Work Text:
“Potter, Harry.”
Tom raised an eyebrow at the figure walking down the tables, head held high and gait confident despite the curious whispers swirling about. Beside him, Tom saw how Malfoy snapped to attention at the mention of a noble house, his previous bored expression nonexistent. The Slytherin Blacks stopped their inane chatter, calculating eyes homed onto a straight back. And when one of his followers let out a low whistle at the turned and revealed visage up front, Tom could only agree.
Tanned, golden skin complementing curls of darkest black. Soft curved features adorned with plush pink lips–-a face aristocracy would murdered for. But what captivated him the most were the bright green eyes scanning the audience, a haughty gaze upon the unworthy.
A small mar beneath an angels sanctity.
With one last sweep of the crowd, those green eyes closed before sinking gracefully onto the age-old stool. The entire Great Hall was silent. Around him, Tom could see the glares passed between each table, a promise and a reckoning hidden in each wary scrutiny.
Whichever house graced with the transfer student would b––
“SLYTHERIN!”
Well then, he thought, unsurprised at the speed the other Houses whipped around to face them. Tom only tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at the envious and hate-filled glares. How stupid, as if they could charm a thousand-year-old magical hat. And surely the smug faces from his house did not help at all. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, and turned towards it.
Green, green eyes stared at him.
He was vaguely aware of the students beside him straightening, satisfaction radiating off each of them. But his attention was locked onto the figure approaching the Slytherin table, eye contact never once breaking.
The self-assured way the transfer student walked made him twitch. His desire to put such insolence to its rightful place flared. Especially when the figure dared to stop across the long table from Tom—forcing the student sitting directly in front of Tom to hastily vacate—and slid onto the seat as if it was his birthright. Tom narrowed his eyes. It seemed that the transfer did not care nor notice the slight power deference.
“My name is Harry Potter,” he said, hand stuck out in lieu of a greeting, voice soft and expectant for one of his kind. An angel, for that was what he is. A dangerous one.
“Tom Riddle. 5th year prefect,” he internally winced at the strength of the clasp, a hard vice against his hand.
The transfer just smiled, and with one last squeeze, he let go. But still held his eyes.
“Tom...Riddle.” Tom shivered. The way the voice caressed Tom’s name, as if tasting it in his mouth. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“A pleasure.”
They stared for a moment longer–-the transfer’s head tilted up just so, that it made Tom bristle–-before the great doors opened, pulling their attention away. Tom’s hand gripped the bench hard as he watched the first years pile in; his teeth gritted at the unspoken dismissal from those eyes.
However, Tom could only think, reflecting on those damned green eyes:
Dangerous, dangerous.
.o0o.
Nott hissed when a sharp elbow jabbed into him, turning to glare at Malfoy beside him. “One would think a pureblood of your stature has more decorum than acting like a common mudblood.”
“Wh–-no!” Malfoy reddened in indignation, quick as ever to defend his pureblood honor, “I would never. You–-Nott, you––just. Look, over there.”
Tom lifted his head from his studies, if only to appease the flustered and bruised ego of his follower.
“Oh, it's him.”
“What? You don't like him now? I do remember you gushing all over him just last week.”
“That was last week, Black!”
It was Potter. The damned green-eyed transfer student that haunted Tom’s dreams.
Surrounded by all houses, Potter sat there. Patiently pointing at a text in a book, and smiling when he was pulled into another question. The scene looked like a fairytale–-a reenactment of a benevolent mentor humoring desperate students, gently guiding them to answers.
Just thinking about Potter made Tom scowl. His seat as top student was being threatened by the very existence of Potter.
Potter was exceptional in Defense.
So very exceptional that he nearly surpassed Tom. Merrythought no longer gushed praises at him, but at Potter. Her eyes softened when she set her eyes upon him, acting the age she was, a caring grandmother rather than a stern professor. The fact that anyone could make Merrythought soft, was a feat achieved by so few that could be counted on one hand.
His insights in their lessons were filled with wisdom as well, so Tom held a grudging respect for Potter. Though loathe that he admit it.
Tom snorted at his circle’s bickering, and returned to his studies. To think his followers had the nerve to compare Potter to him–-in truth–-made him apprehensive. The following Potter had amassed in mere months was both worrying and impressive.
What blind sheep these people were.
.o0o.
Tom closed his trunk, hands smoothing over the worn, scratched leather top. Sighing, he levitated the trunk and walked towards the mahogany doors. With a hand on the doorframe, he turned around to survey his home of nine months one last time.
Watery sunlight cast a green glow over the dorms. The beds were cleared and tucked into perfection, as if a group of four boys never lived here. His followers rushed to pack, desperate to go home–-to a rich houses and warm families.
It was depressing.
He hated the reminder of being a penniless orphan. But never mind that, he only had three years left. Three years before he could fully escape from that hellhole of an orphanage. Three years before he can escape, and thrive in the wizarding wor––
Potter's bed.
