What Happens to the Weak
It was by nightfall that Tom managed to extract himself from the journalists and organise his affairs at the Ministry, amidst whispers, nudges and giggles that soured his mood like curdled milk. Tom left his secretary in shock as he stormed out, nails digging into the back of Harry's neck.
He should have drawn blood.
Tom half-dragged Harry down the Ministry steps where he spun on his heels and apparated.
A moment later, he was blinking in horror as Harry doubled over with a retch. Tom did not have time to step back before bile hit his pristine leather shoes.
It made him feel nauseous himself.
Merlin …
When Harry glanced up at him, Tom could not see the faintest glimmer of apology. On the contrary, his grimace slid into a smug smile, a flash of teeth that had Tom actually biting his lips to stop himself from snapping out a spell.
"I'm sorry," Harry offered.
Tom did not see a need to reply.
The walk in the dark from his gardens to his manor seemed longer than usual. The cobblestone path stretched out ahead, elegant and winding.
Tom clenched his fists with mounting fury as Harry trailed after him. The footsteps echoed loudly in his ears and he could almost feel his wand burning a hole in its holster. It would be too easy to whip it out and blast the pest into oblivion.
By the time he reached his manor, Tom was nursing a murderous migraine and craving nothing more than a cup of warm tea. But there was still the business of his 'bastard son' to handle. It lingered on his mind, much like the way Harry lingered in the doorway.
In the dark, Tom could not tell if the boy was suddenly hesitant.
His irritation flared.
"Inside. Now."
All signs of timidity evaporated. As if intent on making him lose his temper, Harry shot him a smirk and strolled in like he owned the place. Tom's teeth grinded together when the he literally kicked the door close with a filthy shoe. It left a mark on the polished wood and a bitter taste in Tom's mouth.
The next time the bastard – absolutely no pun intended – did that, Tom would bring out his wand and teach him a lesson on manners.
"I will assign you a guest bedroom," said Tom coldly. "You will not be staying long."
He snapped his fingers, and the dark hallways lit up as lights sparked to life. Under the glow of the chandeliers, Harry's eyes took on an almost triumphant gleam. A half grin played on his lips, and Tom had the distinct impression that he was amused.
A tide of dark anger crashed down, and it was only his impeccable restraint that stopped Tom from throttling him. He inhaled deeply, casting an eye over Harry.
With unruly hair and wide green eyes that were all too innocent, Harry only seemed to be a teenager. Tom refused to lose his composure over an insignificant child who was only half his age.
"You look a little pale, father," Harry remarked brightly. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"What did you call me?" Tom stared at him, mouth curling in rising disgust. "No, no, don't repeat it."
Harry looked at him with a measure of innocent hurt in his eyes. Tom cringed inwardly at the display. Revolting. This was exactly the reason why he never considered children – didn't want to consider children.
"You will respect this manor, and you will respect me. This is my home. You shall never" – Tom tightened his lips – "kick my doors, and such displays will be dealt with personally by me. If you wish to be treated like a guest, you will conduct yourself as one. Break any of my rules, and you will find yourself out on the streets, no exceptions –"
"If you expel me to the streets, the media will have a field day with it," Harry said. "Scandals are always fun."
Tom ignored him. "You will keep out of my way. Is that clear?"
"Crystal," Harry chirped. "But what if I don't wish to be treated like a guest? I guess I'll make myself right at home then."
Tom froze in his tracks. "Excuse me?"
Harry shrugged delicately. "I don't want to be a guest. I'd like to be your son, bastard or not. Since those are your rules for guests, I suppose there's no point in me listening to them. What would you like your son to do? Or perhaps I can just go ahead and do the opposite of everything you just said?"
Tom brushed a strand of hair from his face. In the stress of the day, his robes were rumpled and his hair, he feared, was almost as untidy as Harry's. He needed to get this over as soon as possible and retreat for a bath.
"What do I call you?"
