Harry, his eyes a black weight on her face.
She looks guarded, uncertain, all of a sudden. As if she knows she isn't wanted.
He could tear her apart with his bear hands. Tear her apart, so that Harry wouldn't want to look at her anymore. Wouldn't want to look at anything but him.
"Ms. Granger," he says back, tone devoid of all emotion. He glances once at Harry, who still isn't looking at him.
Perhaps the manipulation must be… extended. Perhaps instead of securing trust, securing lust in one night… he should consider a broader approach.
The failure stings, burns in his chest, but Tom has dignity. And it's not a failure. Not really.
He could have anyone. Could sweep any powerful witch off her feet, and secure the same connections. Still, he has faith in this one. All is not yet lost, despite such an interruption. Perhaps this would have to be continued another night, as loathe as he is to admit it.
Granger looks back and forth between them. She seems about to ask a question, but Tom suddenly feels as if there is anywhere he would rather be than here. "I apologize, but I must go, as I fear Minister Fudge is expecting me. Perhaps another time?"
She narrows her eyes at him, pauses, before nodding slowly. "Of course," she answers, dragging the word out, before turning to Harry. "Come on, let's find Ron."
And Tom turns away. He doesn't look back, no matter much how he feels the urge itching at his skin.
Tom bids an early goodbye to his associates, and is just taking the Floo powder from its jar on the mantel, it being one of many that lines the walls, when he hears him.
"Tom!"
Tom looks back over his shoulder to see Harry racing into the Atrium, dress robes flying behind him as he skids to a halt beside him. He reaches out a hand, grabbing at Tom's sleeve, his eyes big and green and pleading. "I'm sorry."
Tom turns fully to face him, schooling his face into one of slight confusion. "Whatever for?"
The boy falters, just the slightest bit, and Tom is just about to rectify his mistake, when he says, "I hadn't––I accept your offer. If it's still on the table."
Tom feels his expression blank. His brain stops, freezes, before he realizes what is being offered to him. And then, he feels a bloodthirsty grin stretch slowly over his face. Harry watches it avidly, scanning his face apprehensively as Tom's arm curls itself around his waist, pulling him close.
Tom leans in, breath ghosting over his face, watching through half-shut eyes. "Yes, it is. And soon, so will you," he purrs. Tom looks long enough to see Harry flush all the way to the roots of his midnight-black hair, before the Floo turns green and he drags Harry through.
Tom slams Harry hard against the wall of Riddle Manor, knocking the breath from his lungs as he presses in close.
Tom's lips connect with the boy's throat, and the touch burns, a sizzling heat in his veins as his hands span, large and hot, against Harry's ribcage. The boy's breath catches as Tom nips lightly at his throat, his hands gripping the nape of Tom's neck like a lifeline.
"Tom––"
"Darling," he growls, working his way down his throat, his nose nudging, insistent, into the soft skin under his jaw. Nuzzling the porcelain expanse of his neck.
Harry gasps above him when a hand falls in between his legs, as Tom massages the bulge nestled between lean thighs, and the boy wraps a leg around Tom's waist, seeking that hot, bone-melting friction.
Harry's hands find Tom's hair, halting him as their eyes connect, the air heavy with electricity between them.
Tom's breaths come heavy and harsh, panting against the side of his boy's face, fingers flexing on the boy's waist and in between his legs. The restraint is killing him, is killing him when he's so close to this magnetic creature, so near that sweet expanse of skin.
Harry's eyes flit back and forth between Tom's burning burgundy eyes, looking for what, Tom doesn't know, before he leans forward. Tom stiffens, and Harry hesitates, just a moment, before pressing the gentlest of kisses, the sweetest of caresses, against his cheekbone. "Take me to bed," he whispers, and Tom––
Tom refuses to wait any longer.
He hoists Harry up in a bridal carry, a sharp inhale of surprise leaving Harry's lips in a rush of air as his arms tighten around Tom's neck.
Without a moment's hesitation, Tom Apparates.
They land in the master bedroom, and without giving Harry even a moment to get his bearings, Tom throws him onto the bed, the lovely little thing bouncing on the white comforter.
Tom approaches him with a predator's prowl, closing in as Harry eases himself further back on the bed, eyes wide and wary.
Tom makes his way to the bed, stopping for a moment to admire the view of Harry, darling Harry, his robes black, a beautiful contrast against his skin; his hair wild and green eyes brilliant and bright as he tracks Tom across the room. Tom stops at the edge of the bed, looking down at him.
