The Matchmaker
TanninTele
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.
VIII:
The Corpse Trial
Tom shivered.
Gooseflesh crawled across his skin as he rolled onto the other side of the mattress.
It took him a moment to realize something was wrong; this was not his bed, and something was missing. Or, rather someone.
Feeling a distinct parallel to waking in the coffin, groggy and confused. Tom peeled his eyes open and stared bleary-eyed out the window. Sunlight streamed in, the rays dancing across the hard-wood. At his feet, Padfoot snuffled and curled closer to Tom. His feet were trapped beneath the large mutt, the only warm part of his body. "Off you get," Tom murmured, gently pushing the blankets, and the dog, aside. "I need those." Padfoot blinked up at him, eyes wet and dark, before turning his head, content to fall back asleep.
Spreading his toes on the cold floor, Tom stood, wrapping a strong arm around himself. He spotted his clothes still folded in the hallway. His dress shirt was on the bottom of the pile, sleeves stained with spots of blood. Harry's blood.
The photo was still in the front pocket, untouched. With a sick sort of pleasure, he slid his arms through the sleeves and flexed his arm, watching the spots of red wrinkle and stretch. Staring into the vanity mirror, he realized he looked ridiculously good with his shirt unbuttoned and his boxers framing his morning erection. He ran a hand through the wavy strands of his hair, one stubborn curl settling over his forehead.
"You're an early riser," he cleared his throat, stepping into the kitchen.
Harry's hair was even worse than Tom's, the dark curls practically defying gravity with their volume. Tom wanted to run his fingers through the curls and wondered, distantly, if that was what people meant by 'sex-hair'. Harry was wrapped in a baggy red and gold striped sweater, the colors completely uncomplimentary to his pale complexion. An apron was loosely tied around his waist, the hem trailing against pale, freckled thighs. "How are you doing?" He smiled shyly.
"It's cold," Tom stated, rather abruptly. In an attempt to bring those long legs out of his line of sight, he settled onto a kitchen stool, settling his hands awkwardly onto the counter. He almost didn't know what to do with them. "And shouldn't I be asking you that?"
"Sorry," Harry easily sidestepped the inquiry. "The thermostat's a bit tetchy in the morning." Harry placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Tom. His eyes lingered on the bloodstains, but said nothing. Tom took a tentative sip of his drink before staring down at it, eyes wide. "It's not poisoned," Harry said, arching a brow. "Promise."
"No - it's just, this is exactly how I like it," he said. "One sugar, spoonful of honey. How did you know?"
"Oh," Harry flushed, fingers curling around his own cup. "That's just how I take it. I wasn't - it was just habit, is all."
There was an awkward pause. Harry leaned against the counter, eyes downcast. Tom desperately wanted to reach over and lift Harry's chin and scream 'we spent the night together, and you can't even look at me?'.
Tom hated himself for even thinking that, when he knew what Harry was.
Harry was the second half of the Matchmaker. And looking back with hindsight, it all seemed so clear.
The realization was in part due to a slow recollection of Hestia Jones' profile; Harry was innocent looking, in the closet, a dog owner, had a background in chemistry - there was also the lack of a recording device in the coffin and the Matchmaker's need to insert himself into the crime. The puzzles pieces all seemed to fit. Seeing the chloroform in Harry's cabinet was the final nail in the coffin.
He hadn't wanted to believe it at first, but Tom - above all else - was a detective. He deduced the signs. He could no longer ignore them.
Tom found himself despising the oath of honor he had given, swearing to seek truth and justice. He didn't want to think about what would happen outside of this house; whether it be handcuffing Harry's thin wrists and taking him to court, or seeing him wither away inside an asylum.
Tom's only saving grace was that it was clear Harry hadn't been working alone.
Frustrated with himself, and the situation, Tom let his eyes wander.
The freesias he had stolen were displayed in a vase, petals crumpled and the color almost grey as they'd wilted overnight. But the way Harry was looking at them - eyes soft, a smile lilting his pink lips - made Tom see at them in a new light.
"It's morning," Harry said, peeking back at Tom. "Shouldn't . . . shouldn't you be finding Ginny? At the train station?"
"My men can handle her. I informed Kingsley of her whereabouts last night before coming over, he's more than excited to get this shitshow over with." Harry blinked at the profanity. "His words, not mine."
Harry's tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. He opened his mouth as if about to ask a question, when the oven went off.
"That'll be the scones," His voice pitched. Setting down his cup, he bustled over and slipped on an oven mitt. He removed a tray of freshly baked scones, the room filling with the smell of blueberries and melted macadamia nut.
"Wow," Tom said, thrown for a loop. The last time he had a home-cooked breakfast was . . . honestly, too long ago to count. "You didn't have to. "
"You're my guest, alright?" Harry scraped the pastries onto a plate. "Least I could do is feed you. I was going to make sausage, but Padfoot gets hyper and will snatch the food from your plate," he said, smirking. He placed a scone in front of Tom. "And if this is my final meal, at least the company is worth it," he murmured.
Tom tactfully ignored the comment, blowing away the steam. He took a bite, relishing in the heat, blueberry bursting on his tongue. "It's good. Really good."
Harry shrugged, chagrined. "I've been making breakfast since before I knew the alphabet. My aunt and uncle - well, you know."
Chewing thoughtfully, Tom made a decision.
"I haven't had a homemade breakfast for years," he confided softly. "I don't have time in the morning, and even if I did, it wouldn't be good. I'm a horrid cook, compared to my mother. And she's not doing much, these days. It's a relief if she even takes her medication."
