Chapter Text
It's Harry's first time back in his country of birth since he left as a newly orphaned child. He didn’t know what to expect, but he was currently very unimpressed.
He is in attendance as a guest of Viktor Krum, who is representing Bulgaria on behalf of the national Quidditch team. Usually, an athlete would not be sent to such a prestigious event, but with the recent victory of Bulgaria in the World Cup, he seemed an obvious choice. Combine that with Krum’s father's past in ministry affairs and mother's lineage, the honor could go to no one else.
However, Viktor did not want to travel to a foreign country alone. He was also quite single, a fact he bemoaned to Harry often, and therefore needed a travel companion. Harry, with nothing else to do, and a curiosity about his birth country, readily agreed.
Since the death of his parents, which occurred when he was quite young, Harry had been sent out of England. There were fears that whoever was behind his parents’ death would come for him next, and his mother’s dying wish had made clear that he was to never live with his muggle relatives. Harry didn't mind. He had no memories of his home country after all, and he was sure there was good reason to not live with his muggle relatives.
So instead, he had entered as a ward of Durmstrang and grew up within the school. It was there that he became fast friends with Viktor due to their shared love and skill for Quidditch. But unlike Viktor, Harry had no desire to pursue it professionally, much to his friend’s disappointment. Honestly though, Harry was still unsure what he wanted to do post-graduation which was fast coming up. He had hopes though that this party could be a good break from the stress of figuring out what comes next for him.
Perhaps it was wrong of him, but Harry didn't even know what the function was in celebration for. He was more interested in the free vacation, but it so far seemed to be a grand event as the ballroom the event was being held at was a dazzling spectacle of elegance and opulence.
Witches and Wizards from far and wide were decked out in their finest robes, shimmering with jewels that sparkled under the light of the ceiling that was enchanted to mimic a beautiful starlit night.
Expensive alcohol flowed without regard for the price, served in crystal goblets that seemed to refill themselves, with gourmet delicacies being served next to them on silver floating platters, gloved hands attached to nothing dishing out the bites.
In the background, a live band played an enchanting melody that gave the event a sense of timelessness and class.
In all corners of the room, wizards and witches, from high places, were whispering amongst each other. Harry could practically sense the deals and political maneuverings being made that night.
He had little interest in it as it was in a country he no longer claimed. Harry was just here to eat and drink his weight in expensive cocktail, and make sure Viktor got back home in one piece. He was content to stay back and watch it all play out.
In the beginning of the party, Viktor stuck close to Harry, still shy in his English abilities. Harry, who grew up speaking English for the first few years of his life, had no trace of an accent unlike Viktor. But he had rapidly broken away from Harry, drawn out by some giggling witches who were clearly a part of his fanclub. Truly an international phenomena.
Harry bore no hard feelings about it. He was used to being able to skirt events unbothered. Everyone in Bulgaria knew that he had no true connections outside his friend group, and the Potter name meant nothing there. But that's how Harry liked it; it made it easier to go about life, and people tended to be looser tongued when they forgot he was there.
He took another sip of the champagne he was holding as he wanted to sneer at the overindulgence on display around the room. Harry had little patience for those who never struggled in their life, witches and wizards who felt entitled simply because of their last name.
He had already met a British wizard who introduced himself as Draco Malfoy, and it took everything within Harry not to wipe his hand after shaking Draco’s. If he had his way, Harry would have refused his handshake right then and there, but even he was not that politically dense to do so.
He'd met other wizards and witches, but none stood out to him. Perhaps his time in Bulgaria has made him more Bulgarian than British, but Harry found it hard to even care, as after this weekend, he'd be returning back home.
Harry suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Years of flying in Quidditch, along with his talent in Defense Against the Dark Arts, had honed his awareness to the point where he could almost instinctively sense when he is the focus of someone's attention.
Attempting to maintain an air of nonchalance, he subtly scanned the room, all the while continuing to casually sip his drink.
But before he had the chance to keep looking, he was interrupted by a body stopping in front of him. Interestingly enough, in conjunction with the appearance, the sensation of being watched also dissipated. Harry comfortably concluded that this must be the man who was watching him.
