Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tom comes to a decision. It’s a very good decision, all thing considered, though this is hardly surprising considering how excellent Tom is at making decisions.

He is going to marry Harry Potter.

Tom’s considered marriage before – after all, married politicians poll as twenty-six-percent more trustworthy. He assumed it would be something tedious, a necessity. He’d pick out the most prestigious, eligible pureblood and be done with it.

But that was before he saw Harry duel.

It happened quite by accident. Tom was only assisting Barty Crouch because Percy Weasley was ill - for unrelated reasons (Weasley being an irritating pea-body) Tom had spiked his drink the night before - and Barty Crouch was only visiting the Auror training gym because Rufus Scrimgeor was threatening a Law Enforcement revolt over Fudge’s latest mishap and it was better to visit the man in his home environment.

And there Tom saw him.

Harry grinning as he danced and dodged, darting with all the conviction and roaring intensity of a tooth-and-nail fight for survival.

Glorious.

Tom’s taught many of his little Death Eaters to duel. None of them - none of them - fight like Harry. It hardly seems to matter to the auror-in-training whether he wins or loses. It’s duelling that calls him, the magic of it, singing to his soul.

Tom almost proposes then and there.

He doesn’t, of course, because Tom is sensible, and because he knows romantic attachments take at least three face-to-face meetings before they can be exploited. He knows this because he has kissed three people (two girls, one boy) and had sex once. (Tom didn’t enjoy the sex much, hence he has not yet repeated the experience).

Tom lets the auror-in-training be and instead covertly replicates a copy of the auror training schedule when Scrimgeour lets he and Crouch into his office for their Fudge-damage-control session. Crouch is lucky Tom spiked Weasley’s drink - Tom is very good at persuading people. It’s why he’s so confident Harry will be his.

A fortnight of courting, he estimates, then another fortnight to organise the wedding. Perhaps, if he begins planning now, the organising could be reduced to a week and they might be married before the ministry Halloween party. Then he’d really have something to boast about.

Tom concocts his plan. Harry’s training starts at nine am, so he presumably uses the lifts every day at approximately 8:50. The problem is that Tom is always at his desk by 7:58 (as are Granger and Weasley, annoyingly), so he must devise a reason to return to the atrium.

The solution is simple: Tom offers a coffee run.

Granger and Weasley both stare at him like he’s grown a second head – usually, Tom has much better things to do than coffee runs (Granger’s the youngest, it should be her job). Still, no matter. Tom smiles charmingly at them and they accept the offer without further complaint.

He buys the coffees from the overpriced atrium café, and dawdles until 8:50, keeping an eye on the fireplaces.

Harry does not appear.

Tom waits in the atrium for a whole extra ten minutes, but his betrothed-to-be still does not appear. Nine am comes and goes, so Tom leaves. Perhaps, like him, Harry also enjoys being prompt and instead gets the lift much earlier. It will be nice to have things in common - more than their love of duelling, of course.

Tom ponders this as the gold chains clink and grate, hot coffee slopping over his hands. It would not do to waste more time: he needs to find out as much about Harry as he can, and as quickly as possible. It’s already early-October, and the deadline for a Halloween wedding is quickly approaching.

He needs to steal Harry Potter’s auror record.

It’s not that hard. Nothing for Tom is that hard. He is a genius, after all, and very good at magic. Lacking such weaknesses as guilt or shame helps too.

He casts the imperius curse on Penelope Clearwater. She’s Weasley’s girlfriend so is around their office often enough. She also works in Law Enforcement, though in the ‘law’ part, rather than ‘enforcement’, so no imperius-resistance training for her. The curse takes hold easily.

The trainee-auror records are a little trickier to obtain than the schedule (a big print out on a cork board), though still concerningly simple for private ministry documents.

They’re kept in a cabinet in the office of Quinn Thimble, the lead trainer. Clearwater darts in while the trainee aurors are on a fieldtrip to Azkaban, and the other aurors are on their lunch break. Unlocking the cabinet and duplicating Harry’s record is straight-forward enough: they’re academic records, not protected, ancient, magical artifacts. Tom gets the girl to meet him after work. He lifts the curse, obliviates her, then takes home his bedtime reading.

For Tom, home is a cheap, bland flat in Knockturn Alley. Tom doesn’t care. He only uses it to sleep and shower – his Death Eater’s houses are for entertaining guests. No one even knows he lives here. Tom likes it that way. It gives him the freedom to slip into Knockturn as he pleases, and it ensures no pesky visitors interrupting his peace and quiet.

This evening, he sits on his sofa with a mug of tea, feet tucked up beneath him as he learns all about his husband-to-be.

Harry’s Hogwarts grades were good enough to become an auror, but not excellent. That’s fine – Tom wouldn’t want anyone competing with his genius anyway. Dealing with Granger and Weasley at work is vexing enough as it is.