"I am going to own you," he hisses, Parseltongue an easy sound on his lips. He grabs Harry roughly by the calves, pulling him towards him, their hips connecting in a soft slide of fabric. Harry grabs his forearms for balance, tightening his thighs around Tom's waist.
"I will give you pleasure you have never felt before," he breathes, leaning over until Harry's back is forced to the bed, until he's splayed out like a vision underneath Tom.
He leans down, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the boy's pulse point. "I will be all you ever want. All you'll ever need," he growls, and with a whispered word, their clothes melt away, pressed together from hip to head, skin to skin.
Tom burns.
Harry groans, a wonderful, beautiful sound, the music of angels, the song of sirens––and Tom growls, deep in his chest; slips a hand around Harry's throat, down his chest, his stomach, before taking his hip in a rough grip, grinding that pert little arse down onto his cock, heavy and hanging between his legs.
Harry moans, his hips rolling with the motion, a little inexperienced, a little shy, but so eager it takes Tom's breath away.
Tom can feel how hard the boy is, can feel how he twitches his hips in a bid for friction. Tom smirks, sliding a finger from the base of the boy's cock to the tip, relishing in the whine it draws from him.
He leans down, mouthing at his pale chest, before taking a pebbled nipple into his mouth. Harry mewls, the sensation foreign to one as inexperienced as he. He laves at the nub, sucking, before nibbling teasingly at the pink flesh. Harry arches, desperate. Tom only grins, switching his attentions to the other side.
"Tom," Harry whines, a hand coming up to rest at the nape of his neck.
Tom takes the hand as a silent request, planting a trail of sucking, and then feather-light kisses up to his collarbones, up to his pulse. There will be a chain of purple on his body, a trail of evidence of what Tom will be taking for himself, tonight.
"I will make you scream," he coos, sucking a bruise into the boy's neck, his hand loose and light as he strokes Harry. Not enough to be satisfied, but too much to be ignored.
"Tom, please––please––"
"What do you want, dearest?" he purrs, stroking a hand up and down Harry's thigh as he rolls his hips, cock nestled between those perfect, creamy globes of skin.
Harry pants, heavy and desperate, "Please––please, I need you––please, Tom, uhn––"
And who is Tom to deny such a gorgeous cry?
Tom slips a hand down, down, down––down over Harry's soft little sac, his perineum, and to that beautiful treasure hiding beneath. He rubs the pads of his fingers over his hole, earning a sweet little sound for his troubles.
He whispers a quick cleaning spell, Harry letting out a noise of surprise at the sensation, before shuffling down, his knees meeting the wooden floor. He props Harry's legs over his shoulders, granting himself a perfect view of that delightful little furl. He looks up at Harry, those green eyes dewy with denied pleasure.
"I am going to ruin you for other men, sweetheart," he purrs, and he leans forward, pressing a wet, sucking kiss to that gorgeous, pink hole.
And Harry keens.
Tom smiles against the dusky skin, sharp teeth pressing into delicate flesh. He licks at it, wet, sopping sounds permeating the room, filling the air with an atmosphere heavy as sin.
Harry tastes sweet, tastes like grace and gorgeous innocence. Tastes like magic he has yet to discover, and Tom has always been ravenous for knowledge. For wizardry yet unknown to him.
He groans into the body before him, and Harry mirrors him with a moan, sighs as his hole opens up to Tom, as Tom slips into him, as he tastes the deepest parts of him.
He explores his body with a fervor he's never had before, lips and teeth and tongue working together to heighten his boy's cries, to bring that beautiful symphony to an inevitable crescendo, if only to allow himself to do the same later, in the space his tongue now occupies.
But perhaps, for now, a little preparation, to ease the way.
Tom pulls away with a contented sigh, sucking a deep purple into the skin of Harry's inner thigh. Biting at the delicate skin next to his pretty cock, hard and begging for release, before sitting back to admire his work. He revels in the whine Harry releases at the sudden absence.
"Patient, pet," he laughs, a breathy rush of air, smoothing a hand over the beautiful, corded stretch of thigh. Soft and supple, strong and thick––a perfect blend of masculinity and demure naivete that makes him want to worship this boy before him. That makes him want to keep him.
These are dangerous thoughts, he thinks. He's not sure he cares.