The man in front of him is handsome, attractive in the way that older men with natural authority are. He's tall, barely a couple inches taller than Harry, but his broadness and commanding presence makes him feel much bigger.
The man has a strong jaw with unblemished skin, and only the faintest of crow lines by his eyes. He also possesses impeccably styled deep brown hair with barely any hints of grey at the temples. His face remains neutral, revealing nothing, but his eyes are intense and focused, holding Harry's gaze with an almost hypnotic quality. Wizards are notorious for aging slow, and Harry had no clue if this man was 50 or 70.
Harry barely has time to take it all in before the man broke the tension.
“Who is your companion for tonight?” He states, though he formulates the question in a way that it is more a demand than an ask. This is a man who is used to commanding others.
Harry just grins, tucking his hands in his pocket. He's stood his ground against men who've thought they were above him due to his orphan status; this man is not going to faze him, no matter how attractive or imposing he was.
“Nice to meet you.” Harry instead cheekily answers, “My name's Harry, thank you for asking.”
The man frowns, as if unable to control his reaction. It is clear he's never had a request ignored like that before.
“Harry…” the man trails off, as if expecting a last name.
“Just Harry.” Harry confirms, both answering and dodging the question, giving nothing in return. “And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
The man's eyebrows raise, as if surprised by the question. “Tom Riddle.” He pauses and Harry barely has time for that name to register.
Tom Riddle.
Only the most powerful man in all of Magical Britain. He's been ruling longer than Harry's been alive. Everyone knows his origin story, of rising from a humble background to discovering his ancestry and claiming heirship to the House of Slytherin. This is a dangerous man in front of him, a man who could ruin his life while barely breaking a sweat. No wonder why he was surprised that Harry didn't recognize him. (Also, he is definitely closer to Harry's guess of 70 instead of 50).
And here Harry is, practically taunting the man to his face. Yet, Harry finds himself uncaring, he's not going to pretend to be something he's not. This man has clearly approached him with a reason, and Harry wants to get to the bottom of it.
“Minister Riddle,” he drawls, a touch of impertinence coloring his otherwise polite words, “forgive me for not recognizing you. I don't usually receive the opportunity to attend events as prestigious as these.”
It's true, back in Bulgaria, despite his friendship with Viktor and others, he's only attended family balls he was invited to. He's never been to political ones as he has little interest in seeking power that way.
The man, no Riddle, inclines his head as if offering forgiveness. “It is of no matter. Please call me Tom.” he replies benevolently, as if that is his way of accepting Harry's apology. Well, Harry's never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Tom.” Harry tries the name out, finding himself enjoying calling such a powerful man by his first name. Again, there is nothing respectful in his tone.
Tom continues, as if still trying to work out the mystery that is Harry. “Pardon my inquisitiveness, is Harry short for anything?”
Harry shakes his head, amused with how determined this man is to figure out who he is.
“Nope.” He informally pops out the answer, wondering if he just imagined Tom's eye twitch. “Nothing fancy like Hadrian or Harrison, or anything. Besides,” Here he hesitates, before deciding to plow forward. “You're one to talk with a name like Tom.” He holds his breath, as if waiting to see if he'll get called out on his familiarity or joke.
The man merely seems amused. “I suppose you are correct, Harry.” Then all traces of amusement seem to vanish from his face. “However, you still haven't answered my question. Who is it that you are accompanying tonight?”
Harry is still as confused as the first time Tom asked this question. “Who did I come with?”
Tom nods, waiting expectantly.
“I came as a guest of Viktor Krum.” he answers, still wondering why he wants to know. It wasn't against any rules for Viktor to bring who he wanted, orphaned riff raff or not.
The man looks considering, as if trying to place where he knows the name from. But Harry knows that this is a farce, a man as well connected as Tom Riddle would never not be able to instantly place who the Krums are. He wonders what Tom is trying to play at.
“Whatever he is paying you, I will double it.” Tom finally breaks the silence.
Harry chokes, “Paying me?” He can’t help but to repeat, unable to formulate anything else. Viktor had just asked him if he'd join him on the trip, did Tom mean what he paid to get a second ticket for a guest? He hadn't paid anything though because he was invited… Harry's thoughts trail off, interrupted once again.