Harry excels at the practical aspects of auror training; he’s more than good enough to make the cut. From his duelling Tom assumed as much, but it’s nice to have confirmation. He couldn’t marry a failure.

The auror personality tests describe Harry as of ‘outstanding moral character’. That gives Tom pause, and a squirm of uncertainty. On the one hand, he’d hate for Harry to become privy to and disrupt his plans. On the other, a righteous and empathetic Harry sounds like more fun than a cowardly, submissive one.

He’ll ponder that further.

Then, there’s the fact that Harry’s parents are dead, killed twenty years ago by a Grindelwald at the height of his power – before Dumbledore defeated him nine years later. Tom knew this. The Potters are one of the big pureblood families and Tom knows all about them, just as he knows Harry will inherit his father’s Wizengamot seat at 25. Voting power: it’s another reason Harry’s such a brilliant choice.

And then, finally, the reason Tom hasn’t managed to bump into Harry in the lift: Harry is not early. Harry is late. Consistently. Has a temper too. And his Hogwarts’ detention history is abysmal.

Tom sips his tea. With these flaws on one end of the scale, and that brilliant grin of Harry’s on the other… Tom knows what he wants, he can deal with some tardiness. Besides, he can train it out of Harry later; Tom knows how to mould people.

There’s a photo at the top of the file. It’s a professional one so Harry isn’t grinning like Tom remembers, yet there’s still a sheepish tilt to photo-Harry’s lips. It’s a hard to tell in the small, grainy picture, but Tom thinks he has nice eyes.

He sticks the picture to his fridge and goes to bed thinking about Harry.

The following Monday, Tom does his coffee run ten minutes later. It’s less of a ‘run’ today - he can’t have Granger and Weasley become reliant. He gets a coffee only for himself.

It’s gone nine am and the atrium is quiet. Tom walks slowly, eyeing the fireplaces. He’s almost at the lifts when one flashes green and Harry comes tumbling out. His betrothed (to-be) catches himself before he can fall flat on his face, but it’s not graceful.

Tom steps into a lift - it’s empty, save for a few memos fluttering around. He holds the door and Harry hurtles through.

“Thanks,” he says, and Tom likes his voice. There’s a huskiness to it.

They catch eyes - Harry does have pretty eyes: they’re a light green, entrancing. Then, as if startled, Harry whips his gaze away.

Tom continues to stare. Dirty sneakers poke out beneath Harry’s askew robe, and there’s a smear on the lens of his glasses. Over the clanking and grinding of the lift, Harry’s breaths fall heavy, like he’s been running. It’s unprofessional, yet strangely endearing.

Over the weekend, Tom practised the demure-eye-catch-and-half-smile he knows he’s more than handsome enough to pull off. Patiently, he waits for Harry to look up, even as the lift grumbles up to Law Enforcement and Harry’s gaze stays glued to the floor, a flush colouring his neck. The black hair curled there is damp from a morning shower.

He’s still not looked up, and the lift is juddering to a stop, and Tom should do something to not squander this opportunity, so he says, “There’s a drying spell, you know. For your hair.”

He expects Harry to ask him what it is so Tom can suggest they go for a drink and he can teach him. Harry does not do that. Harry turns red and basically leaps from the lift the instant the doors open, dashing away without so much as a backwards glance.

Punching in his floor, Tom scowls. The lift judders, moving up. What did he do wrong? It was so easy to charm the Department heads and Wizengamot members for work. Flirting was hardly different. It wasn’t different.

Maybe it was Harry. He’s proving remarkably unpredictable. That’s fine, Tom tells himself, taking a sip of his coffee - he doesn’t even like coffee. It’s fine. Unpredictability is good. He’d hate for a partner of his to be boring. And hasn’t Tom always enjoyed a challenge?

Still, he spends the rest of the day scowling as he plots another way to bump into Harry. Sensibly, Granger and Weasley don’t talk to him.

“What a spiffing idea, Tom,” Fudge says on Tuesday morning as he lounges in his desk chair and polishes his bowler hat. “Yes, I’ll ask Thimble to show us a thing or two. The Irish President is always curious about our graduate recruitment programs…”

Tom walks back into his office smiling. Perhaps it’s that that tempts Granger to ask five minutes later, “Tom, are you seeing anyone?”

It’s an inane question. Usually, the three of them speak of nothing except work and it’s an arrangement that suits them all nicely. Hoping she isn’t trying to set him up with some dull friend of hers, he asks, “Why do you want to know?”

Granger turns pink. She often does that around Tom; he intimidates her. Still, she perseveres. “Curiosity. You know who Percy and I are dating.”

Curiosity. It’s a lie. Tom always knows when people lie to him. And besides, he doesn’t know who Granger’s dating. Or, perhaps he did know and he’s forgotten because a) they weren’t important, and b) he didn’t care. Granger knows better than to bring anyone into their office; Weasley only gets to do it because he’s the oldest.