Potter’s bed was not made. The deep green duvet strewn across the mattress haphazardly, the edges spilling off the dark wooden bed frame. His desk filled with teetering piles of texts and feather-bitten quills.
“Riddle? What are you still doing here?”
Tom whipped around, heart pounding at the unexpected voice. There Potter stood, a slightly confused expression on his face. He gave Potter a stiff smile.
“Potter, you’re still here. Why?”
Quirking a brow, Potter responded, “Me? Well, I asked you first.”Oh, the way Potter ended that phrase, like he was begging to be smacked. That stupid, smug smile, faint but unmistakable on his perfect, false face. Seeming to take pity, Potter said, “I’m still here because I have yet to pack, as you can see.”
“I can.” Tom’s jaw clenched at the condescending hand wave Potter made. “And why haven’t you?”
“Mm, now, you see––that is a private issue and matter I will not discuss.”
“Potter, I am a prefect—”
“That you are, Mr. Prefect, that you are.” Potter swooped in, his chest bare centimeters away from Tom’s and jabbed his finger into his prefect badge. Or, where the badge used to be. “What about you? Shouldn’t you be on the train by now? No one would want Mr. Slytherin Prefect to miss the train now, would they?”
“You—” and all Tom could see was red. He longed to grasp that thin, delicate neck and squeeze. To wrangle and choke–-watch the infuriating smirk turn to desperate gasps and harsh pants, desperate for breath. He would squeeze it harder, pressing on the menace’s larynx, crushing it, making Potter unable to speak again. He would push the body against the wall, putting pressure and dragging him down. Until Potter was in his rightful place, below Tom Riddle.
But then, through the red haze, he could see Potter’s smirk widening, glee growing at an insurmountable rate. And then Tom knew: he had lost this round. He had let emotion get the better of him. So he forcibly sucked in a breath, calming himself. He would lose this battle, but not the war.
“Good day, Potter,” Tom said, walking around Potter and exiting the Slytherin 5th year dorms for the final time. He saw Potter’s smug expression fall, black brows furrowing, creasing skin, before a saccharine smile took its place. Tom thought his summer would be free from Potter’s influence, but he should have known better.
“Goodbye, Riddle. Have a safe trip home.”
For no matter what Tom did, Harry Potter would always haunt his thoughts.
.o0o.
“Go, go go! Get inside! Hurry!”
Loud whistling beyond brick walls drowned out terrified shrieks and screams, earth quaking thuds sent many people to their knees. Tom’s steps stuttered at the impact, his hand flew out to catch himself from falling. He coughed, hacking up dust and sand that had fallen from the ceilings.
Tom surveyed the mass crying as people struggled to stand. Some even chose to lay there, giving up their lives. Pathetic creatures, pathetic beasts.
A shrill cry had him whipping his head.
To the far left of him, a young child bowed over their mother’s slumped form, shaking and crying for her to wake. It seemed that the mother had collapsed from shock. Tom barged his way through the rushing stream of people, standing beside the child before he pulled them off the still-warm corpse.
“No!” The child screamed, voice so high that it made Tom wince, thrashing in his grasp, “No! Mummy! Mummy, wake up! Don’t leave me alone!”
“Come on,” Tom gritted out, taking forceful steps away from the scene. “We have to go!”
“NO! My mummy! We have to wake her––!”
“She’s gone. Dead.”
At that, the child in his arms stilled, their weight heavier than stone, and Tom grunted at the sudden heaviness. At least they no longer complained, shell-shocked as they were. Quickly, Tom hurried into the shelter, dodging the grasping hands of fallen and trampled people.
Tom hurried down the stairs while another impact shook the ground and screams arose once more. Tom gripped the railing like a lifeline, his other hand crushing the still child against his chest. Why he did not let them go, Tom did not know.
When they arrived at the train platform, Tom pushed away cowering crowds. His anger and annoyance, mixed with unstable magic, split the people like the Red Sea. With determined steps, he marched towards the only empty wall.
He slid down the wall and dropped his head back with a thunk. He was too young—far too young—to be dealing with this. Then he noticed the child still standing, and patted the floor beside him.
“Sit. We’ll be waiting for a long time, I suppose,” he said.
Numbly, the child plopped down beside him. For a while, the pair did not speak, until the child turned their head, surprising Tom.
“W-what’s your name?”
After a few moments of hesitation, both in apprehension and surprise: “Tom.”
“I’m Henri with an ‘I’ at the end,” the child said, voice cracking and beginning to waver, “Thank you, Tom. For s-saving me. A-at least that’s what Mummy always tells me to say.” Big wells of tears began to form, steadily flowing down round cheeks.
Tom turned his head away, to give the child privacy and because he did not know how to react to tears. When the sniffles began to turn to choked sobs, he closed his eyes and laid his head back on the cool bricks, basking in the muffled sounds of sirens and noise around them.
He really was too young to deal with this. “This” being the stupid Muggle war and the child crying beside him.
