Author's Note: Tom finally gets to make an appearance! Also, there is some smut at the end of the chapter, so enjoy ;D
"Name and business please?"
"Harry. Harry Megszentel," Harry answered curtly, giving the Ministry worker an innocent smile. "I'm looking for family I've not heard from despite the end of the war."
The Ministry worker nodded understandingly, waving his wand over Harry's doctored passport but failing to pick up on Harry and Percival's alteration spells.
"You're not the first and you won't be the last," the Ministry worker said gruffly. "Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mr Megszentel. I hope you find who you're looking for."
"Oh, so do I," Harry answered darkly, before quickly plastering another gentle smile on his face. "Thank you for the welcome, Sir."
The smile quickly fell from his face as he turned away from the Ministry worker. The only person that Harry was planning to find during his visit was Albus Dumbledore, who was going to be in a grave six feet under before Harry returned to Hungary.
Of course, finding and killing Dumbledore probably wasn't going to be a simple task, so in the meantime Harry was going to hunt down and collect all of the Deathly Hallows for his father, use them somehow to break Gellert out of prison, and then hand over ownership to him. Great Britain was rumoured to be home to all of the Hallows—and Harry knew for a fact that the Elder Wand would now be possessed by Dumbledore.
Harry stopped to tap his luggage with his wand, shrinking it down and pocketing the now light and travel-sized suitcase. He hadn't brought a lot with him, leaving most of his possessions at home where Percival was looking after the house. Harry half-expected to return to Hungary and find Percival gone, fled back to America, but he didn't like to think about that possibility to much because it made his stomach twist in all the wrong ways.
Stepping out of the Ministry's travel offices and onto the streets of London, Harry couldn't say he was impressed. Going to Budapest for the first time had been mesmerising to Harry, but London...London just didn't have that effect.
In fairness, war would do that to a city.
Harry didn't think he could see a single building that didn't have at least some kind of damage to its structure, and large piles of rubble and bricks sat where many of the buildings should have been. The air seemed thick with dust and grit, and the sky was as grey as the streaks on the cheeks of the people who passed Harry by.
But despite the remains of the destruction around them, most of the Muggles walked by with smiles on their faces, laughing and chatting, even sitting on the rubble with cups of tea in their hands. The Muggle war was over and the relief was evident in the Muggles, perhaps more pronounced because they were on the winning side.
Harry didn't know whether he felt envious or angry towards them. He would have given anything to be as happy and carefree as they were, but his father's side—Harry's side—had lost, and more importantly, his father was locked away in prison with no way for Harry to contact him. Harry had tried, of course he had tried, but no matter what he did he couldn't get word to his father. He didn't even know for sure that Gellert was alive, and that his imprisonment wasn't just a lie to hide the possibility that Dumbledore was a murderer.
Still, Harry had faith—or at the very least hope—that his father was still alive, because he couldn't bear thinking about the alternative. Either way though, Albus Dumbledore was going to pay for what he'd done.
The Leaky Cauldron had been easy to find, the only buildingin the street that wasn't at least a little bit demolished. The Warding on it had obviously been incredibly strong, because Harry could feel the lingering magic static in the air; as he'd grown up in a heavily Warded home Harry was particularly sensitive to the feel of that kind of magic.
The crowd inside the inn made the Muggles look calm and subdued, witches and wizards, hags and warlocks alike laughing and cheering together, clanking together glasses of foaming beer, and the odd shooting of bright coloured sparks into the air which earned a scolding from the young, hunchbacked landlord.
The Muggles Harry could forgive for their happiness, because the Muggle war had been nothing but horror for them. For the magical community, however, Harry believed they should be mourning the loss of Grindelwald, not celebrating it. Grindelwald had created atrocities, yes, but it had all been for the greater good, to help make lives better for magical people across the world.
Harry could feel his temper bubbling below the surface, and his fingers twitched as he yearned to wipe the joyful looks of the patron's faces, but he needed to control himself if he wanted any hope of succeeding; getting himself arrested wouldn't help his father.
Instead he sidled up to the bar, the stool scraping across the wooden floor as Harry pulled it out to sit on.
"A Gillywater, please," Harry said to the bartender, sliding over a handful of bronze coins in return.