“Yes,” Tom says because it’s almost true. “I am seeing someone.”

Weasley looks over. “Who?”

“Did you finish the report for Madame Bones yet, Weasley? I have to take it up to her in half an hour.”

Mercifully, he shuts up.

Tom sees Harry again on Thursday. The Irish Magical President is visiting and Tom, Fudge, and some others are showing her around a few departments before they spend the afternoon locked in meetings. Tom is always picked for these jobs over Granger and Weasley. While they’re both hard-working and (almost) as intelligent as Tom, they’re socially inept, while Tom is as handsome and charismatic as they come.

Charming the President is easy – Tom actually likes her. She’s a darn sight more competent than Fudge (as his political assistants, Tom often thinks he, Weasley, and Granger are the ones actually running the country). They have a remarkably interesting conversation about international portkeys that lasts right up until auror Thimble introduces her trainees and Tom’s mouth dries up.

Harry’s wearing the dark green auror robes, and he looks gorgeous. They complement his eyes. Tom’s never wanted to kiss anyone before, but he decides he wants to kiss Harry. He also wants to rip out the eyeballs of their merry little group, so no one else can look at what’s his.

Thimble’s talking, and Tom’s still staring at Harry. Those pretty eyes dart to Tom’s and he quickly tries to do his demure-eye-catch-and-half-smile, but Harry caught him off guard and he thinks his face sort-of spasms, then Harry’s back to flushing and staring at the floor.

Tom does learn something helpful though. The ginger, freckled trainee on Harry’s left is someone named Ron Weasley who must be a brother or a cousin of Percy. The name rings some other bell in Tom’s head, but he can’t quite pinpoint it so it’s probably not important.

Thimble gets Harry to speak about the training program. He’s a little awkward, which is understandable given the circumstances, and Tom doesn’t mind because he just likes the tenor of Harry’s voice. Once they’re married, they’ll work on Harry’s confidence. He looked plenty confident while duelling so it’s in there somewhere.

Tom wants to talk to him, but Harry mentioned Quidditch (he used to play on the Gryffindor team – Tom knows that, though he never attended any of the Hogwarts games) and now the Irish President is desperate to visit the Magical Sports and Games Department.

They say goodbye, Tom feeling strangely hollow. It’s unsettling, and likely a product of his plans to speak properly with Harry failing. He’s tried the coffee run trick three further times this week yet hasn’t seen Harry once. Perhaps he’s stopped being late.

On Friday morning, he talks to Percy Weasley.

“Do you have any siblings?”

The wet blanket’s signing documents on Fudge’s behalf and nearly drops the quill.

“Do I… Well, yes. I do.”

Granger’s quill ceases scratching.

“Who?”

“Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny. Any reason?”

That’s more siblings than Tom’s had dates, but it gives him the confirmation he needs. “Fred and George haven’t filed their shop’s tax return correctly.”

Granger’s quill resumes scratching.

Tom’s weekend plans involve far too much pureblood socialising for his liking, so he clears space in his schedule on Sunday morning to break into the Law Enforcement Department. It’s easy, given his disillusionment spell is so good it’s essentially invisibility, and he has a clearance card.

The aurors, including the trainees, all have individual cubicles with their names embossed on the felt. Ron Weasley’s is beside Harry’s, certifying Tom’s assumption that they’re friends. He’ll speak with Weasley (Percy) further next week.

For now, he examines the slight shimmer surrounding Harry’s cubicle. It’s a ward, and quite a clever one. It makes Tom smile, knowing Harry’s good enough at magic to pull off something like this, then frown when he realises he can’t break the ward without Harry noticing. He checks Weasley’s cubicle and finds the same. Harry must’ve taught him.

Just as Tom’s stewing over the interruption to his plans to snoop through Harry’s personal effects, he sees an auror enter the empty office. She’s a young woman with bright, pink hair and Tom recognises her as Nymphadora Tonks. Bellatrix complains about her much too often.

Tonks strides directly towards him, and Tom just manages to duck around the corner in time. She pauses before Harry’s cubicle, glances around, takes a note from her robe pocket then steps inside. She darts out a moment later and leaves rather rapidly.

Heart racing, Tom stares after her. What was that? His mind shuts off and hot rage rushes from his head to his toes.

Are they dating? Is Harry dating someone? A girl?

...Does Harry even like boys?

They’re questions Tom should’ve asked two weeks ago, but he was so confident he didn’t even think to. He’s still confident, Tom tells himself. He shouldn’t be so ridiculous. If Harry’s dating Tonks, he’ll realise what a much better option Tom is and leave her. If Harry doesn’t like boys… well, most people aren’t completely straight. Tom could give Harry a really good blowjob, and then he’d change his mind.

Tom should figure out how to give a really good blowjob.