Honestly, Tom had no idea what came over him when he saved the child. It surely was not because of their dusty brown hair that looked black in the poorly lit tunnel. Or the green eyes that were the wrong shade. Or that the child’s name just so happened to start with ‘H’.
This one act of samaritanism had nothing to do with Potter.
.o0o.
“SLYTHERIN!”
Tom politely clapped along with the rest of his housemates, suspicion never surfacing on his face. Another snake it seemed, the third one in succession. The amount of first-years entering Slytherin had near doubled the prior years.
It could all just be coincidence, or that there really were this many Slytherins, but Tom glanced at the figure to the right of him.
Green eyes crinkled at the edges, producing a smile of “genuine warmth.” Black curls tossed back to show pride and confidence. The perfect picture of a welcoming upperclassman.
Completely unlike Tom.
Tom knew what image he made: cold and closed off, with assessing eyes–-the epitome of Slytherin. It was perfect for commanding the respect of his fellow housemates, but not adhering first-years to him.
He watched as the starry-eyed first-year wandered over to Potter, blushing all the way.
He gritted his teeth. Another lamb to Potter’s flock. Well no matter, he could and would seduce the lost sheep to his thinkings.
But even he began to doubt the moment he thought it. That was how strong Potter’s charm was, even if fake.
.o0o.
A cold gust of wind rushed at him, making him shiver. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, the sound bouncing eerily off stone. All was quiet–-as it should be, since curfew was enacted.
Tom stifled a yawn. Even though it appeared that no-one was there to see him, he still refused to show a hint of weakness. One never knew where there might be hidden eyes and ears. He raised his wand, cast Tempus, and sighed.
An hour. He still had an hour before he could retire to bed. Hopefully no “adventurous and hormonal” students would be out tonight. He still had to study for the Transfiguration exam tomorrow. Truthfully, he was willing to dole out Cruciatus at idiotic students that dared to be––
Tom halted, his ears straining in the silent night. He pressed himself against the wall, slowly inching his way to the hallway’s mouth. His eyes narrowed at the sound he heard, and he nearly growled in annoyance.
There was another pair of footsteps wandering the halls.
The cadence was too light to be a professor's. Too calm to be a rushing student, from the library or from a dorm they were not supposed to be in. He peeked around the corner, back still pressed to stone and hidden in shadows.
It was Potter. The thrice-damned Potter. Walking around with no care in the world.
His hand twitched with the urge to curse Potter to oblivion. To make him writhe under Tom’s spells. Begging, begging for mercy. To see those pink lips bleed red metallic, those clear green eyes blur with tears.
He twirled the yew wand, sparking green and silver at his thoughts. It was petty, he knew, that the very sight of Potter irked him. But now, now, he had a legal way to harm Potter. A way that would not sic Potter’s fanged sheep at him in retribution.
With a smirk, he pushed off the wall–-only to press himself back flush against it. A heavy-stock figure lumbered its way towards Potter, like a very large, trailing love-sick puppy.
He watched the pair, Potter seemingly unaware of a new addition. Something boiled inside Tom, something hideous and snarling with bared teeth and sharp claws.
A soft growl emerged, like a beast to an intruder, and his hand flew to his throat in surprise. He shook his head from that thought, determined to follow the two, unwilling for them to leave his sights. After all, he could collect damning evidence for blackmail tonight.
Tom studied the lovesick puppy. They were shivering. Body shaking and fingers twitching. Perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from nerves, stalking one of Hogwart’s popular students. He could see a great flush across their face–-intoxicated mayhaps–-and their demented smile. Large drops of sweat dripped down their face, the autumn air puffing white from heavy pants–-it was a wonder Potter had yet to notice.
Quite a trio they made, Tom was sure, walking through Hogwarts halls near midnight. A victim, an aggressor, a witness. For that was what they were.
Potter led them to a corridor, bereft of all but a lone window. He stopped right beside it, gazing at the cloud-covered night above, his standing figure bathed in muted gray.
Barely a minute passed, and the stalker walked into the light, shaking hands reaching for Potter’s back.
Tom stood from afar, hidden by shadows, watching the scene of crime unfold.
He saw how the stalker forcibly turned Potter around, two thick arms landing on thin shoulders, blocking any escape. He saw spittle flying in thick globs onto Potter’s face, who shrank and tried to turn away; saw the despair and anger from rejection crossing the villain’s face; saw the way the stalker mashed their faces together, forcing themselves onto him. He saw grubby hands pushing and pushing at fabric, blindly searching for skin. And he saw Potter thump his fists against a desperate’s chest, struggling to flee.
All the while, the thing in Tom, with bared teeth and sharp claws, bayed for blood. To save an angel’s purity from the soot-demon’s claws. He would tear off those filthy lips for daring to taste what was sacred. Sever the dirty paws for attempting to defile sanctity. Would rip its jugular to baptize and sacrifice.
And the demon would know no mercy, as it had unleashed a beast with unholy fury.
