Disclaimer: This claim's hers. (You know whose)

Warning: M for slash (HP/TMRLV), Post-GoF, slightly insane and definitely dark Harry

"Normal dialogue"

*Parseltongue*

'Thoughts'

"Tom?"

Stoirm poked his head in the study but nobody was there. Although, judging by the familiar magical residue in the room, its occupant just recently left.

'Strange,' he thought, frowning. 'He knew I was coming.'

He had passed the parlour and it was also empty. There weren't many rooms that Tom would go into. He went for the library.

It was completely silent and he felt no living presence inside, but he decided to make sure anyway. He looked in between bookshelves, near the tables, under the tables, in the bookshelves.

Nothing.

That only left his private quarters.

Stoirm climbed up the lavish staircase, the sound of creaking wood beneath his feet filling the eerie silence. All the curtains were shut and even though it's morning, it didn't look like it. He slid two of his fingers on the handrail and held them to his face - no dust.

'I never saw a house-elf in this house,' he thought idly, wondering how the Dark Lord manages without one.

He reached the top and turned left, heading for the single unbarred room on the second floor. It wasn't a long trip. In less than a minute, he was facing a discreet brown door that he wouldn't have given a second glance if he hadn't known it was the right room.

Stoirm opened the door without knocking. After all, he wasn't one to let an opportunity to catch Tom off-guard pass by.

Unfortunately, he was the one caught off-guard.

Tom's hair, his fucking impeccable hair, was in disarray for once. It was dripping wet and large hands clutched a small towel to his head. Stoirm's gaze followed the numerous water droplets glistening on pale skin; from slender neck, to broad shoulders, to bare chest, the light trail of hair on his taut stomach, on his abdomen, and vanishing behind another towel, a bigger one, wrapped around his narrow hips. This was neither the body of a worker, nor a body-builder. No, this was the body of a dancer, a lethal and graceful duelist, a man who made other men feel fucking blessed to work for him.

It kind of annoyed Stoirm.

"Enjoying the view?" came the amused voice of the Dark Lord.

"I was, until you opened your mouth."

From his vantage point, the room looked very bare. Aside from the unmade white sheets on the large four-poster bed, he couldn't see anything else that would indicate that somebody actually slept there.

Stoirm crossed his arms, leaned on the doorframe, and brazenly studied Tom.

"I thought you'd be more muscled," he commented, adding just a hint of disappointment. The man's ego needed no more boosts.

Tom's eyebrow arched upwards.

"It seems like you've given what's underneath the Dark Lord's robes much thought," he said smugly.

"Oh, I know what's underneath the robe," Stoirm smirked. "Really seeing it, on the other hand... Mind turning around for me?"

Tom stopped drying his hair and let the towel slide down his neck. He opened his arms wide and stared dully at Stoirm.

"Would you like me to do a pirouette, too?"

"Only in a proper ballet attire, my Lord. Only in a proper ballet attire." Stoirm was now sporting a full grin.

Tom sauntered towards him. The towel around his hips was riding dangerously low and his hipbones peeked above the cloth.

He really is too pale, Stoirm thought. Tom looked more like a marble statue than flesh and blood.

A hand settled on the doorknob while the other settled on the wall beside Stoirm. His nose was instantly assaulted by the strong scent of soap.

"Go play with your toys downstairs, Stoirm," Tom said, already closing the door.

Stoirm's hand flew to the wooden surface and halted it.

"What if I want to play here?" he looked up in challenge, capturing crimson eyes and not backing down.

For a snake, Tom really does have a good lion-ish, predatory smile. He leaned down, mere inches away, and the pleasant soapy smell was stronger than ever.

Stoirm licked his dry lips. Tom's eyes darted down and Stoirm gulped.

"Were you aware that fifteen is the age of consent in the Wizarding World?" Tom murmured, still looking at his lips.

He had barely processed what Tom was saying. He was busy staring at a particular droplet clinging at the end of Tom's hair - waiting for it to fall, irritated that it won't, wanting to entwine his hands in those strands, wringing them until dry - when he felt hard lips capturing his own. His mouth opened in surprise and he stayed dumbly still as a foreign tongue tasted his lips.

It all happened so fast. His eyes widened, Tom's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, mouth on his mouth, tongue on his tongue, the taste of mint, his senses overloading, magic soaring, mint, soap, Tom, and all throughout, all fucking throughout, he was just. Standing. Dumbly. Still.

Not moving, not even breathing.

Completely immobile.

Before he could remedy his monumentally stupid state of monument-ation, a large hand was firmly gripping his waist, Tom was pulling back, nibbling on his ear, whispering softly-

"Playtime's over. Happy Birthday, Harry."

-and he was being pushed back, and the warmth around his waist was gone, and the door slammed shut, and he was alone.

Still standing dumbly still.

...

He walked away, feeling strangely calm. It would've made more sense if he was elated or irritated or shocked.

He wasn't even thinking about the kiss!

No, as he went down the stairs and passed the door to the study, his mind still can't move on from one thought.

'Tom is curly-haired,' he silently repeated in his head. 'His hair is curly.'

He snorted. Then he doubled over, laughing.

A/N: Very short chapter. And waaay overdue. Sorry!