“Yes.” Now a touch of impatience has entered the man's tone, as if Harry is the one who is at fault here. If it wasn't rude, Harry is sure the man would be tapping his foot. “I assure you; money is not of concern to me.”
It finally dawns on Harry what Tom is asking of him. The man thinks him to be an escort! It all makes sense now, from the question of who his companion is for the night, to asking how much he's being paid.
Harry doesn't know whether to be insulted or flattered. On one hand, what about him screams escort? Sure, he might have rolled his sleeves up a bit, and popped a button at the top of the collar, but it's damn hot in here. What was he supposed to do? Bear it just for the sake of propriety?
And sure, his hair might not be styled neatly in place, but nothing was ever going to tame it, trust he has tried. Harry has also loosened his tie, but that's on Viktor for tying it so tightly for him. Why should he put up with being suffocated just to impress people he's never going to see again?
Harry's always known that he never fit in with the other pure bloods and high society members, those that were groomed since birth to put appearance first and look down their noses at others, but he didn't realize he stuck out that much! He would be insulted if he actually gave a shite.
But deep down, a part of him is also flattered. He's never hired an escort before, and neither has Viktor, but he's seen them before at other events.
Escorts have a variety of different appearances, some pretty little things hanging off an arm, whereas others are tall, muscular men. But they all have one thing in common: no matter what, they are all stunningly gorgeous. And Tom thinks he's good looking enough to qualify as one? Yeah, Harry can't help but be a little flattered.
“Well in that case,” Harry changes course, now that he knows what's going on, “what would you do if I named a price? If I was yours for the night instead?” He pointedly is ignoring how he's implying that his best friend is using him.
Tom's eyes darken, whether with the satisfaction of Harry finally engaging him in what he wants, or something else, Harry does not know. But what he does know is that he likes it. He likes how Tom's focus is only on him; he likes the sensation of being something that Tom wants. He finds himself wanting to keep it on him, and only him.
“Harry,” Tom practically purrs his name. And oh no. Harry will attempt to ignore the heat that is rising in his belly. “Let's not play coy here. If you were mine for the night, I would ensure it's a night you'd never forget.”
Harry swallows, and he can see Tom's eyes tracking that movement, watching the way his throat bobs. “How cliché Tom.” He attempts to laugh it off, “Is this how you pick up all your hookups?”
“Don’t be so crass Darling.” Tom smoothly responds, and woah. Harry has never been called something like that before and he'll have to analyze at a later point why that is doing nothing to calm the flush he feels overtaking his body. He’s already established it’s hot in here, right? It’s definitely not being called a pet name that is doing anything to him.
Tom, the sly bastard, notices and continues with a smirk, but his aura is promptly ruined by what comes out of his mouth next; “I don't have hookups.” He says the last word with such disdain that Harry is surprised he hasn't been smote on the spot for implying that.
Tom goes on, “I have encounters-” and anything he is about to say after gets cut off by Harry's snort because how is one even supposed to take that seriously? How utterly pretentious and foolish Tom sounds. He fucks just like the rest of them; there's no need to dress it up in pretty words.
Tom’s expression tightens, a clear indication that Harry’s snort has hit a nerve. “Encounters,” he repeats, as if saying it a second time makes it any better.
Harry can’t help but to roll his eyes, it’s all too theatrical for him. Is this how all old men talk, or is Tom just special?
“Because dressing it up in fancy terms totally makes it different.” He snarks, and there is no hiding the mockery that is in his tone, a challenge to Tom’s supposed grandiose self-perception.
Tom's jaw clenches, and for a moment, there's a silent battle of wills. He's clearly not used to being challenged, especially not in such a blunt manner. But Harry, undeterred, leans back, an eyebrow raised in silent invitation for Tom to defend his choice of words. Surprisingly it is Tom who breaks first.
“Fine. Whatever you chose to call it.” he ignores Harry’s pleased smile at Tom being the first one to break the stalemate. Tom suddenly leans forward, closing the distance between them.
“I can see that you enjoy having my attention on you. If you agree to be mine tonight, you will realize that being the full object of my desire can be a position of both pleasure and significance.” Tom promises, intent darkening his words.