Tom’s feet guided him towards the villain, wand raised to strike–-when the filth keeled over, grabbing at its side.
It made a soundless gasp, hand flying to another spot, and fell to the ground. A flash of silver and splashes of red before Potter followed, a glacier mask in place. He straddled it, thighs on each side, a mockery of the intimacy that the stalker so desired. It raised an arm as Potter struck at its soft belly, sprays of blood flying through the air, the squishing sounds of crushed innards with each downward stroke. Green eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting mania and relief.
Soon, the body beneath spasmed, blood bubbling and frothing at the mouth. It pawed at Potter’s robes for mercy, its legs buckling in a last, futile bid for freedom, before it stilled.
Despite all this, and its quickly glazing eyes, Potter continued.
Until his arms were weak, the blade clattering from loose hands. He bowed over the body, chest heaving with exertion, prior to standing, wiping sweat from his face. His hand streaked blood there instead, smearing red across cheekbones.
Tom found himself falling to his knees before Potter, too awestruck and captivated by the vision before him: an avenging angel speckled with blood, illuminated by moonlight.
Potter smiled down at him, eyes assessing, and raised a blood-stained hand to Tom’s face, his thumb running across Tom’s bottom lip. Tom opened his mouth, sucking at the finger, tongue laving it clean. Tom saw blown pupils eclipsing green when he released the thumb with a soft pop. And Potter leaned down.
“Tell me. Will you...worship me?”
“Yes,” he breathed, inhaling the metallic perfume, and surged upwards, capturing sinful lips a being of heaven should never have.
It tasted of blood, lust, and reverence.
.o0o.
Has anyone seen Warren?
Warren who?
The half-blood…
Some say he wasn’t in his dorms last night…
...suicide?
“...a falling out with peers…
Not poor grades and too high parental expectations?
Thank Merlin that creep is gone, no longer needing to hide from him is a blessing...
Tom ignored the whispers around him, more focused on eating his meal. The murmurs and speculations grew wilder throughout the day, dirty news and rumors resurfaced, quickly quelling the sympathetic. The student body was abuzz, this grim entertainment was the most they have had in a while.
No-one would suspect the truth–-that the school’s sweetheart murdered in cold blood.
Tom did not speak out, not in fear of being stabbed in the back on a cold night all alone. Rather because he knew details of a person everyone thought they knew, and he was too possessive to share such rare information.
A hush of silence fell as Dippet walked towards the podium, face somber.
“I regret to inform you all that Mr. Warren has run away. He had been having issues with his studies and mental health before yesterday. No one knows, sadly, where he went, but we wish him Godspeed and safe travels.
Godspeed and safe travels indeed–-the body was thrown out the window and into the Black Lake. Thick tentacles rose from the waters to wrap around the sinking weight, dragging it down to the depths under, never to be seen again.
Tom frowned at the memories, his actions last night so very unlike him: submissive and needy. Turning towards Potter, he glared, demanding answers.
Potter, surrounded by his sheep, raised his head to face him as if summoned. It made Tom smug that Potter could obey him–-but then a smile made something odd twist inside.
A black brow raised, a challenge and a question all in one, before the other went as well, realization dawning. Pink lips parted to mouth: “Later”.
.o0o.
Tom spotted Potter exiting a classroom. Alone. No sheep. He walked behind Potter with determined steps, pulling him into the first empty corridor he found.
He pushed him against the stones, his fists buried in Slytherin robes. Potter was hardly fazed, cocking that one eyebrow that Tom so loathed.
“Is it ‘later’, yet?” Tom demanded, letting Potter go.
“Impatient, aren’t you?” Potter said, more a comment than a question.
Tom’s brow twitched. “Well? Is it, P––”
Potter laid a finger over his lips, momentarily silencing him. When Potter spoke nothing, he continued.
“P––”
The finger pressed harder, He nearly snapped at it when he was refused again, but Potter seemed to have relented.
“Harry. Call me ‘Harry.’”
And all of Tom’s annoyance dissipated, stunned confusion plain across his face. He would have been appalled at how Gryffindor-like he was behaving, like one of Potter’s sheep, if he were not so confused.
“P––”
“Harry.”
Frustrated beyond precedence, he acquiesced. If only so he could talk in full sentences again. But the moment the word left his mouth, he knew that it was right.
From its shape to its taste, rolling off his tongue.
Potter smiled, and it was then that Tom knew that he had been blatantly manipulated. He opened his mouth to retort, but Potter spoke first,
“To answer your question: yes, it’s ‘later’.”
“Good, because I want to ask about last night––”
“What about it? Do you regret it?”
“Regret? No. No, I don’t. And please,” he nearly begged, “stop interrupting me.” Potter gave him an amused look, and Tom did not know if he either wanted to smack or kiss it off.
“What are we? What is this between us?”
“Something, that’s what.”
Tom’s annoyance came back full force, and he gave up on his interrogation, not used to such vague answers that he could not dissect. He was brought out of his musings when Potter rolled his eyes. Something so plebeian, yet fitting to his character.