Tom strokes a single finger along his knee, along the crease of calf and thigh, before trailing gentle hands to that wet and waiting hole.
He looks up, meets Harry's eyes as he looks down at him, pleading. "Tom, please––"
Tom doesn't hesitate. Like a whisper, soft and sly and careful, Tom slides a finger into that sweet emptiness, and Harry gasps above him, a high sound that hits Tom right in the throat.
"Tom," he whines, nails digging deep into his shoulders.
Tom looks up at him, a wicked smirk on his lips.
"You look so fetching, like this," he sighs, blissful, resting his chin on Harry's thigh. Enjoying the view.
"Ah––yes, oh––"
Tom slides a second finger in, gently nudges that beautiful little bundle of nerves, and Harry positively spasms, head thrown back, hair splayed out on the pillow like some dark halo. Tom stretches him, creating a space for himself. Adding a third, to take up as much of him as possible.
"Delicious," he purrs, Parseltongue falling easily from his lips, nuzzling into that fine skin. "Absolutely delicious," he says, because Harry must know how delectable he is, in his looks, in his taste. How delightful Tom finds every little bit of him.
Harry looks down, then, and there's a certain light to his eyes, a certain cast that Tom can't quite place––a little too adoring, a little too intimate, no matter that Tom has tasted him, has touched something no one else has touched––that makes his fingers still.
Harry slides a hand from Tom's shoulder, gentle, up to his hair, a harsh contrast to the nails biting into his shoulder only moments earlier. Tom holds his breath as he slowly brushes back the curl on his forehead with sweaty fingers, teases a thumb along his brow, cradles a cheekbone in his palm.
"Handsome," he murmurs, quiet, a word only for Tom. And Tom feels something inside of him float at the implications of that steady gaze.
He keeps Harry's gaze as he lowers his mouth. Presses an open kiss to his navel. "Exquisite," he breathes. Harry's eyes glimmer with something––something Tom craves.
"Come here," Harry whispers, and for a moment Tom thinks he's going to cross that line, going to initiate the soft press of lips to lips, but Harry only smiles, a soft, sweet thing. "Come up here, Tom. Please."
And Tom can't deny himself that.
He slowly rises from his knees, slips over Harry, a looming shadow. "What do you want from me?"
Harry grins, mischievous, hooking a finger in a lock of Tom's dark hair. Inches away, red meets green, and Harry's eyes shine, brighter than any curse Tom's seen.
He leans up, and Tom freezes, relaxing only when Harry's plush lips brush the shell of his ear.
"I want you in my mouth," he says, playful, jerking Tom down by the neck. "I want to taste you. Even Steven, yeah?"
And Tom shouldn't find that as arousing as he does, shouldn't find that as enticing as it is, but before he knows it he's easing himself over Harry's mouth, cock hanging low over Harry's lips. Harry looks up at him, before opening his mouth with a flirtatious little wink. And Tom knows what he's asking for. Knows what Tom cannot resist giving him.
Little drops of precum land like snowflakes on Harry's pretty pink lips, matching the pearly white teeth nestled within his slightly parted mouth. Harry, ever cheeky, licks them off. Tom watches as he seems to mull over the taste.
He swallows, eventually, a thoughtful expression on his face. "...Musky. Very… masculine."
Tom grins. "I find that must be rather obvious, considering the state of my current undress."
Harry laughs, feather-light, before settling into the type of smirk that Tom would find carved onto his own face in different circumstances. Standing over a body, perhaps, though one far less alive than this one.
Harry kitten-licks at the head. "Masculine does not mean dominant, Tom. Unless you're going to try and prove me wrong?"
Tom's eyes burn as he stares down at Harry. "With pleasure."
And Tom pushes forward, thrusts a slow rhythm as his cock slides back and forth across Harry's delightfully wicked tongue. Harry eyes gleam up at him, as if daring him to go further. Tom does.
It's only when he finds himself passing the boy's palate that he feels the resistance. Feels the way his throat tightens, sees how his eyes water, his chest heaves with stolen breaths as he chokes on Tom's girth. Still, he's so submissive. So perfectly willing.
"I'm going to fuck your mouth. Going to fuck your hole, like this. Going to fuck you until you can feel me in every part of yourself." He strokes a hand down Harry's face, traces the delicate skin underneath his dewy eyes, his wet lashes.