He took a grateful sip when his drink arrived, shuddering slightly at the edge of bitterness that the Gillyweed brought out in the water. Harry's father had been fond of Gillywater, so Harry had soon grown used to the bitter flavour of the drink. He'd almost finished the entire glass when he felt eyes on him, and he glanced across the pub to see if he was simply being paranoid.
Instead his eyes met a familiar pair of brown eyes, though lined with wrinkles that hadn't been there the last time Harry had seen them. The man they belonged to—Newt Scamander—hastily looked away when he realised Harry had caught him looking, but Harry had never been someone who others considered shy.
He left his empty glass behind and made his way over to Newt, who was accompanied by a woman around the same age as him with hair cut into a sleek bob.
"Hello, Mr Scamander," Harry greeted with a smile.
"You know me?" Newt gasped. "Forgive me for staring, it's just...you looked rather familiar."
"Of course I know you; you're a famous author," Harry pointed out, making Newt's companion snigger. "Though we have met before, a few years ago—my seventh birthday to be precise—in Budapest."
Newt's eyes lit up. "Oh! The Parselmouth!"
Harry grinned and nodded. "I was very pleased to have met you; my father bought me a snake that same day and I named him after you."
Snake Newt was currently curled up in a pocket in Harry's coat, magically enlarged on the inside, of course.
"A snake called Newt?" the woman commented lightly, her accent rather similar to Percival's. "A brilliant name. I'm Tina, by the way; Newt's wife."
"Tina Goldstein, by any chance?" Harry asked curiously.
He had done research on his father's visit to America, and discovered that Newt Scamander along with a pair of Goldstein sisters—Tina and Queenie—and a Muggle man had been responsible for his arrest. Harry had also read that Tina was a disgraced Auror, but one who had worked under than none other than Percival himself, back before Harry's father abducted him.
"Ah, yes, I am," Tina answered in surprise.
"Oh, just names I learned about in school," Harry said, lest he aroused any suspicion from a woman who was no doubt an accomplished Auror. "Well, it was nice to meet you both; I've travelled a long way and I'm rather tired. I think I'm going to check myself into a room here."
"Are you in London long?" Newt asked conversationally.
"As long as I need to be," Harry answered. "I'm looking for someone, you see, and it's very important I find them. Oh, there's the landlord-" he added quickly before Newt and Tina could ask who he was looking for. "Again, lovely to meet you."
Much like the Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley was also entirely untouched by the Muggle war, standing untouched while the Muggle buildings just a short distance away lay in rubble and ruins. The Alley was bustling with people, all as smiling and uncaring as the people had been in the pub the night before.
Diagon Alley itself was nothing interesting in Harry's people, seeming just like all of the other magical shopping districts Harry had visited with his father over the years. Shops selling wands and potion ingredients and robes...all convenient but nothing special.
Harry slowly made his way through the Alley, unnoticed by the people around him. He was just another face in the crowd to them, which suited Harry just fine.
He finally spied the crooked sign on the wall that read Knockturn Alley, and strode confidently towards it. Harry had read the Knockturn Alley was renowned for its connections to the Dark Arts and unsavoury characters, and held a lot more intrigue to Harry than the family-friendly Diagon Alley.
The shops down Knockturn Alley were a lot closer together than they been in Diagon Alley, making the street narrow and darkened by the shadows of the building tops looming above. The people walking around were a lot less cheerful than the street Harry had just left, lurking in corners with cloaks covering their faces, or going about their business with a brisk pace and a glower at anyone who looked twice at them.
And unlike in Diagon Alley, Harry was certainly gaining a lot of attention. A tall figure hidden completely by his cloak had left the wall he'd been leaning across to follow Harry as soon as he stepped down the alley, and a group of Hags were leering at him, their crooked, rotting teeth on show as they smiled darkly at him.
"You know," Harry said loudly, bringing himself to a sudden halt. "I would appreciate it if you all left me to do my business."
The hags cackled wickedly, and the cloaked figure loomed close behind Harry, close enough that Harry could feel their hot breath on the back of his neck.
"Silly little boy," the figure hissed. "You're in our territory now."
"Newt!" Harry hissed, spinning around.
The cloaked figure barely made it out of the way before the snake lunged at him, mouth bared and ready to sink his fangs into flesh.
"I told you," Harry stated coldly, glaring at the hags who were no longer cackling, "to leave me alone. Do you understand me?"