“Kiss me.”
And he obliged, like a mortal returning to the heavens’ forbidden ambrosia.
.o0o.
Not long thereafter, their “something” escalated. Within a week, Tom had dragged Potter into an unused bathroom on the second floor, pushed him up against a sink and snogged him breathless.
Today, fingers threaded through his hair, tangling and untangling the strands. He kissed and sucked bruises onto tan skin, marking Potter as his. Even though he knew they would disappear the moment they crossed the threshold.
When he moved to nibble at the skin behind the ear, Potter turned his head away.
“Harry?” he asked, brows scrunching. “Is something wrong?”
Tom made to lift his head, but the fingers in his hair pushed his face down to the crook of Potter’s neck.
“Hmm?” Potter hummed, and his lips tasted the vibrations. “Nothing, that spot just tickled.”
Tom filed the information away and turned to attack a sensitive spot that made Potter moan.
.o0o.
Tom’s knee bounced underneath the table, his mind far away from the lecture. Eyes glared at the student in front of him. Black-haired, but not Potter.
He had been eloquently refused yesterday–-refused access to the body beneath cloth. Potter had swatted him on the nose, like an unruly dog that needed to be disciplined.
“I would like my first to be on a bed, please,” he said, and proceeded to gracefully sink to his knees. Dextrous fingers opened his slacks, cocky green eyes stared up at him as his bucking hips were pinned to stone.
Just thinking about it made him twitch; he needed to find a place with a bed quickly. Wanted to know the feel of Potter both inside and out.
“Riddle, you’re still mad about Potter beating you in defense?”
He whipped around to face the follower who dared to ask such a question. “Yes.”
The uncomfortable reminder made him realize how precarious his and Potter’s relationship was.
Their current meeting place was too public. Though bare of students, it still lacked a door. Personally, Tom hated being cramped, therefore they never used the stalls, which also limited his movement and access to Potter.
The sinks were where he could pin Potter down, force him to stare at his own reflection as he rutted into him–-but that too was too open. His mind snarled at the thought, that someone could walk in and witness something so sacred and holy, only meant for him.
.o0o.
He found the Room of Requirement in mid-November.
Potter had looked around the room and smiled, eyes lingering on the large Slytherin-green bed which the Room had helpfully conjured.
“Well done,” he said, and began to strip right there. “You deserve a reward.”
Tom was tied to the bed, body straining as Potter slowly sank down on him, and ridden within an inch of his life. Potter smiled deliriously at him, clenching and fluttering around him. Tom wanted to fuck, to drive himself into the tight warm heat––
When he was finally allowed to come, after Potter was satisfied, having come thrice, he was near tears, on the verge of begging.
.o0o.
They sat away from each other, the Great Hall entirely empty except for a select few: those who stayed behind for winter break. Despite the lack of people roaming the halls, they did not want to chance anyone discovering their relationship.
Two boys in a non-platonic relationship was heavily frowned upon.
Even if there was magic separating the two, the wizarding world was no different than the muggle one.
.o0o.
A knock on his bedpost made him draw his curtains.
“Potter, what is it?” he asked, setting down the thick tome he was reading.
“Come.” And Potter left.
Tom sighed and stood, thinking it better to follow a one-word command than to be rebuffed later, when he wanted to touch.
He followed Potter down a familiar corridor, one they frequented. Tom was surprised, since not two days ago when they were there, He and Potter had come to an agreement to rotate the places of their activity. To never be in the same place twice in a week.
They passed the threshold and Potter went to circle the sinks, his back to Tom.
“I thought I told you to call me ‘Harry’?”
“You did,” he replied, watching Potter drag a finger on stone as he went, “But we were in the dorms. Never know if eyes and ears are still present in the walls.”
Potter hummed, “And not here?” and stopped beside a sink, resting his weight on it. “Well, no matter, I have something for you.”
Tom walked up to Potter and began searching the sinks, because in the short time that Tom was acquainted to him, Potter had never had any subconscious ticks–-and certainly not the tapping finger on the stone edge.
He sucked in a sharp breath when he looked underneath, a snake carved in stone. He hissed at it, and, to his delight, it hissed back.
“How?” he asked, voice colored with disbelief,
Potter chuckled from behind, “Ironically, while on my knees.”
Tom straightened, excitement buzzing through his veins, making him feel alive.
::Open,:: and the sinks sank, a gaping, dark maw in their wake.
“Happy Birthday, Tom.”
.o0o.
That night, he met the great protector of Hogwarts: Slytherin’s basilisk. He saw a statue of Salazar Slytherin himself; discovered the hidden study behind it; unearthed tomes of knowledge and secrets only a Parselmouth could read.
In the study was also a chaise lounge, where Potter let him fuck hard and fast as he desired.
.o0o.
Spring was nearing, and Tom was beginning to loathe the implications it would bring.
Muggles, no Magic, no Potter.
Summer.
.o0o.