Eyes wide, Harry seemed to understand the significance of Tom's anecdote
Even if it was something as simple as his morning routine, he was opening up. Slowly, Harry moved to sit beside him, hands curled around his tea. He waited patiently for Tom to finish his bite, throat bobbing as he carefully chose his next words.
His tone was controlled, level, unemotional - even as his eyelashes fluttered in pain. "When I was twenty-one," he started, haltingly. He'd never said it aloud before. "She was diagnosed with leukemia. The symptoms started small, with a strange purplish rash. It took a while to realize her blood vessels were bursting. She bruised so easily, her nose bled at night and she lost weight so damn fast," once he started, Tom realized he couldn't stop. He lifted a steadying hand to his heart.
"The first few months, I tried to care for her myself. But with my lifestyle, the odd hours and the stress, it simply wasn't viable. The doctors recommended Madam Pomfrey - my mother's nurse - and she's been a lifesaver. Not just for my mother, but for me, as well. She made sure I ate something every morning, even if it wasn't a freshly baked scone," Tom choked out a laugh, lifting the pastry that he'd half forgotten in his hand. He took a decisive bite, chewing mechanically.
"She encouraged me to spend time with my coworkers, tried to help me find a life outside of work and my mother. It didn't work much, but - without her, I'd have given up a long time ago. With all the hospital bills, medication, therapy, Poppy's salary, I had to work overtime. My boss at the time, Scrimgeour, took my sudden fervor as an indication that I wanted a promotion. When he retired, he recommended me for the job, and I've never been so grateful," Tom shifted on his stool, staring down at his half-empty teacup. He took a delicate sip, although it was going cold.
"The pay was excellent, it was more of a desk job and it offered me the chance to boss people around," his lips quirked in a sly smile. Harry smiled back, eyes sad.
"I'm not very well-liked among my peers, but that's alright," Tom said, wiping the crumbs from his fingers. "I don't need to be liked, but respected - that's all I ask for. That's all I've ever wanted, to - to make an impact. I could've done anything. My father - " Tom shook his head, eyes hard. "He left my mother before I was born. He's high-born, has property to manage, couldn't bother himself with the gardener he knocked up. He still sends me Christmas gifts and set aside a college fund for me, as though that's enough to make up for the childhood of neglect."
Harry flinched at the word. Tom was angry now, practically spitting. "I haven't touched the money, although I wanted to. I tried to visit him once, when mother first fell ill. He has an entirely other family, a wife and her half-wit children from another marriage. They're not biologically related to me - thankfully. But Thomas - my father, my namesake - he was sympathetic but otherwise anxious to get me out the door. He offered to pay for her medical bills, and that's what I came for - ultimately, I refused. I looked at him, in his precious mansion, his silk, monogrammed pajamas, and his handsome face, softened around the edges from years of lazing about, and I wanted to smack him. Worse, I wanted to take his offer of money and shove it down his throat," Tom snarled, fists clenching hard enough to do some damage.
Tentatively, Harry reached over and touched his white knuckles, smoothing over them. Tom relaxed, minutely, curling his hand around Harry's in a grateful squeeze. "Well. Needless to say, I left and never returned. I went to the Police Academy on my own merit, used the name 'Gaunt' until I graduated so no one would recognize me - and now, I'm the motherfucking Detective Chief Inspector," his voiced oozed with smug superiority.
Seeing the vindictive spark in his eyes, Harry was struck breathless. Tom, sleep-mussed and a chatterbox was attractive enough - but Tom Riddle, bastard son and head of the DLE was something else entirely.
Harry wanted to kiss him.
He desperately wanted to kiss him.
So he did.
Using their intertwined hands, Harry tugged Tom closer and forcefully pressed their lips together. Tom made a muffled sound of surprise before it morphed into a pleased snarl.
He tore his hand away and gripped at Harry's curls, pulling him closer, their teeth clacking and noses brushing. Tom relished in the feeling of Harry's hair between his fingers - it was just as soft as he thought.
Someone slipped their tongue in and soon they were tangled in a battle that had no clear winner. Harry was practically crawling into Tom's lap, although the jut of the marble countertop and the dangerous tilt of the kitchen stool made it difficult. Tom's other hand crept it's way up Harry's lovely, smooth thigh, pushing aside his overlong sweater and skimming the edge of his briefs.
For a moment, however brief, Tom forgot about their circumstances and allowed himself to feel. Denial was his friend this morning, it seemed.
It didn't last long.
Smelling the pheromones (or perhaps wondering what could make his master whimper like that), Padfoot wandered into the kitchen. His claws clattered against the floor and his collar jangled noisily. He barked. He was hungry.
Harry pulled away first, panting heavily against Tom's lips. Tom relaxed his grip on Harry's hair, tenderly massaging his sore scalp, regretting the harsh action. The boy had a head wound, after all.
"I suppose you'll be arresting me now," Harry stated, breathless. Blue and green met, Tom arching a curious brow. "For assaulting an officer."
"No," Tom said, licking his lips. "No arrest will be made. You're just - you're just making good on the promise I made in the coffin. I should've done this a lot earlier."
Harry laughed. "Better late than never. Considering that if Ginny has her say, I'm going to be spending a long time in a room with gray walls and a straitjacket."
"Is that . . . an admission of guilt?" Tom grunted, carefully pushing Harry off him. Tom was loathe to break the spell, so he forced an air of normality- as though it was an everyday occurrence to make out with a criminal. "Feed your dog, by the way," he added.
Padfoot whined in agreement.