The cloaked figure turned his face towards Newt before retreating back to the shadows silently, and the hags refused to make eye contact as he walked past them. Indeed, the others in the Alley who'd seen what had happened were giving Harry a wide berth now, which was exactly how Harry preferred it, allowing him time to explore the shops at the leisure.
And there was certainly a lot more of interest on sale than there had been in Diagon Alley; shops selling shrunken heads, illegal potion ingredients, Necromancy tools, and bones. But it was only when he spotted a shop named Borgin and Burkes that Harry decided to stop to look inside.
Harry hadn't had a particular goal in mind when he'd come down Knockturn Alley, only general curiosity and to see if there might be anything to help him on his quest for the Hallows or killing Dumbledore.
Borgin and Burkes was an antique shop, and there was a slim chance it might hold something related to the Hallows, or a tool he could use to take down Dumbledore.
The bell over the door jingled as Harry stepped into the dark, dusty shop. The old man at the counter eyed him suspiciously but grunted a greeting, but Harry paid him no heed, looking at the twisted masks on the wall. Harry could almost feel the Dark magic rolling off the room in waves, and he was quite certain that not all of it was because of the shopkeepers; one wizened old hand for sale, for example, was very definitely cursed.
Harry began slowly walking around the shop, studying the mix of goods for sale; bones and bloodied card decks, knives and spiked metal balls attached to bars by a chain. Harry hovered his hand over some of the items, not stupid enough to actually touch anything.
"I hope you're not looking to steal anything, boy," a raspy voice muttered behind him.
Harry turned to see the old shopkeeper glaring at him darkly, the tip of his wand just visible in the sleeve of his robes, ready to use at a moment's notice. Harry, of course, had no interest in fighting elderly shopkeepers.
"I am much more than a simple thief," Harry murmured coldly. "And good job too, because I'm sure I could break all of your anti-theft jinxes very easily."
"Are you trying to insult me, boy?" the man asked breathily.
Harry opened his mouth to respond—an actual insult already on his lips—but a new, much smoother voice stopped him before he could.
"Come now, Burke; the boy is clearly a foreigner and they have different ways to us," the voice said. "We should be welcoming of visitors."
The old shopkeeper—Burke, Harry assumed—grunted in response.
"How about I take over in the front for a while and you can attend to business in the back office?" the voice continued, prompting Burke to nod.
"Thank you, Tom," Burke said. "Just keep your eyes on this one," he added, jerking his head towards Harry before slinking off to a far door.
Harry turned to face the newcomer, Tom, and his breath immediately hitched in his throat.
Tom was…beautiful. He couldn't have been any older than Harry, and had thick, dark hair styled impeccably. He was the epitome of somebody who was classically handsome, with dark grey, intense eyes, a straight nose, strong jawline, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut through skin. Tom was lean and slender, and though Harry considered himself to be bordering on tall, Tom still stood a good four inches above him.
"You don't have to watch me," Harry murmured softly after he realised he'd been staring. "I'm not here to steal."
"I know," Tom responded smoothly. "Don't mind Burke; he's simply suspicious in his old age. Were you looking for anything in particular, or are you here to sell?"
"Neither," Harry answered curtly. "I'm just browsing."
"Hmm," Tom responded, taking a step along with Harry as Harry returned to studying the shop. "Do you mind me asking where you're from? Your accent sounds largely American but I'm detecting something else in there."
"Oh, I was actually born in Britain," Harry said. "But I moved to Hungary when I was very young, and was raised by a Hungarian and an American. I think the British accent is mostly lost to me now when I speak English, but my father's Hungarian drawl comes through too."
"And what's brought you to Britain now?" Tom enquired curiously. "The Muggle war isn't quite officially over yet, and even if it were the city beyond our magical borders is in ruins."
"I'm looking for somebody," Harry answered simply.
"I know a lot of people; perhaps I can help?" Tom offered with a smile that didn't seem quite as innocent as it first appeared.
Harry shook his head. "I don't even know you; I can't share my secrets with you."
Tom smirked. "A person you're looking for is a secret? That makes it rather more intriguing, don't you think? And of course, forgive me for not introducing myself properly; my name is Tom Riddle."
He offered his hand and Harry took it, Tom's fingers instantly closing tightly around Harry's.
"I'm Harry...Megzsentel," he stated, not missing the way Tom's eyes flickered at Harry's hesitation over his false surname.