A sharp gasp resounded when he emerged from the Chamber.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, a terrified squeak and shaking of stalls his only response.
“Who’s there?! Reveal yourself!”
Another tremble of wood, and a dull blue eye between door cracks. There.
Tom stalked forward, a predator cornering trapped prey, and blasted open the stall door. The person behind the weak protection let out a shriek, backing themselves into the wall.
With each step he took, they attempted to curl in on themselves, to hide from him––a pity that Tom could still see them bright as day.
He stood over them, towering them into submission. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
A face with dull blue eyes and drab brown pigtails looked up to him and blushed. “R-riddle,” they squeaked, “Where’s Potter––? I-I mean, what are yo–-”
Tom slammed his hand beside their head, snarling, “Did you just say ’Potter’?”
“N-no––”
“You did!” He crowded even closer. “What do you know?” And when the head shook desperately, mouth mum, he screamed, “Tell me!”
Dull blue stared up to him, beseeching, glasses fogging, “Y-you’re scaring m-me, Riddle!”
“I don’t care if I’m scaring you. Just. Tell. Me.”
They closed their eyes, tears spilling, head shaking, and sobbed when he growled. His magic swirled around him, agitated and dangerous, snapping at objects. Before long, they spilled, unable to withstand the mounting pressure.
“I—I–-I saw you two together!”
Tom stilled, deep-pitted dread crashing into him.
“I’ve seen you two! Here! K-kissing each other, t-touching e-each other there–-”
With every damning word spilled from that mouth, Tom’s vision tinted red. Someone had watched them, seen them together, knew their secret–-they could not live. And Tom’s self-preservation flared.
When he became aware again, a petrified body lay beneath his feet.
.o0o.
A familiar body draped itself against his naked back, arms looping around his neck. They sat there on the bed’s edge, he troubled and Potter contemplative.
“Are you alright, Tom?” Potter fingered the dip of his collarbone. “You’re not as excited as last week.”
His mouth was dry, but he forced his voice out. “I...I’m worried...about the school closing.”
Potter hummed, fingers inching their way down Tom’s body, lightly raising pink on his skin.
“There are rumors, Harry. Rumors that Dippet is going to close down Hogwarts–-and I can’t let that happen!”
Nonsensical patterns were traced onto his thighs, creeping closer and closer to somewhere sensitive by the second.
“You know, Tom,” Potter said, and Tom gasped when fingers wrapped around him, coaxing his flesh back to life. “There is something you can do.”
He hissed at the pleasure, the hand pressing and dragging. He laid his head on Potter’s shoulder. “What is it? Please.”
“Well, since you asked so nicely…” Potter leaned closer, lips to his ear, the angle of his hand even more electrifying. “There’s this half-breed, Tom. Half-giant, half human.”
He groaned when the hand twisted, breath shortening. “He’s a Gryffindor with too big of a heart. But not for wizards, no. It’s animals, wild beasts too dangerous to keep as pets.”
The pumping became faster, bringing him closer and closer. “He was the one with the werewolf cub back in September, the one who got pardoned by Dumbledore. He has another pet right now, just as dangerous. An acromantula.”
Finger’s squeezed at the head, rubbing the gland underneath, driving him crazy. “His name is––”
“––Rubeus Hagrid.” And Tom came.
.o0o.
Once again, Potter did not pack.
They shared a kiss in a shadowed corner before Tom left for King’s Cross.
He dreaded this summer already.
.o0o.
He was right to dread.
Cole had kicked him out of the orphanage, stating he was seventeen. Left Tom wandering for days until he heard whispers of ‘Riddle’ and ‘Little Hangleton’.
He traveled there, scoped out both the manor and the shack not too far away. Disgusted at the affluence of one, and the poverty of another, Tom murdered.
His body count raised to four.
.o0o.
Borgin and Burkes was decrepit and filthy, but it paid well. In both galleons and information.
The perfect place to collect ancient artifacts and begin spreading his influence.
.o0o.
He found Potter on the Express. Bare of luggage but still there.
Potter locked the compartment doors and raised up wards before turning around to give him that cocky smile.
He fucked Potter on the benches; pressed him against the window, where they fogged the glass with their breath. He let Potter push him down and ride him–-all the while Tom ran his hands up and down the tanned body. Mapping and re-exploring the wonder he had missed.
.o0o.
Tom turned the knobs of the faucet, watching water pour down into the pool below, filling it full. He turned around when rustling appeared, the sound of sodden clothes plopping onto the floor,
Potter stripped himself bare, sticky orange streaking tan. He tsked when he ran a hand down his body, his palm sticking to his skin.
“Having a hard time?” Tom asked, amused. He winced when Potter’s sticky hand held onto his outstretched one,
“Very.” Potter replied dryly, and Tom helped him into the bath. Mountains of soap bubbles rose to greet them. Potter groaned at the warmth.
“I’m very grateful to be a prefect this year,” Potter said, “If only for this luxury.”