Harry cleared their plates, lips dripping with saliva and breath unsteady from the impromptu snogging. He glared down at Padfoot's snuffling black snout and whispered. "Cockblocker." Ruffling Padfoot's ears, Harry poured him a bowl of dog food and water.
Tom was still at the counter, legs crossed to hide a rather prominent erection. Harry would be lying if he said he didn't have the same problem. Returning to his earlier place, the counter between them as a careful but unfortunate barricade, Harry wiped the table down.
Tom glanced at the oven clock. "By the way," He cleared his throat, suddenly all business. The effect was rather diminished by the flush to his cheeks and the way his lower half avoided friction. "It's seven. Ginny will be in custody soon."
Harry tipped his head at the clock, lips pursed in seriousness. "How'd you find her, anyway?"
"I found a strand of Luna's hair in Ginny's diary," Tom said vaguely. "And a receipt for a ticket to Cornwall. What's in Cornwall for her?"
"Shell Cottage," Harry said immediately. "Her brother's place. He's in France with his wife. She's always talked about sneaking over for a vacation. Wait. How did you get her diary?"
"Long story short, I owe Rita Skeeter a favor. An 'exclusive interview'," he looked so thoroughly disgusted with himself that Harry took the risk and placed his hand on Tom's.
"We could - we could do it together?"
"Yes. We could," Tom seemed contemplative. "Detective Chief Inspector and his 'Match' tell-all." Harry's lips tightened in amusement. Tom continued, a slow smirk growing on his features. "About their brave final confrontation with the woman who buried them alive."
"You could be a writer," Harry said definitively. "Better than that drivel Skeeter writes." He shifted uncomfortably in Tom's arms. "Want to . . . " he started shyly. "Take this to the bedroom? Just - just to talk? It'd more comfortable, that's all."
Amused, Tom let him pull away. "I don't need another excuse to get into your bed."
Cheeks flushing the exact shade of his sweater, Harry exclaimed. "Tom!"
'Post-coital bliss' sounded ridiculous on paper, but there was no other way for Tom to describe the oozy, lethargic content that overcame him. They were (mostly) still dressed, but Harry's throat was littered in bite marks, his lips red and wet. The door was closed and they could hear Padfoot wandering the apartment, so there was no chance of them being interrupted again.
Tom traced Harry's bottom lip gently, slowly pressing a finger inside. Harry latched onto it, the tip of his tongue moist and curious about the taste. "Salty," he said softly, releasing Tom's finger. "Tastes like you."
"I sure hope so," Tom kissed Harry's lips one last time.
He liked seeing Harry, swimming in that over-large sweater, soft, small and pliant beneath him. His fingers trailed mournfully down to the waistband of Harry's briefs. Later, he promised himself. Self-indulgent, he placed light pressure on Harry's bulge, smirking at Harry's hiss. He pulled away just as fast, leaving the boy in a state of sensitive semi-hardness.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind," he whispered, his breath tickling the small hairs by Harry's ears. "If we tread carefully, you'd be an excellent character witness in court. Ginny was your good friend, wasn't she?"
Harry's eyes slipped shut. "That's one way of putting it," he murmured.
"I assure you, everything we say in here, stays in here," Tom said firmly. "You could help us find the missing girl - or, I could bring you in, and we wouldn't be able to do anything like this," he pressed his lips rapidly against Harry's. "For a very, very long time. Tell me about Luna Lovegood."
"In bed?" Harry groaned, hiding his face in the pillow. "Quite the mood-killer, Tom."
"Just making conversation," he said innocently.
Harry made a vague noise, turning his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, the skin around them crinkling. "She was a sweetheart," Harry said, after a moment. "I didn't want to think Ginny could hurt her, but once I started thinking it, it made all too much sense. There always was a slim line between love and hate," his hand moved to clench Tom's shirt. "Do you think she's dead?"
"I think if Ginny was willing to kill you, the only one who could possibly understand her, she must've had a reason," Tom stated resolutely. "Then again, two can keep a secret if one of them is dead."
"I'd prefer if we didn't talk about my death in bed, either," Harry said tiredly. Tom moved his fingers over the small, raised scar on Harry's forehead. It was still tender, the stitches flaming red. "Unless you mean la petit mort."
Tom didn't rise to the challenge, instead - almost obsessively - tracing the wound. It was peculiarly-shaped, a bit like a bolt of lightning. "If we're going to indict Ginny for Luna's death, I might need more than the hair," Tom said, almost absently. "A body would help."
He adjusted the pillow behind him, leaning back with a yawn. "She'd keep Luna close - somewhere accessible, but not somewhere she'd be liable for."
"Other than her home and her parent's, Ginny doesn't have many safe spaces. Just my place, I suppose," for a moment, green eyes darted toward the closet. The dresser innocuously blocked its entry.
Tom blinked in sudden realization. ". . . Harry," he started slowly, gaze drifting to the closet. "What's in your closet?"
"J - just some bad memories."
Bad memories, Tom wondered. Like a literal skeleton in the closet.
"Um," Harry said, watching Tom pull out of bed and pad his way over to the dresser drawers. Harry had hoped, rather selflessly, that this could wait until later. Much later.
Watching Tom huff and grunt as he pushed the dresser aside, Harry covered his face. Dread crept in, breaking past the relief and pleasure Harry had been feeling only a few scant minutes ago.
As Tom opened the closet doors, they were immediately hit with an awful, rotting smell. It was intermixed with perfume, a feminine scent corrupted by decay.
"Oh," Harry breathed, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth, covering his nose. The smell was rancid. He stumbled out of bed, ready to be sick. "Oh, god."