"Well, Harry," Tom said, Harry's name on his tongue sounding like velvet. "Are you here with family or friends, or are you searching for this mystery person alone?"
"I'm alone," Harry admitted, allowing himself a sad smile.
"And do you have plans tonight?" Tom pressed, prompting Harry to look at him curiously.
"No," he answered slowly, feeling his heart begin to race faster in his chest. "It's actually my eighteenth birthday today; seeing as I'm on my own I was simply going to drink alone in my room at the Leaky Cauldron."
"That sounds no fun," Tom tutted. "Seeing as you're alone and new to London, and as it's your birthday, I simply have to ask if you'll come out with me tonight. Allow me to treat you?"
There was something not quite right about Tom, Harry was sure, but looking at that handsome face was more than enough to cloud his judgement.
"Alright then," Harry smiled.
"Lovely," Tom beamed, flashing dazzling white teeth. "The White Wyvern is a pub just a few doors away from here. Meet me there at nine tonight?"
Diagon Alley was a lot more subdued at night, almost empty aside from the occasional couple out for a stroll. Knockturn Alley, on the other hand, was far more bustling and far more seedy.
It was the middle of summer, so even at nine it wasn't quite dark outside, but that didn't stop scantily clad prostitutes draping themselves along the walls, cloaked figures exchanging mysterious goods in corners, or drunkards stumbling along and capturing the attention of leering hags.
The White Wyvern looked like any other pub from the outside, but Harry had a feeling that the patrons would be far different to those who favoured the Leaky Cauldron. Harry found it curious that Tom had picked such a place, but it was rather telling about Tom, who appeared sleek and charming but preferred to spend time in places that catered to people considered the dregs of society.
"Hello, lovely," a soft voice murmured as a hand caught Harry's sleeve.
Harry glanced to the side to see Tom, who looked even more stunning in the orange glow of the slowly setting sun.
"Charming place, this," Harry commented lightly, giving Tom an amused smile.
Tom smirked, taking a step closer to Harry and leaning down, so intimately close that Harry could hardly dare to breath.
"Charming it's not, but I get the impression from you that the crowd here is rather more to your liking. Am I correct, darling?"
Harry shivered at the sharp way Tom said the word darling, but fixed Tom with a knowing look.
"You're correct," Harry said, managing a wicked smile of his own. "You're a smart boy, Tom."
"That's rather an understatement," Tom retorted before stepping back and out of Harry's personal space. "Shall we go inside? Stay close by my side at first; once they know you're with me nobody will bother you."
Harry wasn't sure how somebody so young could be so confident an entire pub would leave them be, but then Harry followed Tom inside and understood.
Many of the patrons looked up as the pub door opened, and upon seeing Tom several of them hastily looked away while other bowed their heads in respect. Some even waved a hand in greeting and smiled, but otherwise made no move to communicate, and Harry would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't in awe at the mixture of respect and fear that Tom had garnered so easily.
"Impressive," Harry commented as Tom led him to a private booth. "How did you get everyone so afraid of you?"
"I have my ways," Tom answered vaguely. "Knockturn Alley is a place where the strong thrive and the weak fall into addiction or worse, into the hands of people willing to abuse them. I am strong, and as soon as I began working here I ensured that everyone knew I was strong and not a person to be messed with."
It suddenly became clear to Harry what felt off to him about Tom—Tom was incredibly like Harry's father—charming, intelligent and powerful, and unafraid to show it off and take what he wanted. It wasn't a bad thing, though Harry wasn't sure how healthy it was to be attracted to a man who reminded him of his father, but it did mean that Harry knew that Tom most likely had a dangerous side even if he hadn't revealed other signs of it yet.
Harry had never been scared of a little danger.
A bartender came over to their table then with two glasses and a bottle of Firewhiskey. Tom proceeded to pour them each a glass of the bright amber liquid and as he did so, Harry noticed something that definitely caught his attention.
A ring adorned one of Tom's fingers, an ugly piece of jewellery really, with a crudely shaped golden band and a dull black rock on top. And engraved into the rock, barely visible but standing out vividly to Harry who'd grown up with the importance of the symbol drilled into his head, was the markings of the Deathly Hallow; a line and a circle inside of a triangle. The symbol of Harry's father.