He draws back, thrusts in, as gentle as a man like him can be. Harry looks almost like he likes it. Like he's begging for it. And then, he keeps going, faster, now. His balls slap against Harry's chin, cock gliding effortlessly into that deliciously wet heat, and Harry moans around him, as if there is no greater privilege than to please him in this way.
Tom throws his head back, feels the stretch in his neck as he rocks back and forth, bed creaking near-silently as he takes his pleasure, takes all that this boy is willing to give him.
It's not long before Tom can feel that heat tight in his abdomen, feel that familiar rush in his veins. His balls draw up, too soon, and he looks down, sees Harry's face near dizzy with bliss. Precum and saliva drip down his chin, create a beautiful shine to already glistening lips.
And Tom slides out, leaving Harry's mouth sticky and wide.
Harry's eyes open slowly, a haze of pleasure clearing for a more aware state of mind. Still affected, but not quite so far gone. "Wha–?"
"I'm going to fuck you, darling," Tom murmurs, tangling his fingers in Harry's hair, before he slips down the bed and under Harry's thighs.
Harry nods, even as the fog is still leaving his eyes. His hands come up, frame Tom's face. "I want you to."
And Tom leans down, positions himself, face pressing, insistent, into the crook of Harry's neck. "I know."
And he thrusts in, all at once; no chance for escape. No chance for a slow torture.
Harry moans, high and long and loud, legs flexing around his hips, pushing him deeper. Lengthening his thrusts into something greater than these primal pleasures.
The headboard slams against the wall, hips moving with punishing force, the air filled with moans and heavy breaths and the slapping of skin on skin. Little "ah, ah, ah's," escape Harry's mouth like a hymn, his arms coming up to encircle Tom's neck, holding him to his body like he's terrified he'll try and leave him there. Leave him, desperate and aching. Perhaps in another life, another, crueler time, had Tom himself not been just as, if not more, desperate for this particular type of completion, he might've considered it. Lengthened the affair, heightened the feeling of dependency. But not now. Not now, when Tom is so close to the precipice. When he is so close to a fulfillment he can feel in every part of his body, every darkened corner of his crooked, cracked mind.
Tom's arms brace on either side of Harry as he thrusts harder, faster, pushes his hips in and out of that divine heat, that perfect, tight wetness, and he feels it singing in his veins, feels a need so great it might as well be his soul urging him on, urging him to claim what is his, his, his––
Tom intertwines his fingers with the body's beneath him, guides one of those fragile hands down in between them. Together, he fondles the boy's balls, toys with the head, before stroking Harry's cock as one. It's not long before Harry's moans grow in volume, in pitch––he slides a finger gently against the slit, and it's all it takes for Harry's back to arch off the bed, for those tight nipples to brush against his chest as he comes in thick ropes between them, a release so sweet it's almost heaven. Tom's name falls from his lips, a mantra, worship of the best kind.
There's something about the way Harry says Tom's name, the way it rolls off his tongue, that has Tom questioning why he ever hated it at all. How can he hate it, when Harry can turn his name into some sort of prayer? His past shame into some sort of divinity?
Tom tilts his head up, catching Harry's expression as he rides out his high. He looks positively pleasure-drunk, and Tom can't help the burning pride in his chest, the steady burn of possessiveness in his broken, black soul.
He slides his fingers through the mess of white between them and into Harry's mouth, tracing his teeth, his tongue, his lips, covering every inch of that lovely cavern in the proof of Harry's attraction to him. It's with that thought, with the notion that Tom has claimed Harry in a way no one has, that he feels his cock pulse, balls draw tight to his body, as he comes inside of the boy with a low, lust-laden groan. Filling him with the evidence of their union.
Tom pants into Harry's neck as he comes down from his high, careful not to crush him beneath his larger height. Harry's heavy breaths match his own, a small, pale hand coming up to card through his hair, a soothing gesture.
After a moment to collect himself, Tom carefully slides out of the boy, preening at the oversensitive whine Harry lets out at the feeling of Tom's absence. Of Tom's cum, dripping out of him. Tom smiles at the view of it, genuine and dark around the edges.
Harry's face twists slightly at the feeling, of being dirty and dripping, and Tom hides the disappointment at what he knows he wants. Still, he admires the vision Harry makes a moment longer, splayed out on the white comforter, thighs covered in cum, lips swollen with Tom's rough treatment, neck covered in a ring of bruises. He imprints it in his mind, relishing in this boy, in what he has let Tom take from him.