He leaves the auror office - making sure to drop a report onto Scrimgeour’s desk so he has a good reason for being there in case someone checks his card - then he heads to Flourish and Blott’s in Diagon Alley for books about sex. (He uses a disguise - no point wasting his breath explaining himself if he bumps into any acquaintances).

On Monday, Tom charms Weasley (Percy). It’s tricky, given how much time he’s invested into conditioning Weasley to fear him, but Tom is good at charming people and by the end of the day, he has what he needs:

Percy lives with his girlfriend and hardly talks to his family because they think he’s a pompous, arse-kissing sleazebag (Tom agrees).

It’s another dead end.

Tom tries the coffee trick again on Tuesday. He spots Harry, but he’s on time so they end up in a lift with ten others. On Wednesday and Thursday Harry’s on another fieldtrip (a stealth and tracking one in Milton Keynes), and on Friday Fudge is having a meltdown over the Senior Undersecretary’s sudden resignation after sordid details of a Veela party in the Swiss Alps leak. It throws plans for the International Relations bill into disarray, and Tom is busy.

It’s all highly concerning because it’s mid-October and he thought he and Harry would be planning their wedding by now.

They are not.

They haven’t even spoken.

On the Friday evening, Fudge summons Tom to his office.

“Sit, sit,” he says, as frazzled as if he’s stuck his head into a Hungarian Horntail’s nest and tried to bade it goodnight. It’s not a good look.

“I’m going to have to move Augusta into the Senior Undersecretary role,” says Fudge. “Then Henry’ll take her spot, which opens up the Junior Undersecretary position.” He taps his fingers on his chin. “I know Percy’s had the most experience, but… I’d prefer for you to take the job, Tom.”

Tom smiles, glad his hard work has paid off. Convincing Narcissa Malfoy to exploit her high society connections to spread scandal had taken him almost an entire ten minutes at the Malfoy dinner party last Saturday.

“I’d be honoured, Minister.”

“Excellent,” he says. “Excellent. Keep it to yourself for now - let’s announce it at the Halloween soirée in a couple of weeks, once all the paperwork’s sorted. At least one good thing has come out of this mess…”

Tom promises he will.

Saturday's still busy, and they have to work. Weasley’s running about somewhere and Tom’s stuck in the office with Granger, annoyed he can’t gloat about his promotion yet. She’s tugging on her bushy hair, frizzing it up even more than usual as she scrawls frantically on a new draft for the bill.

Granger’s not very good with stress. She doesn’t shut down like Weasley does; instead she bites and snaps, making her presence even more intolerable than usual.

There’s a knock, and Umbridge enters.

Tom smiles at the ghastly, pink woman because he learnt early on that being nice to Dolores Umbridge gets one places. She beams back.

“Granger,” she simpers, turning to the girl. “The Daily Prophet statements Susan prepared yesterday. I expected them on my desk this morning, yet..?”

Quill frozen a millimetre above her parchment, Granger looks stricken. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am.”

Umbridge’s pink lips press together. She’s enjoying this. “Well. Where are they?”

From Granger’s face, Tom can tell she doesn’t have them. Umbridge can tell too; those painted lips stretch into a predatory smirk.

“I, uh, I think maybe, um…”

“On my desk in the next half an hour, Miss Granger.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

With a wink at Tom, Umbridge leaves and Granger’s head drops into her hands.

“Where are they?” Tom asks.

“I left them on my coffee table.” Her words are muffled.

“You took them home?”

“I wanted to proofread them last night.”

Tom grins. “Taking home private Ministry documents is a sackable offence, Miss Granger.”

“Oh shut up,” she snaps. “I know you’ve done the same.”

Worried, Tom thinks of Harry’s Auror record, but… no, Granger doesn’t know about that. Work, that’s all she’s referring to.

“Please don’t tell anyone, Tom.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he lies.

She runs her fingers through her tangled hair, glaring at the parchment before her. “Mafalda needs this section of the bill in less than an hour.”

“I know,” Tom says.

“And Umbridge wants the statements in half an hour.”

“I heard,” Tom says. He’s going to make her ask for it.

She mumbles something.

“What was that?” He asks pleasantly.

“May you go and get the statements?”

Tom looks at her.

“Please.”

He sighs. “I suppose I’ve got some time. You’ll owe me.”

She scowls fiercely. “Why can’t you just do it for free like a nice, normal human?”

Tom doesn’t deign that with a response, just smiles in satisfaction as she scribbles down her floo address. He’s not normal, and that is a very, very good thing.

As he wanders up to the atrium, humming tunelessly, he considers getting Granger sacked. She’ll be competition for the Minister role one day: she’s competent and highly opinionated and though she hasn’t yet learnt how to play the political game, one day she might. Perhaps for those reasons, Tom prefers her where he can see her. He could always remove her later if she poses too much of a threat. Besides, he’d hate for her to be replaced with someone useless. Or chatty.