"It's a family heirloom," Tom said, the sound of his voice making Harry jump, and he hastily drew his eyes away from the ring. Tom was watching him intently, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity lining his features. "I know it's not the best looking of rings."
"No! No!" Harry said quickly. "I, ah, just found it interesting; I've never seen a ring like it. Family heirloom, you say?"
That ring was something that Harry knew he needed. Whether is was the Resurrection Stone or could simply lead Harry to the Hallows, Harry had to have it in his possession; of course the fact it was currently owned by somebody Harry suspected was very skilled and powerful made getting his hands on it much trickier.
"Yes, from the House of Gaunt who are direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself," Tom said proudly, though his eyes narrowed when Harry didn't seem impressed by the announcement, his attention still on the ring itself. "It's actually being moved to a safe place tomorrow. So tell me, Harry," Tom added, hastily changing the subject. "Where were you schooled? Durmstrang, I'm assuming?"
"I was," Harry nodded, reluctantly forcing his attention back on Tom's face—though Tom was handsome enough that it wasn't hard to redirect his attention. "And you? Hogwarts is the British school, yes?"
Tom nodded. "I'd have much rather been schooled at Durmstrang, though. Their curriculum suits my interests far better; my wider knowledge has all been self-taught."
Harry caught on quickly to what Tom was referring to. "At Durmstrang they reiterate the importance of studying theory of alternative magic only, but there were a number of teachers who were rather more lenient with teaching us practical skills. But you had Dumbledore as a teacher, yes? That man who's been in the papers recently?"
"Been in the papers?" Tom smirked. "That's one way of describing the man who defeated Grindelwald."
Harry's fingers dug into the table, prompting Tom to tilt his head as he noticed his reaction.
"Dumbledore is skilled yes, but he's a fool," Tom continued. "I was very much adored by all of my professors, but he and I never saw eye-to-eye. He believes in using magic that he deems acceptable, yet condemns others for making their own judgements. I am certainly not one of those blind supporters of his."
Harry could have swooned.
As the night went onversation flowed easily between them, and Tom certainly showed himself to be an intriguing creature, and one who held incredible intelligence. He was holding something back, that much was obvious, but if Harry was allowed to keep a secret then be couldn't begrudge Tom for doing the same. Tom was endlessly fascinating, and not just because of his ring marked with the symbol of the Hallows.
"Perhaps," Tom murmured, drumming his elegant fingers on the table, "you would be interested in coming to my home tonight?"
He gave Harry a pointed look, his pupils blown wide, and Harry understood exactly what Tom was suggesting.
Harry had been planning on stalking Tom, waiting until he left the ring where ever he was planning on leaving it, stealing it, and never seeing Tom again, but he could do all that after having sex with Tom. Because Harry certainly wanted to have sex with Tom, and he got the impression that Tom would be very good at it.
"Lead the way," Harry answered with a grin.
Harry allowed Tom to Apparate them both to Tom's home, and they landed in the middle of a large but sparse bedroom, decorated with nothing more than a mahogany desk and wardrobe, four-poster bed, and a bookshelf that lined the entirety of two walls.
That was all Harry had time to notice before he was pinned against the wall, his wrists held over his head in Tom's surprisingly powerful hold.
"I don't do romance," Tom said lowly. "I'm not gentle or loving, but the way you're looking at me now suggests that suits you just fine."
Harry could have melted at the huskiness to Tom's voice. They were so close together that Harry could see the tiny specks of blue in the grey of Tom's eyes, and could smell the woody scent of his cologne. Harry wanted every inch of Tom, and he wanted him now.
"You can play rough with me but that doesn't mean I'll be your submissive little pet," Harry responded breathlessly. "You can bite, but I might bite back."
Tom smirked. "I didn't expect anything less from you, lovely."
He lowered his head, and Harry closed his eyes as a hot tongue traced the line of his ear before teeth closed over the lobe and bit down hard. Harry moaned, flexing his wrists against Tom's hold on them.
"Don't move," Tom ordered as he released Harry's wrists.
He brought one hand to Harry's mouth, pushing a long, elegant finger past Harry's lips. Harry immediately closed his mouth around it, sucking the digit without taking his eyes away from Tom's.
Tom smirked, reaching for his wand with his other hand. A spell—wordless, Harry noticed—had his clothes torn away from him, and he shivered as the warm air hit his body. Tom pushed a second finger past Harry's lips while his other hand began drawing sharp lines across the skin of Harry's chest and stomach.