And suddenly Harry is not smiling anymore, back to feeling flushed, both the words and quick topic change catching him off guard. He suddenly feels like he's lost control of the situation again.
See this is the problem. Harry wouldn't mind sleeping with Tom for the night. It's been a while since he's had the chance to indulge in a hook-up, and he can feel the itch under his skin. He also knows without a doubt that it would be good with Tom.
Nothing about the man implies that this is a man who is lost in the matters of sex. Plus, he's had like what? 40 years of experience? If he's not good at this point, Harry would gargle Karkaroff’s balls. And he really doesn’t want to do that.
Harry also can't deny his attraction to the man. Something about him draws him to the other man like nothing else, there is something magnetic about Tom. He finds he wants to keep teasing him, pushing his buttons, see what it takes to get a man with ironclad control to snap.
But at the same time, Harry has spent his life hiding in the shadows, watching but staying unnoticed. He's a little disturbed that it was Tom Riddle of all people to be the first to see him.
Harry reasons though that it'd be fine to allow himself to have this. He can spend a night together with the fucking Minister of Magic of Great Britain, and then fuck back off to Bulgaria, back to safety and familiarity.
“Ah, what the hell. Fine, I agree. I'll be yours for tonight.” He tells Tom. Yet despite him having the ability to refuse, he still can't shake the feeling like he somehow still lost, that there actually was not a choice.
Tom's eyes darken with triumph, lips quirked up in victory at Harry's acquiesce.
“You don't have to sound so excited Harry. Many would kill to be in your position.” He drily states, yet he has the air of satisfaction still draped over him like a cloak. “You might even find yourself enjoying my company.”
Harry purposefully drags his eyes up and down Tom’s body, clearly checking him out. “Oh, I'll be enjoying something of yours alright.” He responds back, daringly meeting Tom's eyes. It's almost instinctual the way he finds himself responding to Tom.
Tom laughs, mask dropping for once. “Bold. Let's see if you're still as mouthy once I put something in it.”
Harry feels a fissure of excitement run up his spine, this is the first-time outright Tom has hinted at what they are about to do.
“So, is it time now for you to whisk me away for our romp in the sheets Tom?” Harry grins up at Tom who grimaces at his words. Really, it's too easy to rile this man up.
“Never say that again Harry.” Tom shoots a withering look at him. “I have arranged for accommodations at The Gilded Griffin for the evening. It's a suitable place for us to talk about a contract and terms, given the privacy it provides." He then extends his arm towards Harry, implying that he should accept it. Again, there he goes expecting everything to happen as he wants it, never asking for permission. Something must be seriously wrong with Harry as he somehow finds it quite attractive.
Huh. Maybe these are those daddy issues that people always say fatherless kids have. Harry thought he got the “disrespect authority” sort of daddy issues, not the “enjoy older men bossing him around” type. Or worse; he might have both kinds. He decides to shove this new revelation to the back of his head to think about later. Besides, he’d rather be doing some thinking with a different head anyway.
Harry knows it's risky to apparate with a man who is practically a stranger. But his friends don't say that his middle name isn't trouble for nothing. If he can't find it, he’ll make it.
He knows that he should tell Viktor where he is going, but a quick glance over at him reveals that he is still surrounded by a circle of witches and Harry has little desire to insert himself there. Harry swears that this will be just a quickie anyways, he’s heard old men suffer from performance issues, so he can probably be back before the night is even over.
Harry can't help but laugh internally, dick really does make one go to places a wand and shield charm would never.
Harry grasps the offered arm firmly, noticing with pleasure that it seems corded with muscle. Turns out Tom’s bulk wasn’t all just for show. He can appreciate a man who takes care of himself, and Tom Riddle seemed to be the epitome of that.
The familiar sensation grips his stomach as Tom apparated them to The Gilded Griffin. Harry stumbles as they arrive, and Tom quickly reaches out to steady him. Harry is annoyed to notice that apparition seems to have no effect on Tom as not a single item of clothing is out of place, and not a hair on his head moved.
“Ah Harry, it appears that I have swept you off your feet already?” Tom turns to him, face straight as always, but Harry can hear the mockery behind the supposed care being shown to him.