They fell silent, both relaxing into the water, Tom lifted one of Potter’s arms and began to sponge at the orange.
“Your first day as prefect was much more exciting than mine.”
“You don’t say,” and Potter lifted his leg above the water, raising it for Tom to clean. “Honestly, who allowed that first year to balance seven goblets of pumpkin juice?”
“You gave them a severe warning though,” Tom reminded him, pressing a kiss to the inside of the cleaned knee before lowering it beneath the bubbles. He trailed the sponge to the insides of Potter’s thighs. “And you get to experience the one-of-a-kind Prefect baths.”
“Definitely. At least Myrtle is no longer here to peak.” Tom no longer flinched at that name. His hands remained steady as he moved the sponge across skin. “And congratulations on obtaining ‘Head Boy.’”
He inclined his head. The memories of a begging, sobbing Gryffindor first year appeared in his mind. The adult wizards heatedly debating on how to deal with the venomous spider. The gifting of a golden plaque with his name on it. An automatic request for him to be Head Boy, and receiving its pin.
“Thank you.”
.o0o.
The prefect baths became one of their frequent places after that.
.o0o.
His followers surrounded him as he led the meeting. Their eyes attentive and awestruck as they listened to his words. His beliefs. His ideologies.
His manifesto.
The world would soon know the Knights of Walpurgis and Lord Voldemort.
.o0o.
Potter became stressed as NEWTs exams neared.
Not because he doubted how he would perform, but due rather to the amount of students lining up for counsel and tutoring.
Tom was equally busy with other students and Lord Voldemort.
They barely had time for themselves, let alone each other.
.o0o.
They still managed to snog in dark alcoves or have a quickie in broom closets.
.o0o.
The moment the last NEWTs ended, Tom dragged Potter into the Room of Requirement. He tied Potter to the bed with silk, loose enough for mobility, but tight enough to feel the pull on skin.
He dropped kisses on whatever skin he whatever skin he could, sang praises about the beauty before him, laved his tongue on each scar he found. He relished in the fact that this angel was his and his alone.
His hands roamed, pressing lightly in some places or gliding over others. Teasing. Adoring. Worshiping. Before he allowed them what they both wanted, high-strung and oversensitive.
.o0o.
Potter’s hand brushed through his hair, Tom’s head on the other’s stomach, both basking in the afterglow.
“Is there something you want to ask me, Tom?”
He lifted his head to press a kiss on the taut muscle before him, and faced his head towards Potter. “I do.”
“Do ask then, I can hear your mind buzzing from here.”
Tom huffed, and dropped his head back onto Potter’s stomach. “Why do you never pack when the year ends?”
Potter’s fingers rubbed at his hair. He felt like a petulant child being consoled.
“I don’t pack, because I have no need to,” Potter said.
Before Tom could ask, he continued. “I live in Hogwarts.” Tom wanted to rage. The injustice he had been served when he had been refused refuge––
“It’s not like your situation, Tom. On paper, I am the ward of one Janet Coltsfoot.”
“The mediwitch?”
“Yes, the very one that works in Hogwarts,” Potter acknowledged. “Do you want a story, Tom?”
He sat up to look at Potter, the green sheets falling to his waist, their legs still tangled.
Potter told him of how he came to be a transfer in fifth year. He had woken in front of the Madam’s Hogsmead home. She discovered that he had suffered from amnesia, but also had an aptitude for healing–-an irony not lost on Tom. He explained how the Madam, both widowed and barren, had always desired a child, and Potter, conveniently there, was parentless and gifted.
So she had brought him to the ministry, and registered for a guardian-ward certificate. A win-win situation: Potter got an education and stable housing, the Madam a child.
“But,” Potter said, “I was never an amnesiac. I just never talked about my past. You’ll be the first to hear it, okay?” His monster within perked up at the thought of secrets, giant maw ready to consume and never regurgitate. Potter, as if knowing he would never tell, smiled and kissed him on the nose.
“I was a very emotional child when I was younger–-so empathetic and such a bleeding heart. I was an orphan too, parents murdered when I was one. Sent to live with abusive Muggles that made me crave every bit of warmth I was given.”
Tom’s hand twitched, itching to raise his body count.
“Then a traumatic experience changed me.
“I had woken in a graveyard, and a rat–-for he was a rat–-had cut my arm to collect my blood. See here? This scar? This is it.” Tom placed a slow open-mouth kiss to the peach line. “I was used in a ritual, Tom, a dirty, dirty ritual. Tied up and bled like game.
“The rat kept squeezing my arm, muttering: ‘Not enough, not enough.’ The rat sliced more lines on me, drawing more blood. But the worst thing. The worst thing–-was that wherever he touched my wounds, they burned. Burned like a never-ending fire. Like Fiendfyre.”
Potter lifted Tom’s head with both hands, thumbs rubbing at his cheekbones. “Do you want to know the moral of this story, Tom?”
He gazed up at Potter with earnest eyes, hungry for knowledge––
“It’s to never trust a rat.”