Light flooded the room, but the only thing they saw was the body.
Wrapped tightly in a tarp, with bloodied blonde hair splayed out on the floor, was Luna's corpse. She was pale in death, the lower half of her face covered - but what they could see was enough.
Stony-faced, Tom crept to her side, pushed up his sleeves and tentatively moved to lift her eyelids. She was long dead, her crystalline eyes filmy and caked with dried blood. If Tom's his stomach wasn't so strong from years of exposure to these sorts of atrocities, he'd be tasting breakfast again. "How could you not notice this here?" he asked, appalled, the heat of anger sharpening his tone. "You should have smelled it, at the very least. Depending on the conditions, temperature and air flow, decomposition would've started after a few days."
"I don't - " Harry placed a hand over his eyes, expression wane. "I thought the smell was Padfoot, that he made a mess somewhere. I haven't been in here for weeks . . . she must have brought it here while I was walking the dog a few weeks ago," he said, almost abashed. "I noticed the door was unlocked when I came home, but I didn't think much of it."
"I think you mentioned that she has a key?"
"Y - yes."
"I need you to be sure, Harry. This . . . could really incriminate you. Not just the body," Tom rose from his crouch. "The pictures, the tapes, the map, diameters for coffins," he carefully pinched the corner of a paper, lifting it off the desk. He inspected the dimensions with a shrewd eye, almost impressed. "What is all this? Did you make these? I wasn't aware you had any handy-man skills," Tom said, accusing.
"I know enough," Harry defended. "But . . . but I had an inheritance from my godfather that helped."
Tom arched a brow, setting down the parchment. "I thought you lived with your aunt and uncle? Have you been lying to me all this time?"
"No - no, Tom! I did. He wasn't fit for custody," Harry insisted, gaze fixated on the halo of blonde hair across his floor. "He was incarcerated and died in a prison brawl when I was thirteen. I received an inheritance when I turned of age, enough for me to afford school. But . . . there was also a house. In total disrepair, and more than a bit creepy. His entire family was obsessed with death. His father made coffins, his mother was a mortician and his brother was the last body they buried. They kept some unfinished caskets in the basement of their house, and I fixed them up," he explained, mouth twisting as Tom stepped toward the wall of pictures.
Tom lingered on one; it was a blurry image of himself, speaking into his cell phone as he crossed the street toward work. Tom's fingers trembled imperceptibly.
"I made them - well, comfier for a living person, drilled a hole for the tube, attached the recording device. It . . . " he moved in a frenzied manner toward a device tucked into one of the desk drawers. He had to reach over Luna to grab it. "The device automatically sent a signal to my computer, and we transferred the audio onto tapes. It was mostly a way to monitor them, I suppose," he flushed, realizing that was practically an admittance in and of itself. When Tom's expression remained blank, open and encouraging, Harry took in a deep breath. He fidgeted with his sweater sleeves, unsure where to begin. "Eavesdropping like that, it made us feel in control," he muttered, ducking his head. "And it also was so we so we would when it was time for them to be released. I'd call the police and - well, you know the rest from there." His head was ducked as he handed Tom the tape recorder.
Tom pursed his lips, fighting back the disappointment that threatened to bubble forward.
"Did you save the recordings? Keep them? Listen to them, over and over, reliving their torture - "
Harry was stricken. "No! I mean - yes, Ginny did. That was all her idea. She liked to listen to her and Luna's. It was creepy. I never did it. She would always get so angry because despite all her work to make Luna dependent," he forced out. "They were still having trouble. It made me sick."
"Is that why there was no recording device in our coffin?
"I didn't want her to listen in on us," Harry's face was red with embarrassment. "That was just between you and me. She was supposed to leave an anonymous tip with the police after the day was up; I know that would've been less time than the other matches had, but I already cared too much for you to let you suffer long."
Tom arched a brow. "Suffer, huh? Whatever happened to 'helping' others?"
Harry was quick to elaborate, tugging manically on his shirt sleeves. "I know now that it was just torture. It wasn't helping anyone, it just made things worse. Mundungus Fletcher is dead, Myrtle Warren tried to kill herself - I track her social media. Dumbledore is dead. Luna is missing. Perhaps I should've let Ginny kill me."
Tom made a noise in his throat, disgusted, and Harry flinched. "How much of this was your idea, then, Harry?"
A tongue darted out to lick his lips. "I can't quite recall," Harry began, slow. Tom glared at him.
Harry glanced down at Luna, wincing. "C - can we talk in my room? The smell - "
Tom didn't move, not an inch, not even to blink.
Harry wondered if this was some sort of punishment.
"Okay," he blinked rapidly, his eyes gleaming with a suppressed wave of tears. It was like trying to hold back a waterfall, pointless and painful. "Okay, I get it. Don't you think I hate myself enough, Tom? It was me. I - I started this. I was sad and desperate - pathetic," he spat, nails scraping into his face. "I read a lot, and I found this research. I think you've read it, too. 'Mutual vulnerability fosters closeness.' I'm usually - when Ginny and I talk, it's hard enough for me to get a word in edgewise. She's the youngest of seven, she has to speak loud to get her point across - it's what makes her such a good journalist. She dominates conversations; s-so, if I have something to say, it better be good. Ginny was upset because she and Luna had been fighting. They were always fighting, it felt like, but all I said was that they should just . . . have better communication," he said brokenly. "That they should spend some time working on their relationship - show some vulnerability. And she . . . she wanted to try."
"There's a vast difference between talking things out and burying yourself underground," Tom said sharply, his throat tight.