“It’s going to take more than that, I’m not so easily bought.” Harry responds, though they both know that is a lie as he communicated his worth implicitly by agreeing to go with Tom in the first place.
Tom deigns giving a response back and merely starts walking towards the restaurant, thus pulling Harry along, who stumbled after him. A look at Tom's face reveals a small hint of a smirk playing at his lips.
As soon as they entered The Gilded Griffin, the hostess at the front instantly snapped at attention upon noticing Tom.
“Mister Riddle.” She bows, never once daring to look at him in the eye. “Your table awaits you, please follow me.” It was obvious the influence and power that Tom had with the way he did not even have to say a word. Harry was sure that it would be impressive to someone who cared about such things, but he was honestly more awed by the restaurant itself.
The atmosphere was muted, with the soft glow of the overhead chandeliers casting a warm light over the room, highlighting the exquisite decor. The walls were adorned with ornate tapestries and gilded mirrors, reflecting the flickering candlelight on each table.
Perhaps the most magnificent aspect of the restaurant was the that in the center of the restaurant, a large pool of crystal-clear water, still as a sheet of ice, took center stage. The glassiness of the water was only broken by a pair of graceful swans gliding serenely across the water. The pond was surrounded by lush greenery, creating a serene oasis in the midst of the restaurant.
Water flowed gently from a fountain at one end of the pond, its soothing sound adding to the ambiance of the space which also had a soft piano in the background. Passing the other tables, Harry was unable to get a glance of the other patrons as each table seemed to be charmed with a privacy spell, ensuring that the guests identities remained unknown.
The group walked up a set of grand stairs to the second floor where a balcony over looking the pond was. The table at the balcony was elegantly set with fine china and crystal glassware. Tom pulled out Harry’s chair for him, waiting for him to sit down, before seating himself. Harry couldn’t deny the flutter of pleasure that ran through him at Tom’s actions.
The hostess bowed once again at the two of them before stating that their waiter would be with them soon, and then disappeared even faster.
It was just the two of them now at the table and Harry was unsure what would happen next as all his previous one-night stands were always just going over to the other’s flat. He had never been wined and dined before a fucking.
Harry decides to break the silence, curious to learn more about the man sitting across from him. “Do you treat all your ‘encounters’ this well, Minister?” He asks, deliberately using the term in such a way that conveyed his thoughts about it.
Tom doesn’t even miss a beat with his response. “Of course I do, I believe in dinner before the dessert.”
Harry’s face against his will turns a bright red. Who knew that the most powerful man in Britain had such a slick tongue on him? He’s starting to wonder for the first time this night if he has bitten off a challenge greater than he could chew.
Harry shifts in his seat, trying to regain his composure. No, he’s better than this. He’s not a goddamn quitter, and he isn’t about to start being one now.
The dim candlelight flickers across the table, casting shadows that dance on the rich wood and china so polished that one could see their reflection in it. The restaurant is quiet, but the tension between them, is louder than any surrounding conversation could be. The air between them hums like a spell about to be cast, palpable and charged.
Harry clears his throat, realizing that the silence has gone on for slightly too long. “You’re quite confident. But tell me, what makes you think I’m interested in dessert? Maybe this dinner will be satisfying enough on its own" he challenges.
Tom leans back in his chair. It is astonishing how he makes such a simple gesture seem so regal, like a king leaning back, surveying all that he owns. A slow, almost predatory smile, that is a bit too sharp for polite company, spreads across his lips. It seems that the gloves continue to come off, metaphorically and physically.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, lock onto Harry’s, and for a moment, the world seems to shrink to just the two of them. Harry cannot look away. What spell is this? He has never been under the thrall of another like this before. It is both frightening and exciting to him, as he finds himself on the edge of his seat, wondering what will be said next.
“Because, Harry,” Tom says, his voice a low, seductive murmur, “you’re still here.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. They are both aware what will happen after the dinner if Harry chooses to stay. Harry feels his heart skip a beat, his mind racing as he tries to formulate a response.
But before he can say anything, Tom leans forward, his gaze intense and unwavering. “Tell me, Harry, are you a wizard who finishes what he starts? Or do you prefer to leave things... incomplete? Am I about to be disappointed and am I wasting my time here?”