"Pardon?"
"What do I call you?" Harry said. "You don't want me to call you 'father'."
"You may address me as Tom."
Despite himself, he felt a flicker of dark humour. Harry must think he was thwarting a petty politician. The imbecilic child had no idea who he was speaking to, and the snake pit he had just traipsed into. Tom could snuff the life out of him at any time he so chose. The only reason he was still breathing was because Tom chose to let him.
"You will keep out of my way."
"I'm okay."
"That," Tom gritted out, "was not a suggestion."
Harry blinked at him. "I wasn't joking either."
Tom's headache became a roaring fire.
Harry never realised that baiting the Dark Lord could turn out to be such a joy.
Watching the vein throb in Tom's left temple and his narrowing blue eyes, which would have cut Harry into shreds if they were physically able, made Harry feel irrationally inspired. The more Tom looked like he could slaughter him on the spot, the more Harry became tempted to wind him up.
It was all he could do to refrain from laughing in Tom's face. The smirks, though, were impossible to suppress. Oh, if only Hermione and Ron were here. Ron would make a joke about fraternising with the enemy. Delving into enemy ranks seemed too easy. Honestly, Harry had not expected everything to go so smoothly.
And who knew Tom Riddle was so averse to having a child?
Several times, Harry was certain the young Dark Lord would unceremoniously blast him into a wall and throw him out the window. But while that might be appropriate for the Dark Lord, it would shipwreck his pretty politician career. Harry was sure it was the only thing that stood between him and his death. The only thing that kept Riddle at bay.
Regardless, Tom's rein over his temper was admittedly quite impressive. Voldemort had never displayed such fortitude. His style was usually to curse the offensive object into submission.
Harry could not help but wonder how long Riddle would last before his patience snapped and he treated him to a dose of the Cruciatus Curse.
After Tom showed him to his bedroom which, Harry noticed, was on the other side of the hallway and as far away from Tom's office as he could possibly be, Tom arched an eyebrow expectantly.
Harry made a mental note to explore the Dark Lord's office thoroughly and do some snooping when he was away on business. If Riddle thought Harry would play the part of the good, obedient boy, he was dreaming.
Harry had never claimed he was a decent guest.
The bedroom was large and cold, like everything else in the manor. The windows were open, the curtains were fluttering, and the gust of wind that whipped into Harry's face was as frigid as Tom's face. It was, all in all, very welcoming.
"Do you like it?" Tom gave him a sharp smile, more a flash of teeth than anything else.
"What if I don't?"
Riddle tilted his head. "All the rooms are identical. It is peaceful, and no one shall disturb you. I live alone. You will never find a manor more secluded."
Tom's smile became almost feral.
The unspoken threat sent the nerves on the back of his neck prickling.
"That's wonderful," Harry muttered.
It was anything but wonderful. Everything the young Dark Lord said was true. He doubted anyone would hear screams from within the manor. Harry was living alone with Tom, and Tom Riddle wasn't exactly known for his patience. That was putting it lightly. Harry's fingers went to his sleeve, where he carried his wand, for reassurance.
Harry wasn't a moron. When it really came to a duel, if the young Dark Lord was serious, Harry would be fortunate to escape with his life, let alone unscathed. He would stand as much of a chance against Tom as a matchstick would against a fire. Riddle could probably strike him down in one second and kill him in another.
"It is late," Tom said. He inclined his head towards the large bed in the centre of Harry's new room.
Slowly, Harry turned to face the Slytherin Heir.
"Will you make dinner?"
-0O0-
"Why do you not like children?" Harry asked as he scraped the salad Tom made onto his dish.
The sound of the fork against the fine china was ugly and shrill enough to make Tom seriously contemplate slamming his head into the wall. In the end, he decided it would serve no purpose except only worsen his headache and perhaps draw out a smirk from the teenager.
"Stop," Tom ordered.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Stop what?"
The fork scraped louder and more sharply.