Granger doesn’t speak much of home (perhaps she used to, and Tom told her to stop). Curious, he says the name of Granger’s house (Ocean’s Rest) and steps into the warm, green flames.

He arrives in a low, cluttered kitchen. To his left, a countertop window overlooks a sea of white houses and stone chimneys, sloping down to shimmering blue harbour. Perhaps they’re in Dorset. Or Cornwall. It’s pretty.

There’s movement by the door. Tom looks over and sees someone holding a-

No.

No.

Not someone.

Harry.

He sees Harry in the doorway, empty Gryffindor mug in one hand, eyes wide behind his glasses. He’s wearing an oversized, woollen sweater with knitted snitches, and a pair of blue boxers. His legs are bare, save for a pair of socks.

Tom’s brain short circuits. Dimly, he thinks it’s the longest he and Harry have stared at each other.

Then, Harry makes a strange, strangled noise, flushes, and runs from the room.

Tom’s struggling to shift his gaze from the spot where Harry stood a moment earlier. He just manages to formulate the thought: ‘WhatisHarrydoinginGranger’shouse?’ when a freckled face appears in Tom’s eyeline.

Ron Weasley.

Oh, that’s why Tom knew the name.

Granger’s boyfriend.

“Hello,” Weasley says. He’s wearing more clothes than Harry. “What do you want?”

Harry. Tom nearly says it aloud.

“Granger has statements,” he manages.

“What?”

“On the coffee table.” Tom clears his throat. What is he doing? “Granger left some work documents here. She’s busy and I offered to pick them up for her.”

Weasley’s face splits into a grin. “You’re Tom Riddle.”

“Yes.”

He cackles. It’s a very annoying sound. “Come in,” he says, as if Tom isn’t already stood in their kitchen. “Lounge is through there. D’you want a drink?”

“Alright,” Tom says, checking his watch. He has twenty minutes.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea. Milk, no sugar.”

Ron sticks his head through the kitchen door, and calls, “Harry! D’you want another tea?”

There’s a beat as Tom’s heart pounds, then, “No!”

It comes from upstairs somewhere.

If possible, Ron’s grin widens. “I’m going to make you one anyway!” he calls. “Go take a seat,” he says to Tom. "And feel free to grab what you need."

The lounge is as cluttered as the kitchen and has the same low ceiling. There’s the front door and the staircase, and that’s it. No chandeliers, no servants’ corridors; it’s nothing like his Death Eaters’ houses. But it’s where Harry (presumably) lives. There’s evidence of him everywhere: photos, Quidditch trophies, a hundred books on jinxes and hexes. One lies open on the sofa arm; it details a neat little spell to temporarily blind someone with custard.

As he gathers Granger’s work documents, he spots a glossy photo of Harry on the coffee table. He’s stood in Granger’s kitchen, spatula in hand, laughing. Every now and then he shimmies the frying pan and shoots the camera a wide grin. He looks more relaxed and confident than Tom has ever seen him. Tom glances around, then slides the photo into his pocket.

It’s nicer than the one on his fridge.

“Here you go,” says Weasley, placing three mugs on the coffee table – it’s a squeeze to find space between the magazines, joke shop supplies, and auror-related revision notes, but he manages with a practised ease. “Harry!” He calls again. “Tea’s ready.”

Weasley goes to take the armchair, and sits on a fuzzy, orange cushion. There’s a yowl, and he jumps up. “Ow!” He exclaims, rubbing his arse. “If you don’t want to be sat on, don’t nap on the bloody chair, you monster.” And he unceremoniously shoves the cat off.

Tom instantly prefers this Weasley to his brother.

He especially prefers him because by sitting on the armchair, Weasley ensures that the only place for Harry to sit is on the sofa next to Tom.

A pair of socked feet appear atop the wooden stairs, then Harry trudges down. He’s pulled a pair of joggers on, which is a shame, though his neck and ears are as flushed as they were before.

“Hello,” he says, a bit awkwardly.

Tom tries to give him a bright smile, but his face doesn’t work like normal. “Hullo.”

“Sorry,” Harry says as he hovers at the base of the stairs. “I, um, wasn’t expecting guests.”

“That’s fine. Sorry for intruding.”

Tom’s not sorry at all. This might be the best day of his year. Or his life? Why does his brain never work around Harry? Tom remembers to breathe. Since when did he forget to breathe? That’s not healthy. He should see a doctor. What do his hands usually do in conversation? He grabs his mug and takes a gulp, scalding his mouth.

“So Tom,” Weasley says, ignoring the glare Harry throws him as he perches on the sofa’s edge, as far away from Tom as he can manage. “Hermione says you’re seeing someone?”

Tom realises his mistake. “Oh, um. No.”

“No?” Weasley asks, sipping his tea.

“Not anymore.”

“Ah. Sorry to hear it. What happened?”