And then he was kissed.
.o0o.
Tom graduated Valedictorian, and Potter six ranks below him.
He refused all prestigious offers–-apprentice to a renowned potions master, membership to an elite group, Junior Undersecretary–-choosing instead to pursue his goals at his own pace.
.o0o.
Potter and he came to unspoken conclusion. That one night would be their last. They would never seek each other out again.
Their relationship was never meant to last anyways.
It was only a fling.
.o0o.
He met Hepzibah Smith in Borgin and Burkes. Swindled and killed her for Slytherin’s locket and Hufflepuff’s cup.
Lord Voldemort’s influence grew too, at an astonishing rate. Soon he could be gone from this hovel.
.o0o.
Celibacy was not one of Tom’s strong suits. Lust was a part of him, it lived in him. Grew with him. Everything he did was driven by lust. Be it the desire for knowledge, power, or desire of the flesh–-Tom lusted.
More often than not, he could ignore the itch, the boiling heat in his veins. But there were times he could not.
When his agitation rose to peak heights–-nails digging into palms, digging and digging, or his patience much shorter than normal or his fingers twitching with magic to cast a forbidden curse–-he would visit the inner sanctums of Knockturn Alley.
He would walk down the streets, filled with scantily clad whores, begging him to take them.
He would follow the whores to their rooms, and fuck them. He would leave large bruises all across their bodies in black and purple . They would cry and sob and beg beneath him, and all he would do was fuck them harder.
He would dress while they cried, licking their wounds, toss a galleon at them, and leave. No speaking, no voices, a business transaction.
.o0o.
He did not discriminate by skin. Nor by lineage, nor age, nor body type. He had only two conditions:
Black hair and green eyes.
.o0o.
He missed a warmth, a presence, their kisses––
.o0o.
On occasion, Tom would visit the Muggle world. Dressed in the finest and most stylish suit money could buy, he would enter clubs.
There he would sit, order a tumbler, and contemplate. But his thoughts would always be interrupted not too long after. Sometimes a young girl or a young man. Sometimes even rich ladies and gentlemen looking for company.
They would feed him the finest meals and alcohol, flatter him with gifts and riches. They would bring him to a private room and please him.
Or sometimes, Tom would walk through dingy streets, the ones that sold alcohol and rented rooms for forbidden pleasure. He would enter their well-kept bars and flirt. He would bring them out back, press them up against brick, or lead them into restrooms and fuck them.
Or sometimes, he would walk down Muggle London streets. He would catch the attention of one–-or not at all. No matter, he fucked them anyways.
.o0o.
He missed, oh how he missed, tan skin and cocky smiles. He missed the thin fingers that threaded through his hair, petting him like a cat.
He missed P–-Harry.
.o0o.
The muggle British government had sent out a notice to its citizens, a warning for some.
A serial killer was on the loose. They discriminated against no class; their victims always male, green eyed, black of hair, and sodomized.
.o0o.
Six years after graduation, Tom went to Harry,
But when he knocked on the door of the retired mediwitch, Harry was nowhere to be found.
“He left for Albania four years ago,” Madam Coltsfoot said, voice fond and sappy. “Wanted to travel the world and learn more about magic.”
Tom thanked her, and booked an international portkey to Albania the same day.
.o0o.
It was like chasing a ghost. Harry left no trails behind. No clues, no hints.
He had spent three years searching for Harry there, but instead returned home with Ravenclaw’s diadem.
.o0o.
He grew desperate, employing all his connections to find Harry.
He hired private aurors, ordered his followers to search, and even interrogated the people that had once followed Harry.
Nothing. Nothing could be found. As if Harry never existed, only a fable, a fairytale–-except he had.
Tom had been beside him. In him. Talked to him. Even done the forbidden and held hands once in public with each other,
Nothing.
.o0o.
He missed Harry. He wanted–-no, needed to find Harry.
He could not stand being all alone anymore,
.o0o.
Tom ran from the shop, uncaring if a deal had yet to be cut. He flew out the door and into the crowded streets of Hogsmead village.
He pushed past people, shoving the crowd away as he ran, desperate. Too, too desperate to care.
He had seen it, a mere glimpse from the corner of his eye, but he had seen it. Black curls, tanned skin, and green, green eyes.
His hand grabbed at retreating dark robes. He missed, and nearly growled in frustration. On the second try, his hand made contact with the silk and pulled.
“Harry,” he breathed, breathless from the chase and fluttering hope.
After so many long years, too many long years, he finally found him again.
Illuminated by the sun’s rays, Harry looked down at him, a benevolent smile on his face. “Hello, Tom.”
He nearly wept when he heard the voice, music he thought he would never hear again.
“Please.” he begged, “Please don't leave. Never again. Please—
A warm hand cupped his cheek, “Then do you know what to do, Tom?”
“Yes, yes, yes I do.” He closed his eyes a thumb rubbed beneath his lashes, wiping away a welling tear. At last, at last, he would never be alone again.