"I know. I know. It sounded drastic at the time, I knew it . . . but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't stop dreaming about it - being in the coffin, waking up next to someone and knowing that in a few short hours you'll be closer than close. It sounded like - like immersion therapy, you know? Facing your fears, side-by-side with your soulmate?"
Harry wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Ginny took care of dousing Luna with the chloroform. I got some of the chemicals from work, but it's pretty easy to make. So long as you have chlorine bleach, you can mix it with some common household liquids. Acetone is in paint varnish, isopropyl is in rubbing alcohol," he said, almost nervous. "Transportation was the hard part. We buried the coffin ahead of time. Ginny's brother, Ron, is in freelance construction - he's gullible, and she's persuasive. Once we got to the burial site, it was easy for Ginny to lower herself and Luna into the coffin and arrange themselves. I made sure she could breathe. I made sure the recording device was working. The whole point of recording - it was all about them, ensuring the matches were safe. I didn't want to listen in, but Ginny . . . she told me to wait for the 'magic words' before calling the police. Our entire motive was getting Luna to admit her love for Ginny. Once we had that, it wasn't supposed to go any farther."
"But it did," Tom said, and those simple words made Harry's entire demeanor collapse in on himself.
"Ginny said," he murmured, twisting his lips. "She said we had to hide our involvement. If the kidnapping was only a one-off, she thought the police would be suspicious."
Tom narrowed his eyes. "But the case would've likely gone unsolved. You wouldn't be in this mess. Surely you can see that?"
A tear fell loose and made its way down Harry's cheek. He swiped it away, breath catching. "I couldn't have done this without her. She couldn't have done it without me. It was - it always has been both of us. I admit that. It might've been my research that triggered it, but she escalated. And I was twisted enough to agree with it. All of it."
"And take it a step further, time and time again?"
Harry was crying freely now. "I felt horrible the whole time, the build-up, the execution. It was only when I let them out that I felt this overwhelming relief. Watching them get together, announce their engagement or relationship - I felt like I'd done something amazing. I created love out of nothing, love out of animosity. It - it felt good. Ginny needed validation she could have a happily ever after, too, so we kept going. We couldn't stop. It like an addiction. After Ginny and Luna was Gilderoy and Dung, then Myrtle and Olive, then Dumbledore and Grindelwald. After them - I wanted to stop. I was going to, but suddenly it didn't seem fair." His voice went up an octave. "It didn't seem fair, that Ginny could have her true love, that my 'matches' could be together, but I couldn't. It wasn't fair that I couldn't have someone, too."
Tom could taste bile in the back of his mouth. Perhaps it was shock that had made him so - so accepting before. Accepting enough to bed the younger man, but seeing proof - hearing proof was almost too much to bear. He hadn't truly realized the extent of Harry's manipulation until now. Whether the manipulation was meant with cruel intentions, however, was nebulous.
Shoulders stiff, Tom left the little closet and leaned heavily against Harry's vanity, breathing through his mouth.
He lifted his head as Harry - the younger man grateful for a reprieve from the smell - shut the closet door behind them. "Why me?" He spat, hating that he found Harry's trim figure, skin glowing in the morning light, so damn attractive. Both of them were still without pants, and Tom wanted to vindictively strip the other man bare. He wanted to reveal Harry's blemishless skin and mar it, scrape his nails down in bloody red lines, injure him physically like Tom was injured emotionally. "Why did you chose me, out of all people? I'm a cop, you dumbarse, if anyone was going to catch you - "
"I wanted it to be you," Harry said rapidly, lowering himself to the bed.
"You wanted to be caught?" Tom said, affronted.
Harry shook his head fervently. Dark curls fluttered through the air, falling into his eyes. "Not to be caught. I wanted you. We first met after Romilda Vane tried giving me poisoned chocolates. She was fighting you so hard, but you were calm, collected, and seemed so - professional. You introduced yourself as Detective Chief Inspector, and I asked myself why would such an important man come down to help me of all people. "
Tom couldn't help but remember. He had thought about that day so many times, desolately unable to find in his memory any glimpse of the green-eyed boy. Harry simply hadn't been important enough, back then. By now, he knew differently - but that didn't change the facts.
"We were short-staffed that day," Tom said slowly. "And I had been sick of paperwork. My mother - she had just had a relapse, and I wanted something that would remind me of why I was on the force. So I took the call."
Harry was quiet for a moment. Cheeks a faint shade of pink, he glanced up shyly. "Well, I thought it was fate. I wanted to thank you, but I never got the chance," Harry clenched the bed covers tightly. "And I thought I never would have the chance again. Then Slughorn assigned me to work the backroom, and you - you started coming in. Ordering medication for your mother. You told Slughorn that the price didn't matter, your mother wanted it, so she would get it. I - I heard your voice and I dropped a vial. It shattered all over me, and it smelt - " his eyes slipped shut. "It smelt like the earth, like dirt and soil and blood. I closed my eyes and listened to your voice, and I remembered your dark curls, your sharp eyes, those cheekbones, those strong hands - I'd never felt that way before. Not really."
Tom's brows furrowed. The flattery brushed against his shields and he couldn't stop his heart from picking up. "What do you mean?"
"When I was a kid, I forced it all down so much. My - my sexuality," he said, with a bitter curl of the lips. "I'm sure your profile could tell I was 'in the closet'. Perhaps even impotent. You know better than anyone that I'm not, I just . . . repressed it all. I yearned, but I could never touch. I - I hated myself, and I thought that someone like you could never love someone like me. Then I remembered - my matches. Lockhart and Fletcher, Myrtle and Olive - they all came from different worlds, and yet - they could find that happiness. Why couldn't I? Why can't I?"