"Evanesco," he says, finally, reluctant and loathe to see the proof of his claiming disappear. Harry gasps lightly at the sensation. He looks over at Tom, green eyes bright with a question. "For your comfort," Tom murmurs, lying back on the bed, a good inch of space between them.
He feels the inch of it like a cavern, like the pull of a magnetic force tugging them together. He doesn't want to give in, so he won't.
The decision is soon taken away from him, anyway.
Harry pushes himself against him, nestles himself in the space against his chest, in the gap of his thighs. He presses a kiss to Tom's collarbone, sweet and innocent and it leaves Tom aching.
"Thank you," he says, quietly, sincere in so many ways. Too shy to look at him; too brave to leave his gratitude unsaid. "I… I could have hoped for no one better."
And when he gets no response, he seems to nod a little bit, accepting Tom's silence for what it is. No matter that Tom is frozen inside, with this affection. Arrested, with the force of this heady thanks. It strangles the air from his lungs, stutters the beating of his heart, and he doesn't know what he's feeling, so he pretends he doesn't feel it at all.
Harry rolls away, his pale back to Tom, sliding beneath the sheets. "Goodnight," he whispers, and Tom just barely forces a returned, "Goodnight," before he whispers a quiet word, dimming the lamps. The lights fall away, leaving the room bathed only in moonlight. Bathing Harry in a sort of heavenly glow.
It is not long before Harry's breaths turn heavy, spent and sated as he is. And it is then that Tom feels safe enough to whisper a quiet, "Thank you, Harry," before he turns away, Harry's skin a comforting heat against his back. As his eyes fall closed, he realizes it is exceedingly rare that he allows anyone to sleep in a bed with him, if at all.
He realizes that he hopes Harry's warmth remains in his bed until morning.
When Tom wakes, it's to warm breath on his collarbone, to a steady heart beat tucked protectively under his.
It's not quite dawn, yet, and Tom finds himself feeling an odd sort of grateful for the chance to just bask in this with Harry. To feel the heat of his skin, bare against his.
He's not sure when he and Harry came together during the night, when Harry slid into his space, but Tom finds that it leaves him feeling more content than he ever has.
His arms tighten around Harry's waist, one hand stroking his back, nape to hip, the other running soothing fingers through his hair. Harry snuffles in his sleep, nuzzling closer, his legs coming to entwine with Tom's. Man against man, body against body. Soul pressed to soul.
It's odd, he thinks. He hasn't dreamt.
It might be the first time in his life he has slept without some other fantasy world playing in the back of his mind. Performing behind his eyelids, without the reprieve of cool darkness.
Tom looks down, then. Takes in dawn's pink light across Harry's face, soft and innocent in sleep. Absolutely precious.
Tom smooths his bird's nest of hair back over his forehead, and, after an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation, presses a reverent kiss to his temple. Breathes in the scent of him, sleep-sweet and warm. He sighs.
He has never felt like this. He's scared of how much he finds himself adoring it, craving it.
He frowns, slightly, before he tilts his head back, eyes trained out of the window. It doesn't matter, right now.
Tom will bask in this peace while he has it.
Sunlight streams through the window, the room swathed in ribbons of gold. Tom squints, blinks, and blindly reaches over for some warmth he doesn't have a name for. And then, it rushes back.
Success.
But, more than that, Harry.
Tom turns, hand sliding over that one side of the bed, still retaining that bare hint of heat. "...Harry?" he groans, when he doesn't meet soft skin; doesn't meet that perfect fit for his hands, his soul.
Tom finally opens his eyes to sunshine and an empty bed. To the absence of that delectable little minx.
"I'm sorry––I have to get home, Sirius'll worry…"
Tom turns, Harry's gorgeous face greeting him as his eyes take in the other side of the room. He's pulling his clothes on; he must have found the chair Tom vanished their clothes to last night. A pair of slacks are pulled over his hips, a shirt half-buttoned over his shoulders. Tom sits up partly, leaning his head on his hand.
Harry looks over at him, then, and Tom realizes how big the shirt is on him. Their clothes were stacked together; it's his shirt. His, just like Harry. Tom doesn't tell him. It only seems appropriate that he takes something from Tom when he goes, just as Tom took something from him.
Harry blushes when he meets Tom's eyes. Reminded, it seems, of the mess Tom made of him. Of the way he begged and pleaded and moaned.