Harry’s heart sinks. Ah, this must be another manifestation of those daddy issues he suspects he has: a fear of disappointing an older man. The familiar desire to prove himself surges in his chest.
He forces a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “You won’t find me running from a challenge, Minister. I finish what I start.”
Tom’s eyes narrow, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Harry wonders if he’s mis stepped. But then Tom surprises him by leaning back in his chair again, the tension in his posture easing just slightly.
“Who mentioned a challenge? I was merely asking a question. I’m sorry if you felt the need to make it more than that or misunderstood my intentions. Perhaps you are not as astute as I thought you to be.” His voice is soft, but the sharp edge of condescension is unmistakable, piercing in the way that they cut Harry down.
Harry's stomach twists at the shift and almost disgust in Tom's demeanor. The way Tom’s voice softened, yet lacked any real apology, only heightened the tension between them. It was a reminder that beneath the charm and easy banter, Tom was still a man who wielded power with precision, who could unsettle him with a single, calculated word.
It is easy now to see how Tom so quickly rose to power, crushing any who dared to dissent against him. The conversation, which was supposed to be merely banter, has spiraled beyond his control, as it is clear it is Tom pulling the strings here.
For a moment, Harry is at a loss for how to respond. There is a dawning realization that he’s dealing with someone who has decades of experience upon him.
He meets Tom's gaze, trying to read the man across from him. Was this a test? A way to see how he would react under pressure? Or was it something deeper, something more personal? Did he really so severely misread the conversation and it was never a challenge, but merely a question like Tom said? Maybe he can blame his gaffe upon growing up in Bulgaria? Harry’s mind races, but he forces himself to stay calm, to keep his voice steady.
“I’m not one to shy away from questions Minister.” Harry says, choosing his words carefully. “But let’s not pretend that there wasn’t something more in your words. I’ve been in enough rooms like this, spoken to enough men like you, to know when someone’s trying to get a rise out of me.” There. Let him see how Tom reacts to a direct call out such as that. Fuck. He really should have just stayed at the party. At safety, away from this dangerous man.
Tom’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes remain sharp, evaluating. “Perceptive,” he acknowledges, his tone betraying nothing. “But tell me, Harry, why does the idea of a challenge make you so defensive? You were quite confident a moment ago.”
The words hit their mark, and Harry knows it. Tom isn’t just probing for weaknesses; he’s exposing them, bringing them into the light. He doesn’t have to look for Harry’s deepest darkest fears, he already knows them, and he wants Harry to know that he knows them too.
“Confidence and defensiveness aren’t the same thing,” Harry replies evenly, though he can feel his pulse quickening. “I’m confident because I know what I bring. But I’m also aware when someone’s testing me. So if that’s what this is, then consider me uninterested and I will leave right now.”
Tom’s smile widens, and there’s a flash of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps respect—in his eyes. “I see,” he says slowly, as if savoring the moment. “Perhaps I was testing you, just a little. It’s not often I find someone who can hold their own in a conversation like this.”
Harry feels a surge of relief at the slight hint of respect he sees, though he keeps it from showing. He’s managed to navigate the conversation without faltering, and it seems that Tom has recognized that. But even as the tension eases, Harry can’t shake the feeling that there’s more at play here than just a one-night stand or a test of wits.
“So now that we’ve established I’m not interested in playing these games, what exactly are your intentions?” Harry asks bluntly. He fucking hates playing games like this when not in the mood. He can play along if necessary—years at Durmstrang taught him how—but he’s not in the mood tonight. This was supposed to be a simple, no-strings-attached fuck with a man he found attractive, nothing more.
Tom arches a brow, seemingly unfazed. “I intend to enjoy some good food with decent company, for a change. Now, let’s discuss your contract before the waiter arrives.”
The abrupt shift catches Harry off guard, and he knows that’s exactly what Tom intended. He reaches for his glass of water, using the moment to both to bide time and to help clear his mind. Fuck. What even is going to be in the contract? He’s never had to negotiate for sex before and he's worried this inexperience is about to reveal his lie.
Tom conjures up a piece of parchment and a quill before asking, “Is there anything that is off limits for you?”
Harry thinks for a moment. “I want an STD spell cast beforehand to guarantee that you are clean. I’m not fucking someone who isn’t.”