Tom leaned into the vanity, watching Harry's reflection with hooded eyes. It was nearly impossible to resist the temptation of reaching out and providing comfort. It was easy last night. Why was it suddenly so hard now?
So much for his self-imposed avoidance, Tom grimaced.
He remembered predicting that this would only end in tears and heartbreak.
Harry was - he was broken. His reflection was almost warped as the boy curled into himself on the bed, lonely and isolated. He resembled a child, and Tom couldn't help imagining a young boy with shaggy hair and skeletal limbs curled up in a cupboard under the stairs. "Please don't be angry with me," Harry practically begged. "I didn't want to deceive you, but its the only way . . . the only way . . . " Harry trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
"The only way you know how to show love? I've heard that before," Tom spat.
"It was all real, Tom," Harry swore. "Everything I said, every emotion. It was just - just orchestrated."
Blue eyes rolled upward, still blazing.
"God help me, but I believe you. I want to help you, but to do that, you'll have to tell me everything," Tom's lips twisted bitterly. "And by everything, I mean everything, Harry. The kidnappings, the orchestration, your motives. Luna's disappearance. I deserve that much, don't I?"
"And more," Harry added, quietly.
Flicking his eyes up and down Harry's body - seeing those legs tremble, the fabric of his sweater stretched and his cheeks ruddy with emotion, Tom's eyes darkened.
"I - I just don't understand," Harry spoke quietly. "You're a police officer. How can you just - " he closed his eyes. "I feel like this is all a trap, and as soon as I step outside of this house, I'll be arrested. It's a trap I'd willingly walk into, but a trap all the same."
Tom's lips pressed together, thinning. "I don't understand it either. It's so strange to me, that despite the badge and cuffs in my coat pocket, I haven't arrested you." There was much he wanted to say. "Everything is starting to look a lot different," his lips tugged into a frown.
"H - how so?"
Tom watched his one reflection, sweeping a hand down his cheek. Harry was staring at him, green eyes wide. "I find myself . . . disliking the person I used to be. The person I had become. Cold. Unfeeling. I put up all these walls to keep myself from getting hurt. You tore them down."
Harry winced. "I'm sorry,"
"Don't be," Tom sighed, almost defeated. "It's harder this way, certainly, but I feel - this odd emotion, persevering despite the anger and hurt. Contentness, perhaps."
"Happiness?" Harry breathed, hopeful.
"Whatever it is, it's an emotion I haven't experienced in so long it feels foreign."
Harry sat up, pleading. His was lying deferentially on the bed, knees under him in a pose of worship. "Tom. You - you brought back to life. I regret so much, everything - except you," he said fervently. "I've seen what my actions have done to the other matches; it's driven them to hate, to drugs, to murder. I couldn't . . . I was terrified that would happen with us once you found out. As soon as I got out of the coffin, I couldn't let you kiss me, knowing what I'd done. I couldn't - I couldn't sully you like that. I don't deserve your help, or your pity - "
Strange, that only days ago it was Tom was thinking he could ever deserve Harry.
"Pity?" Tom tested the word. "No, never pity, Harry. It seems right, doesn't it? That someone desperate for love falls for someone afraid of it. Some twisted sort of hell. You do love me, don't you?"
"I'd never wanted anything more than I wanted you." Harry blurted. "It wasn't sexual, at first, it was more . . . emotional. I wanted those sharp eyes to look at me, to see me. I wanted your stony face to smile. I wanted to hear you say my name, with love in your voice, and I wanted to say yours in return."
His whole body shuddered.
Tom slowly peeled away from the vanity, turning toward Harry.
"I planned it to a 'T'. I had Ginny abduct you, so it would be - we could meet fresh, in the coffin. I laid beside you, awake, for an hour while she lowered is in. I watched you, in the darkness, just breathing softly. If I closed my eyes I could imagine we were in bed. Together. Nothing I said in the coffin was a lie - nothing important, at least. That was me," the words rushed from his mouth, slurring and wet. Tom had to strain to hear him. "The 'me' that was scared, hurt and lonely, and just as vulnerable as my other victims. I - could feel every second pass, and I never wanted to leave. I was secure in the knowledge we could get out, but - when the time limit had passed, I was - I was almost relieved. I wanted to stay in that moment between life and death with you. I wanted to die with you. To die with someone who I loved. And to have our love transcend - "
A curl fell into his eyes, and Tom brushed it away without a thought.
"Life and death," Tom whispered. He was suddenly close - too close.
He breathed against Harry's neck, leaning over the boy's body with careful precision. Green eyes fell open, meeting Tom's immediately.
"Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him," Harry said, tongue darting out to lick away the salt from his tears. Tom wanted a taste, too.
Tom leaned closer, bracketing Harry's body with his knees, a prison of flesh and unyielding muscle. "You were my God," Harry gasped, arching into the touch. "I trusted you, more than I trusted Ginny, to get us out."
"Then trust me with this," Tom said, his breath tickling Harry's lips. They were less than a hair's width apart, close but not close enough. Tom held himself firm. "We have Luna's body. We have all the evidence we need to indict her - "
"Are you saying . . . " Harry trembled. He was too afraid to hope. "That you and I, we could be free?"
"That's precisely what I'm saying. Do try to keep up."
"I'm . . . I'm trying, Tom. But how would you explain my presence? My fingerprintsall over everything," Harry put his hands on Tom's chest, feeling the pocket of his dress shirt. The photo within crinkled, and Harry took it out. Pain entered his eyes.