Tom feels himself harden beneath the sheet, and something must give him away, for Harry blushes darker, a deep, delicious red. A smirk unfurls itself on Tom's lips, something sharp and predatory, and Harry smiles shyly back, eyes lowering, demure.
Tom wants to consume him.
He lifts a hand, crooking a finger. "Come here, darling," he purrs, voice deep and dripping lust.
Harry looks a little dazed, looks like he's about to step forward, but then he shakes his head, holding his robes in front of him, as if it's a shield against Tom's charm. He sends an apologetic grin Tom's way.
"Tom, I can't. I'm sorry. But I… I would like to do this again, sometime? If you want to. If… If you…" and he's so cheeky, so brave, but not bold enough to finish his sentence, it seems. Not bold enough to say, If you still want me.
"I would. But why wait?" and he smiles coyly as he lowers his hand, stroking himself from root to tip beneath the sheet. Harry's lips part, pupils dilate, and his face flushes impossibly further.
His hand falls to his side, the robe clutched loosely in his hand as he takes a small step forward. Takes a shaky breath, as he comes to Tom's side.
Impossible green meets blood-soaked red, a sparking and smoking heat building between them. Tom strokes a thumb over the head of his cock, lets out a pleasured hiss, and Harry wets his lips, Tom's eyes falling to his mouth as his tongue swipes across the plush skin.
Harry watches him, intent, mouth nearly watering at the knowledge of what is going on under the blanket. Tom stares right back, and it crosses his mind, then––he has touched this man in every way, claimed every part of him––but he hasn't tasted that delightful, devilish mouth. He hasn't pressed his lips to Harry's, hasn't marked his mouth in an owning kiss.
He hasn't ever, with anyone. He has never had the desire to. And even if he had, no one has ever been worthy. But...
Would Harry taste sweet? Sugary, like berries, like honey? Intoxicating, a little bitter, like wine?
His hand speeds up, and he groans, long and low, Harry watching him avidly. His eyes dip to Tom's hand beneath the cloth, to his lips, to his eyes––and Tom won't deny himself this foreign experience any longer.
Tom presses forward, Harry leaning in to meet him, his eyes fluttering shut as their lips meet in a sigh of pleasure. Tom's eyes remain half-open, if only for a moment, to see the utter bliss on Harry's face. He can't for long; he melts under Harry's gentle affection, his earnest devotion. His lips are soft, moving slowly, sweetly against his, and he tastes like sugared plums, like candy floss, like utter heaven––
He abandons the carnal pleasure of his hand, throwing himself into this gentler fulfillment. He groans into the kiss, tongue entwining with Harry's, hand coming up to cradle his cheek, and Harry sighs, content as his hands brace themselves on either side of his neck.
How could Tom have denied himself this? How could he have held back from this fine affection? Harry's mouth sparks an ache in his chest, in his stomach, his cock––triggers every primal urge in Tom, to take, to devour, to consume––but there's something lighter, something that steals the breath from his lungs, the words from his lips. Steals the heart from right out of his chest.
Harry pulls away with a soft sound, brilliant, beautiful eyes opening to meet Tom's. They're unbearably bright, filled with something Tom dares not put a name to.
"I have to go," he whispers, and Tom wants to latch onto him, wants to put his hands in his and never let go, wants to feel his body pressed hot against him for the rest of time.
Tom sighs, eyes falling shut, head coming forward to lean into Harry's shoulder. "I know."
Harry laughs, a breathy sound against his ear. "Goodbye, Tom Riddle," he murmurs, pressing a kiss behind his ear. "I'll meet you sometime again, hm?"
He pulls away, then, and before Tom can think about it he has a hand tangled in Harry's hair, urging him forward for another kiss. How has he lived without this? Harry feels like air, like oxygen, and every press of lips makes him feel full, makes him feel alive with something too high to hold, too light to catch.
Harry smiles into the kiss, tongue gently teasing his, and Tom sucks on his bottom lip, nibbles at the skin of it––and Harry moans, helpless to Tom's ministrations. Even so, he manages to push himself away, hands to Tom's shoulders.
He laughs, before he presses a kiss to Tom's cheek, his chin, his nose. Silly, but Tom adores it. Wishes he had this every day of his life.