"I told you not to move," Tom said sharply as Harry squirmed at the sensation.
Harry bit down on Tom's fingers which earned him a particularly sharp scratch, but Harry revelled in it. He didn't consider himself submissive, though he did like to be dominated as long as he got to have a bit of fun too, but he definitely had a masochistic streak in him.
When Tom's fingers clawed at the soft skin of Harry's thighs it got far harder not to squirm. He was achingly hard now, and each scrape of Tom's nails against him had left his skin so sensitive so that each little movement went straight to his cock.
"I want to ride you," Harry blurted out, raising his gaze to meet Tom's dark one. "Enough teasing; you can fuck me, but I want to ride you."
Tom's fingers were wrapped round Harry's wrists again in an instant, and made the most of his height advantage to loom over Harry like a bird of prey. The soft brush of Tom's shirt against Harry's sensitive skin only furthered Harry's awareness that Tom was still entirely clothed while Harry had lost that barrier.
"Pushy, aren't you?" Tom murmured teasingly. "What makes you think you're in any position to be making demands, my dear?"
"Because I imagine I'm the first person to ever demand anything off you," Harry pointed out with a smirk. "All those other people tonight were terrified of you."
Tom chuckled. "And you're not?"
Harry shook his head. "No, but that's not to say I don't think you're dangerous. The only thing is, I'm rather attracted to danger."
Tom smiled darkly, releasing Harry's wrists and stepping away from him.
"Get yourself ready for me, then, and join me on the bed when you're done," Tom said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, his hands splayed out on the satin covers and his long legs stretched out in front of him as he watched Harry expectantly.
Harry gave him an amused glare and crooked two of his fingers at Tom. "Would you care to help just a little bit?"
Tom waved his hand dismissively and Harry felt a sticky liquid coating his fingers. Harry would have been impressed at the display of wandless magic if he hadn't been so used to his father doing it; Tom's face briefly flickered with disappointment at Harry's lack of reaction before returning to its passive expression.
Tom was good, Harry would give him that. With a few more years experience he would definitely give the British Wizarding World a run for their money, but Harry would be long gone by then.
Harry turned his body towards the wall, reaching behind himself to push a finger into his entrance, soon followed by a second. He glanced back towards Tom, keeping their gazes locked as he fingered himself open. Tom watched him hungrily, licking his red lips, and he beckoned Harry towards him with a crooked finger.
"I imagine asking you to crawl is out of the question," Tom commented, slowly unbuttoning his trousers and pulling the fabric aside, allowing his long, hard cock to spring free.
Harry bit down on his lip longingly at the sight.
"Fuck crawling," Harry hissed, crossing the small distance between them and clambering onto Tom's lap. He rested his calves on the bed, hooking his arms around Tom's shoulders for balance.
Tom's hands grasped Harry's hips, pulling him tight as he helped guide Harry down onto his erection. Harry bit down hard on his lip to stifle a moan as Tom's thick length spread him open, filling Harry with a blissful burn.
"You wanted to ride me?" Tom purred, trailing a hand up Harry's back and into his hair before tugging—hard. "Get to it then, lovely."
Harry grinned. "So demanding."
He set up a pace, rocking himself on Tom's cock; slowly at first then faster and faster. Tom's hands guided him slightly, but otherwise Tom left Harry to do all the work, staring at him all the while with those intense grey eyes.
But Harry could see from the way Tom's lips were parted and the flush on his cheeks that he was enjoying himself, regardless of how collected he wanted to appear.
Harry meanwhile had never felt so much pleasure, and felt like every inch of his skin was attuned to Tom's magic. There was just something enthralling about Tom, something that made Harry forget everything but Tom. All he wanted was the pleasure that came from being with Tom, and he rode him hard until they came together, clutching each other tightly as they rode out their orgasms.
Harry pulled off Tom's softening cock after he'd finished and collapsed onto the bed beside Tom, the cool satin sheets soft and blissfully cold against his hot skin. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a few moments to catch his breath back.
"I suppose it's not too much to ask if I can sleep here tonight?" Harry asked, cracking one eye open to see Tom gazing down at him curiously.
"Normally I don't allow it," Tom said, smirking. "But for you, my dear, I think I'm willing to make an exception."