Tom plucked the photo away, staring down at it, himself. "You found it first," he began, contemplative. "You found everything . . . the body, the photos, everything. You caught her at your house, trying to frame you for the kidnappings and the murder. There was a scuffle - " Tom's fingers brushed against the scar on Harry's forehead. Harry winced, the wound still sensitive. "And I just so happened to be meeting you for our first date. I heard something crash - eliciting probable cause - and forced my way inside just as Ginny made her break."
"So - everything?" Harry asked, unbelieving. "Everything on Ginny's shoulders? Tom, how could she possibly bury herself? "
"Not everyone's as perceptive as you, darling," Tom played with the term of endearment, pleased when Harry flushed. "Perhaps it was a ploy - a lover's ploy, with her and Luna, to spice up their love life. But Ginny became obsessed with 'helping' others - giving them the same chance at love as her and Luna."
Harry struggled under Tom, pushing up. Their hips brushed accidentally, and Harry stilled. "Luna - she's innocent, Tom. We can't - "
"She's dead, Harry," Tom hissed into his ear. "And she was in an abusive relationship, emotionally and physically. The two fit our profile. Innocent, unassuming, small in stature. Ginny was intelligent, while Luna was altruistic. We predicted abuse in the Matchmaker's past," he brushed his lips apologetically against Harry's earlobe when the boy flinched. "And as the youngest of seven, Ginny must have felt neglected at times - it was hard for her voice to be heard, and with all the rough-housing in large families, violence was the only way she knew how. Luna, meanwhile, was a pacifist. And the two personalities clashed and confused even our best profilers."
Harry panted softly, unable to control the swivel of his hips as Tom spoke huskily into his ear.
"It was a lovers ploy," Tom continued. "And nothing more - until it turned deadly, and they turned on each other. Where did Luna work, Harry?"
"She writes f - for a nature magazine. O - on exotic animals and plants. Her friend, Neville, owned n-nursery," Harry stammered as Tom worked his way down to the boy's angular jugular.
Tom smirked against the boy's heated skin. Awfully convenient. "So she had access to plants? To poisons and chemicals?"
"I - I suppose so, yes," Harry said, strangled. Tom mouthed at his Adam's apple. To Harry, this was torture.
"Good," he breathed. Unwilling to give Harry any release, he lifted his hips away from Harry's. "Additionally," he hummed. "One of your victims, Myrtle, remembered your dog. What's to be done about that?"
Harry bit his lip, regretful at the loss of friction. "Ginny dog-sat, sometimes. When I had to work overtime or go to conferences in Slughorn's stead," he offered, quietly. "Tom? Do you - you think it'll work?
Tom pulled back. His face was soft, fond, with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He trailed his fingers down, down to rest over Harry's heart. The pulse was rapid, and Tom was enraptured; to hold a monster's heart in his hand was a form of control he never wanted to relinquish. "I have connections, Harry. I'm intimate with the investigation process, and I'm thorough. But for this to work - you need to be committed."
"C-committed?" Harry squeaked.
"Yes. Committed to your innocence. Committed to your life," his nails dug into Harry's chest, biting. Harry arched his back into it. "Committed to me. To trusting me. You trusted me to get you out of the coffin alive, Harry. Can you trust me with this?"
Looking into those green eyes, glittering like the finest emeralds, Tom already knew Harry's answer.
Harry stared up in awe at Tom, amazed that such a man - once a good, honorable man - would commit himself to Harry's cause. Harry wondered - did commitment equate to love? He supposed it didn't matter; so long as Tom kept touching him like this, protecting him like this, saying his name in that smooth, controlling tone. Harry would die a hundred little deaths just to keep this.
He breathed out the words, leaning forward to whisper it against Tom's lips.
"I do."
Tom kissed him back, just as fierce.
Out of the two of them, Tom was still the darker one; he was simply better at hiding it.
If they were to compare demons and darkness now . . .
the scale would be absolutely equal.
EXCLUSIVE: In this video, 'The Matchmaker' survivors reveal how they stayed alive despite betrayal and loss.
by Rita Skeeter
Skip to . . . [12:05]
(SOUNDBITE OF MUSIC)
SKEETER: Well, what do you say? After that short break, onto the hard questions?
POTTER: Oh, so asking about our sex life wasn't a hard question?
SKEETER: Mr. Potter, you sly boy! I see why you like this one, Tom.
RIDDLE (snorts): Sometimes, I wonder.
SKEETER: Jokes aside, Harry, I know this is a difficult subject for you, but I have to ask. You were Ginny Weasley's best friend - you didn't notice anything? Anything at all?
POTTER: You were her coworker, Rita. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, isn't it? Even with my terrible vision. (Laughter). I look back, and my view of her is sullied. I suspect everything. Every word she spoke, every strange look, every dark joke. The way she spoke about Luna is especially damning. I thought they were the perfect couple. I wanted to be like them, to find someone I loved enough to . . . you know. Bury them six feet underground in the pursuit of a damn good conversation.
SKEETER: It didn't work for them, did it? Or any of the matches. But it worked for you two?
RIDDLE: It did. Rest assured, we won't be - ah, participating in any illicit drug deals, sleeping with our secretaries or smothering each other in our sleep. I hope. (Laughter)
SKEETER: Yes, well, wishful thinking is all well and good, but -
RIDDLE: The proof is in the pudding.
POTTER: I never understood that saying. (Laughter)
SKEETER: Ha! Neither do I. But please, Tom, continue.