Tom smiles, genuine. So wide it makes his eyes crinkle at the edges, and Harry's breath catches, stutters at the sight of it. Tom leans forward, pressing a long, slow kiss to his forehead. "Goodbye, Harry."
Harry pulls away, finally, eyes deep with emotion. And it hits Tom, finally, what he might have seen in those darling eyes of his––not just want, not just adoration, but perhaps impossibly, inconceivably––
Love.
Tom almost wants to laugh at the thought. He has long known that he will never fall in love. Has long known that he will never get to feel that wretched, lovely, altogether frightening emotion fluttering like a trapped bird in his chest. And he's lived with that burden, that freedom––he has carried that cage every day of his life.
But Harry Potter––he is free. He is not beholden to such a limitation, no matter how invaluable it may be.
Harry blinks, once, and in hardly a second he's making his way over to his clothes, Tom's shirt still half on, robe still clutched in his hand, grinning softly the whole way. He picks up what's left of last night's obstacles and heads to the door, turning to look at Tom one last time. Tom finds himself secretly hoping he won't step foot in the hall at all.
"Thank you, Tom," he breathes, face beaming so bright he seems to be a star, the sun; that single flaming orb that Tom's whole world revolves around, that would leave him cold and dead should it ever disappear.
And he steps into the hall, gone between one breath and the next in a soft slide of fabric.
Tom stares at the door for what feels like hours, waiting to see if Harry will come back. Waiting to see if he will fill the sudden emptiness in his chest. He doesn't, and Tom rolls back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He had wanted Harry's attention, if only for the added power, the added influence it would afford him, and he had gotten it.
So why does he feel so powerless now?
Weeks go by, and Tom hears nothing. He goes to the Ministry, he goes to galas, he visits Hogwarts, and still, Harry does not return. He is gone.
Tom feels his absence like something palpable in his chest; like a hole he doesn't remember being carved.
People know they left together. Know the power Tom now wields. No longer just the Slytherin heir, though he has never been just anything; no longer the Gaunt's last living link, no, now he has bed the Peverell, the Potter, the Black heir––and what does he have to show for it?
No boy warming his bed. No heart to hold in his hand.
Has Harry had his fill? Did he find his pleasure, find what he was looking for, and decide he could find it elsewhere?
Tom is singular, special––Harry will never find pleasure like the kind Tom has given him.
And perhaps––perhaps Tom is just the tiniest bit disappointed, that Tom may never find that pleasure again, either. Never again feel that flapping of wings brushing against the cage of his ribs.
A month later, Tom smooths down the sleek black of his robes. Similar, to those robes not too many nights ago, to that night that left him aching for more. Aching for always.
The trim is different; a subtle green that shimmers like oil, instead of the silver detailing of the past. It matches eyes like lightning in the wood; unforgotten and unseen, since that moment.
Tom's lips ache with the need to connect with someone else's, chest burns with the need to hold a particular vision of a man within it, hands itch with the hope of holding that sweet boy once more.
He looks in the mirror; sees perfectly coiffed brown hair, pale skin like a statue, chiseled features as if by an artist––and he sees what drew Harry to him, but no matter how hard, how long he looks, he can't find what made Harry turn away. What made him unable to come back.
He turns away, doesn't look back as he enters the Floo, as he steps into the Atrium. His twenty-fourth has past, now, no birthday to mark the occasion, to make him feel like bedding anyone tonight, for political favor or his own––he will make his connections, and he will continue on.
No matter if he hopes to meet green eyes once more, to seduce and savor the touch of that pale skin.
There are people everywhere, Purebloods and Halfbloods and Mudbloods alike, all dressed in their finest robes, wrapped in the most expensive of silks, of velvets, and Tom is above them all.
He passes through, takes the champagne offered to him, and he looks over, to find a Malfoy, a Lestrange, a Carrow––
And he sees a boy. Wild black hair, skin like porcelain, eyes like acidic fire––and he turns, if only slightly; a vision in white, an angel.
Green meets red across the ballroom, and the boy blushes, sweet and pink. The smallest of smiles curls his lips, shy and hopeful. Devastating.
A bloodthirsty grin stretches slowly across Tom's face, paints a dangerous, seductive slash along his mouth.
Perhaps one night will stretch into many. Perhaps one night would never have been enough.
Tom Riddle has always wholeheartedly believed in slow manipulations. And perhaps, in some small, stupid, dastardly little part of himself, he sees them as something akin… to falling in love.