That’s a lie. He is not sorry to hear it.

“It wasn’t working out.”

“No?” he says again. He’s smirking. Tom rescinds his earlier thought: this Weasley is more annoying than Percy, actually.

“No.”

Weasley takes another sip. Tom does the same. Harry hasn’t touched his tea: his hands are tucked under his thighs and he’s staring at the rug like he wants to set it on fire. The ball of orange fur sees Harry’s stationary legs as an invitation and leaps onto his lap, and it’s just not fair that the cat gets to touch him when Tom can’t. If Harry would like to set the cat on fire instead, that would be appreciated.

“Harry’s not seeing anyone.”

That takes a moment to worm its way into Tom’s fog-addled brain. “Excuse me?”

“Harry’s-”

“I don’t think that’s relevant,” Harry says, teeth gritted. He’s glaring at the rug.

Then, Tom thinks a horrible thought he wishes he could unthink…

Harry hates him.

It makes a ghastly amount of sense. He’s rude and awkward, he’d rather stare at the ground than at Tom (even though Tom has a nice face), he runs away from Tom, he scowls, and he’s best friends with Hermione Granger. Granger, who Tom has been consistently mean to for the past two years.

Tom checks his watch, then stands up. “I should go,” he says, though he still has a spare ten minutes.

“Oh, alright,” says Weasley. He’s dating Granger! Does he hate Tom too? Did he put something in the tea? Has he been laughing at him this whole time?

“Thank you for the tea.”

Tom leaves, striding back through the cluttered kitchen. Harry’s Gryffindor mug is in the sink. Tom takes it. Thankfully, the floo powder is in a labelled pot, so he doesn’t have to ask.

The flames make him dizzy. The walk to Umbridge’s office is longer than usual, the polite chatter inane. He almost forgets to shrink and hide Harry’s mug before he walks into his own office. Almost.

Granger’s looking less frazzled. She smiles at Tom as he walks in. “Thank you.”

It’s hard to know how to respond. He could be as mean to her as she deserves for gossiping about him to Harry, ruining his chances, or he could play nice and hope she passes on the good word and changes Harry’s mind for him.

“It’s no problem,” he says. He can’t quite bring himself to smile back – he still feels ill – but it’s a start. He takes his chair. “I didn’t know you lived with Harry Potter.”

Granger starts, then ducks her face, pretending to riffle through her cabinet. “Oh,” she says, voice oddly high-pitched. “Did you meet him?”

“He was in the kitchen.”

There’s another strange noise, and the cabinet slams closed. “How, er, how do you know Harry?”

“He’ll take the Potter Wizengamot seat in a few years,” Tom says absently.

“Ah,” Granger says. “Right.”

The instant Tom gets home, he unshrinks the mug and stares at it. He wants to do something weird, like run his tongue along the rim so he knows he and Harry have licked the same place, but that feels so pale in comparison to kissing him that Tom doesn’t want to. Instead, he washes the mug, admiring the tea stains, then he places it in the middle of one of his kitchen shelves, carefully adjusting its position so it’s visible from all angles. This is where it belongs, not shoved in a box with all his other stolen trinkets. This one means more to him than all of those ever could.

He forgets to eat, flopping onto his sofa – it’s not as squishy as Harry’s – and gazes at the photograph. Harry looks like a good cook, and Tom wonders where he learnt. From those muggles who raised him, perhaps? Tom didn’t see any photos of people who might be related to Harry in his house, aside from one of his dead parents. Perhaps they don’t have a good relationship.

Tom doesn’t cry, thinking that Harry might not be his. Tom never cries, and Harry will be his, just… If Harry hates him, it might take longer than expected.

Briefly, Tom ponders asking one of his allies for advice. Like how he never cries, Tom also never asks for help… but perhaps this wouldn’t be help, per se. More, a second opinion. Who could he ask? Dolohov, Avery, Mulicber? Too blunt. They wouldn’t give good advice. Lucius? Tom doesn’t want the man to think he needed help dating of all things. Bella? She’s so in love with Tom, she might just try and kill Harry. He couldn’t have that.

No. He doesn’t need them. What would they say, anyway? Just ask the boy on a date? Pfft, as if Tom hasn’t thought of that and dismissed it as the silly idea it is.

Harry smiles up at him from the photo and Tom lays it on his chest, wrapping his arms around it. He falls asleep that way.

The following week, Tom tries to be nicer to Granger. If she finds it suspicious, she doesn’t say, but her and Weasley (Percy) start whispering more amongst themselves.

Tom’s tempted to spill the secret of his upcoming promotion, just to shut them up.

“Are you alright, Tom?” She asks on Wednesday, as Tom vanishes a carved pumpkin that had mysteriously appeared on his desk. It’s Halloween next week. It should’ve been his and Harry’s wedding date.

“Fine,” he says. Normally, he’d follow up with a snappy comment about her work, but today he doesn’t. “When are you going for lunch?”