RIDDLE: We broke the pattern. We clawed our way out of the coffin, defying the Matchmaker's - Ginny's - methodology. We survived Ginny, again and again. There's no doubt in my mind we'll survive whatever obstacles are thrown in our path, together.
SKEETER: Well put, Tom.
POTTER: He's good with words.
SKEETER: Wonder what it would take to make him speechless, hm, Harry? (Laughter)
RIDDLE: Ah - please ask another question, Rita.
SKEETER: Alright, alright. On the subject of betrayal, Harry, what do you think of Weasley's accusations - that you were her partner-in-crime, the Clyde to her Bonnie?
POTTER: Sounds ridiculous when you say it like that. It hurts, is all. Even knowing everything that she's done, her betrayal hurts the most.
RIDDLE: Harry's been through enough without these false accusations painting him out to be anything other than what he is; a survivor.
POTTER: Tom . . . we both are. I wouldn't have lived without you.
RIDDLE (leaning in for a kiss): Nor I, you.
SKEETER: Oh, how sweet. I hate to cut your enjoyment short, boys, but you have an audience of millions, here. And we've a time restraint. Aw, now Harry's blushing
POTTER: S - sorry.
RIDDLE: I'm not going to apologize for that.
SKEETER: I don't expect you to, Tom. I'm just amazed. Despite everything, you're together -
RIDDLE: Not despite everything, Rita - because of everything. We never would've met, we never would've forged this profound bond without all that's occurred.
POTTER: I was in a dark place when I met Tom. Both figuratively and literally. I was just coming to terms with my sexuality and having . . . difficulty finding healthy ways to cope with past trauma.
TOM: Darling.
POTTER: It's alright. I'm fine. But really, Tom saved my life. That's a fact.
SKEETER: Digging your way out of a grave was quite the feat.
POTTER: Well, the desire to survive was pretty strong. And it didn't hurt that he promised that he'd kiss me.
SKEETER: Did he ever kiss you, as he promised?
RIDDLE: Eventually, I did. But not for a long while - when we got out, we were both tired and covered with dirt. It wasn't pretty, and swapping saliva wasn't on the top of our list.
POTTER: Yes, I was bleeding from - here, I can show you the scar.
SKEETER: Oh dear, that looks painful. And you've another scar from Ginny's attack, correct? I've got some readers calling you the 'Boy Who Lived'. It's quaint, isn't it?
POTTER: Er, no. It's just Harry, please. Just Harry.
SKEETER: Well, it's either that or the 'Chosen One'. Considering you two were hand-picked by the -
RIDDLE: We get it.
SKEETER: Humph. So, why wait so long to kiss?
POTTER: Things were just different, outside of the coffin. We were no longer two men on the brink of death. We were just trying to find our way home. We found a trucker and Tom contacted one of his coworkers, Diggle -
RIDDLE: I believe you know him quite well, Rita? You might be upset to learn he's recently lost his job - he was leaking secrets to the press, I don't suppose you know anything about that?
SKEETER (clears throat): I - ah - I wouldn't. Harry, please continue?
POTTER: . . . well, things happened so fast after that. Local police and first responders arrived, I was taken to the hospital while Tom stayed behind - it's always about work, for him. We . . . we lost contact for a while, until Tom used that famous policeman courage and asked me out. Turns out we'd both been having dreams about one another for a while.
SKEETER: I'm afraid to ask what sort of dreams. (Laughter). How was your first date?
RIDDLE: You've probably heard all about that by now. You've written half the news articles on the break-in and attempted framing. And to be frank, we're sick of talking about it. We just want - we want to be together, and to carry on as a united front.
SKEETER: You love each other, then? Truly?
RIDDLE: There's an interesting word for people like us. With love like ours.
SKEETER: And what is that?
RIDDLE (grabbing POTTER's hand): A perfect match. And I suppose we only have one person to thank for that. Our matchmaker.
SKEETER (sitting up): That's an interesting way of putting it. So do you justify -
RIDDLE (interrupting): Aren't we running out of time, Rita?
SKEETER: Alright, alright. I just have one last question for you, boys. I hear you're getting custody of a child - your godson, Harry?
POTTER (smiles): Yes, Teddy. His grandmother isn't as young as he used to be, and I've petitioned to take his guardianship.
RIDDLE: Or, rather, we have.
POTTER: It helps to have a boyfriend who's a cop; the judge loves Tom. We've also bought a house near Tom's mother, so Teddy will have no shortage of grandmothers doting on him.
SKEETER: Do you think you're fit to be a father? Either of you? A cop and a burgeoning chef?
RIDDLE: Our jobs have nothing to do with parenthood, although we'll certainly have some great home-cooked meals. (Laughter). Harry will be the best father. He's kind and patient, and because he knows what darkness is out there. . . he'll be able to teach Teddy how to be a light.
POTTER: And we have a dog. Kids love dogs.
SKEETER: And dogs love kids. (Laughter). Will Teddy have a little brother or sister to look forward to?
POTTER: Oh - uh. I think that's a conversation for another day.
SKEETER: Perhaps a book deal is in the works? No? Ah, we can go over the details later. It was a pleasure to speak with both of you, and I wish the best for your little family; you're both incredibly brave, and I can't thank you enough for meeting with me. As always, I'm Rita Skeeter -
POTTER (interrupts): And I'm Harry Potter! I've always wanted to do that.
SKEETER: Might as well sign off too, detective.
RIDDLE: It's Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Riddle. Get it right.
SKEETER (shrugs): Close enough. And this was your inside scoop on everything The Matchmaker!
[Up next: SHOCKING! Grunnings Drills director arrested on embezzlement charges and child abuse allegations!]
The End