Tom grimaced.
"Why don't you like children?" Harry repeated.
This was why he didn't like children.
"They are irritating."
"Most people would say otherwise."
"I am not most people," he said tonelessly.
Tom took a sip from his tea and revelled in the sensation of the warm liquid running down his dry throat. Earl Grey made the way he liked it. Just the look of distaste Harry aimed at his teacup, Tom could ascertain the wretched brat was not his. Anyone who had his blood running through their veins would not have such poor taste.
And the boy's table manners were appalling.
Tom hated it when people played with their food. Food was meant to be savoured and swallowed, not splayed out in a disgusting mess as if a bomb had exploded. And each time Harry opened his mouth, Tom was treated to the sight of half-chewed globs on his tongue.
It was something he could do without.
As Tom stared up into his ceiling, he could practically see the fabrics of his plan twist, tear, unwind and fall apart. It was rich how the future he paved for himself, the two lives he led, could be so easily disrupted by a mere boy.
The tea in his hand suddenly felt too cold.
Tom set it on the table before he could shatter it.
Ever since Tom had first started carving out a path for himself as a politician, he had lied, manipulated and pulled the right strings until he crushed his opponents like pawns on a chess board and rose through the political ladder swifter than anyone had seen.
People wanted a charismatic politician, and Tom charmed them with his smiles. They wanted a clever politician, and Tom had never been accused of stupidity. They wanted a politician with new ideas – Tom intended to bring in a whole new era and crush the old. They wanted, they wanted. He was successful because he knew what they wanted, and he knew that above all else, people wanted a responsible leader they could trust.
Having a bastard son at sixteen?
That was neither responsible nor trustworthy. It imploded the public image that he had spent years crafting. As for refusing to claim his son even after Harry reappeared, the people would call him a cold-hearted bastard and cutthroat serpent for that.
Tom's eyes flashed with anger.
Harry was also a weakness to his other life.
Amongst the ranks of his Death Eaters, Tom was known for his intelligence, power, ruthlessness and – above all – his lack of weaknesses, an armour crafted out of diamond. At least, that was before Harry appeared. The teenager was a chip in his armour.
Harry's relation to Tom, albeit a lie, weakened him. And weakness, in the eyes of his followers, was a chance to bring Tom to his knees and take his place.
Oh, Tom wasn't an idiot. He could see that he ruled them like a king because he had power and talent. This was how nature worked. Survival of the fittest. Even in the animal kingdom, it was the same. He was the alpha, but the alpha could also be replaced.
The strongest always led, and leaders who faltered and frayed were very quickly torn into pieces. Tom absolutely refused to be like that.
If he brought a son into the fray …
Tom's fingers twirled his yew wand, wood sliding between his fingers – in and out, in and out.
Having an emotional breakdown in front of his followers would probably be less damaging to his reputation. It was parading his weakness for all to see.
His status as all but a god in the eyes of the Death Eaters was because he hardly seemed human. By stripping himself of any association with the likes of emotion, Tom displayed himself to be invincible. Everything was a war of propaganda. Having a bastard child at the age of sixteen – Tom snarled in disgust – there was nothing more childishly, pathetically human.
Tom could imagine it already.
First his followers would see Harry and develop doubts. Once the seed of doubt was planted, the more ambitious and vicious of his followers would try to hurt him through Harry. Loyalty would fray, his authority would collapse - and eventually, the stupid child would end up dead. Tom couldn't care less about that, but if Harry died, his political career would die with him. And then Tom would be left with nothing. On one side, his Death Eaters would rise up against him, and on the other, he could be seen in the public eye as less of a negligent father and more of a murderer. Tracking Harry's death back to his Death Eaters would be all too easy and then ...
No. This simply would not do.
Harry looked at him, all innocence and oblivion.
His wand, attuned to his wrath, all but vibrated with heat in his hand.
Tom needed to talk to Abraxas.