Tom merely nods, unfazed both by Harry’s crassness and the implication. “Of course, Harry. I understand that your health is a priority and there may be cause for concern."
The quill begins to move and quickly scrabbles down that boundary. Harry wants to sneer. Wow, so Tom is too good to even write his own contracts out now? Also, cause for concern? Is he calling Harry a slut? Though, he supposes he is posing as an escort after all.
Harry also can’t help but wonder how does this man somehow always manage to twist his words around? He would have to be a dunce to miss the sly jab Tom was making about his sexual health and history. He can be mature though, so he ignores it and moves on.
“You also must ask for consent before performing any sort of actions. I need to know what you are doing at all times. Otherwise, I don’t care if you’re balls deep inside, I’m leaving.” Harry refuses to let this man do whatever he wants to his body, no matter what sort of impression Tom is under.
Tom again merely nods and the quill continues writing.
Harry racks his brain, trying to figure out if there is any other essential boundary he has. He can’t think of anything, so this will have to do.
“What about your payment Harry?” Tom suddenly asks, “What is your going rate?”
Oh, right. There was that too. Harry had almost forgotten he was supposed to be playing the part of an escort, and he hoped this slip didn’t make him seem overly inexperienced.
Harry tries to brush it off, smirking. "Why? Worried you can't afford me?"
Tom’s eyes narrow in amusement. “You and I both know that will not be an issue,” he replies, his tone smooth and confident. “But it’s always good to know what I’m paying for.”
Harry feels a flicker of nerves but keeps his composure. “Let’s just say I’m worth every galleon,” he says, leaning in slightly, trying to project a sense of ease. He tries to quickly think of an amount that would seem outrageous, curious to see if Tom would go for it. “My starting price is 1000 Galleons.”
“Consider it paid.” Tom waves his hand and a bag suddenly appears before them. “I believe that this is yours.”
Harry gulps as the heavy bag of gold materializes before him. He hadn’t expected Tom to actually agree to the price and conjure the money instantly. Just how deep is this man’s pockets? This man was proving to be full of surprises, and not the kind Harry was accustomed to. To be determined if that is a good or bad thing.
Tom’s eyes remain locked on Harry, a hint of amusement dancing in their depths as if he’s enjoying the younger man’s reaction. “You seem surprised,” Tom says, his voice smooth and measured. “Did you think I wouldn’t take you seriously? I’m willing to pay for whatever I want; no price is too high.”
Harry forces a smile, trying to regain his footing, well aware of all the power differences between the two of them. “Not at all,” he lies, attempting to mask the unease creeping into his voice. “I just didn’t expect you to be so...prepared.”
Tom chuckles softly, the sound low and dangerous. “I always come prepared, Harry. Rarely am I caught off guard. It’s something you’ll learn about me.”
Harry nods, unsure of what to say next. He wasn’t sure what kind of game Tom was playing, but he knew he had to stay sharp. This was no ordinary client, and there was something unsettling about how easily Tom seemed to maneuver through this exchange, as if he had anticipated Harry’s every move.
“Then I suppose we’re all set,” Harry says, trying to sound confident as he reaches for the bag of galleons. “We’ve discussed my boundaries and the payment has been sent.” He isn’t sure if this is the right protocol or what happens next, but he’ll try his damn hardest to keep it moving.
“I suppose we are.” Tom echoes his words, as if he is amused at Harry’s feeble attempts to be in charge and lead.
The waiter suddenly appears, startling Harry who curses himself. He’s never been unaware like this before, usually he’s always alert of his surroundings. He is getting too comfortable with Tom. He doesn’t like that. But Harry has gotten the sense that Tom has this uncanny way of slipping beneath ones guards. It is not fun having the shoe on the other foot, as it is usually Harry who plays that role. He'll have to be extra careful for the rest of the night. Is the risk truly worth the reward?
Regardless, with the waiter arriving, the mood between them shifts once again, from tension to something more introspective, almost contemplative. Harry knows that the night is far from over, and that there’s still much to uncover. But for now, he allows himself to enjoy the moment, enjoy getting wined and dined, but still aware that this is a game with stakes higher than he originally thought.