She blanches. “Um, twenty minutes or so. Why?”

“I’ll eat with you.”

She looks to Weasley, who shrugs. “Do you, um, have work you want to discuss?”

“No,” Tom says. There’s a false ghost apparition floating about the room. He vanishes that too.

At twelve, they head for the canteen. “I’m meeting friends,” Granger says. “Is that alright?”

“That’s fine.”

More than fine. He may go insane having only Granger to speak with for an hour. It’s even more ‘more than fine’ when it transpires that her ‘friends’ include Harry. There are others too, but Tom has eyes only for him.

He takes the seat beside Granger, opposite Harry. As usual, Harry’s eyes are glued to the table, presenting Tom with the top of his messy, black hair. It looks soft. Tom really wants to touch it.

“Wow,” says a girl. “Aren’t you Tom Riddle? We thought Hermione was keeping you all to herself.”

“I am,” Tom says, trying to focus on speaking and not on staring at Harry. In front of the trainee-auror is a Tupperware filled with leftovers; Weasley (Ron) and Granger have the same.

“Nice! Loads of people thinks you’ll be Minister of Magic one day. I’m Katie Bell, this is Ernie MacMillan, Ron Weasley, and Harry Potter.” They all chime a hello, except Harry who says it a beat too late.

“I wouldn’t say everyone thinks that,” says Granger, a bit put out.

“I think they do,” says MacMillan.

“Are you all in the auror training program?” Tom asks.

Weasley replies. “Yeah, though Katie’s a year ahead. We all met in the DA at Hogwarts.”

“The DA?”

“An underground duelling club,” Weasley says with a wry smile. “Harry ran it- ow, Harry! Don’t kick me.”

“You ran it?” Tom asks him.

Harry nods, then takes a large forkful of food so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. That hollow feeling in Tom’s stomach returns.

“Aren’t you eating anything?” Granger asks him.

Tom doesn’t usually eat lunch, he’s much too busy. But now he realises that, given lunch was what he suggested, that seems strange. Why doesn’t his brain ever work properly around Harry?

“I’ll just… buy something,” he says, and awkwardly half stands.

Granger gives him a funny look. “Why don’t you have some of ours? We’ve got loads. Grab a plate.”

It’s the first time Tom’s ever been grateful for being told what to do. He takes a canteen plate and fork, and Granger spoons on food from her Tupperware. Then she nicks some of Weasley’s food for herself, grinning. He doesn’t complain.

It’s a cold noodle dish with peanuts and spring greens, and it tastes great.

“Harry made it,” Granger says smugly. “He’s a really good cook. I can’t believe he’s not dating anyone.”

Harry slams his fork down. “Can you stop?”

Defiant green flashes in his eyes and Tom can’t look away, he can’t swallow, he can’t breathe. This is the Harry he saw duel three weeks ago. The one Tom would end the world for.

“What?” Granger asks, shocked.

“You know what!” Harry hisses and it almost sounds like parseltongue. “I don’t find it funny, so stop.” Weasley opens his mouth, but Harry cuts him off. “You too!”

Then, he stands and storms off.

Black dots cloud Tom’s vision; he still isn’t breathing. Forcing air into his lungs requires effort.

“He’s not normally like that,” Bell says, frowning, though Tom knows from Harry’s record that he is like that. Seeing it in person is something else.

“Harry’s normally very chatty,” MacMillan agrees. He looks to Granger and Weasley. “What was that about?”

Granger flushes. “Oh, nothing.”

Weasley mumbles something into his noodles.

Harry doesn’t return, but MacMillan and Bell are easy to pry information about him from: he’s a great teacher, and has a sharp wit, and his instincts are second-to-none. Tom doesn’t really understand what love is, but he thinks he’d kill for Harry, and maybe that’s close.

As he walks back to the office with Granger, he takes a chance. “Does Harry hate me?”

“What?” Granger asks, her eyes turning to saucers.

Tom despises repeating himself, so he waits for her to figure it out.

“Harry - no! He- Well, he, um, doesn’t know you. He can be shy around strangers.”

“Right.” She’s withholding something. Tom knows, like he always does. He and Harry aren’t strangers! So… it’s true. Harry hates him.

Harry hates him.

Granger stops walking. The look she gives Tom is one he recognises immediately: a million thoughts flying through her head at once. Realisation. Tom knows the feeling well.

His mind starts to race. “What is it?”

“Um…” The look passes. She schools her face. “The flying carpet tariffs. I think I’ve figured out the right wording for section 3bii.”

And that is most definitely a lie.

Tom stresses for the rest of the week. He’s committed a crime or two while pursuing Harry, though he’s sure Granger can’t trace any of that back to him. The obliviate on Clearwater took well, and no one knows the auror office was broken into - he barely touched anything! Besides, if Granger does suspect something, Tom can blackmail her about the reports she took home.

He could sway a court into finding her guilty. He knows a lot of people in high up places.

Still, it’s unnerving. She keeps asking him bizarre questions like, “Do you prefer coffee or tea?” or, “How come you like the canteen so much now?” or, “Have you seen the picture I keep in my wallet? It’s of me, Harry, and Ron?”, or, “Are you coming to the ministry Halloween party?”

The answer to that last one is yes. It’s where Fudge’ll announce his promotion. Granger doesn’t know that, but she does know that ministry parties provide fantastic networking opportunities and of course Tom would be going, which is why he snaps, “Unless you’ve checked the draft for the public enquiry into leaky cauldron bottoms, Granger, you shouldn’t be chatting.”

Being nice to Granger is wearing on him.

She mutters something about how unfair it is that she’s doing Weasley’s work while he’s out with Fudge, and Tom ignores her. She should try being more personable.

Harry doesn’t visit the canteen that week. Tom also doesn’t spot him on his morning coffee runs. It’s strange because Tom knows Harry’s attending his auror training (he uses Clearwater to check the register). It’s silly, but it feels like Harry is hiding from him.

Does he hate Tom enough to do that?

Tom thinks about Harry a lot. Thinks about those angry, green eyes, and that shy smile, and that creeping, pink flush. He thinks other thoughts too – those books are putting ideas in his head. Ideas of kissing, and sex, and blowjobs.

He hasn’t thought much of these things before. Perhaps when he was thirteen and believed he should think about these things, before he realised they didn’t interest him.

Harry interests him.

On Friday evening he goes to Harry’s house. It’s in Porthwyn, in Cornwall, which Tom figures out by sneaking a peak in Granger’s purse so he can apparate there instead of flooing into their kitchen. He doesn’t do anything creepy (like knock on the door). Instead, he watches Harry, Granger, and Weasley laugh and drink butterbeer in the lounge.

Tom doesn’t understand it: isn’t Harry angry with them? Didn't they argue? Aren’t they not friends anymore? When Tom’s allies disappoint him, he curses them, or ignores them for a month to teach them a lesson. Sometimes both. Maybe Harry’s laughter is false? At this distance, Tom can’t tell.

That night, for the first time, the gap in the bed beside Tom feels empty.

“What are you wearing?” Granger asks on Monday.

Tom raises an eyebrow above his parchment. “My uniform?”

“No,” she says, rolling her eyes. He’s allowed her to get too comfortable. “To the party on Friday!”

“I’m busy, Granger. Ask me next week.”

There’s a silence, and Tom smiles, thinking he’s won. Then, Granger appears right beside him, leaning on his desk.

“Go away.”

“No,” she says. She plucks the parchment out from under his quill and scans it. “This is preparation for the next International Confederation of Wizards meeting. That’s not until next year, Tom!”

“Preparation,” he says, snatching the parchment back. “I know when it is.”

“My point is it’s not so urgent you can’t have a conversation.”

“Perhaps I simply don’t want to have a conversation with you, Granger. You’re not that interesting.”

For some reason, she grins wildly. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“You don’t like me. I mean, I knew you didn’t like me - I didn’t think you liked anyone. But then you’ve been acting so strangely for the past month-”

“-No I haven’t-”

“Yes, you have. I’m not an idiot. And you don’t like me, do you?”

“Go away,” Tom repeats. He picks up his quill.

Granger tilts her head. “Do you have any friends?”

“I spent all weekend in Yorkshire with Rowle and Dolohov.”

“Really? Is that why you refer to them by their surnames?”

“That’s for your benefit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know who Thorfinn and Antonin are. Their names crop up often enough at work. It's odd, how you call everyone by their surname.”

“Go away,” Tom says again. He’s repeating himself. He hates repeating himself. And Granger is being fucking annoying. He wants to curse her. He won’t. He’s at work. It’s a terrible idea. But he wants to.

“Come to ours,” she says, “To get ready before the office party. We’ll have some drinks-”

She breaks off, a squeak escaping her lips as Tom stands, blood rushing, getting into her space. His wand is in his hand; he doesn’t remember drawing it.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, and he hears how his voice drops lower, dangerous.

Granger’s chin juts up. This is why she was a stupid Gryffindor, not a clever Ravenclaw or a cunning Slytherin.

“You want to come, don’t you?” She says bravely. “Even though you don’t like me. Is there someone else you like, Tom?”

She is playing with fire. Tom snaps.

“Why the fuck would I want to come to your stupid, little house full of blood traitors and mudbloods?”

There’s a pathetic, strangled noise from the back of her throat. Tom thinks she might cry. Good.

“You can’t-”

“I can say whatever I please. Ninety per-cent of the Wizengamot seats are hereditary, Granger. Do you really think your foolish, mudblood ideas will gain any traction there? Don’t be naive. Those with power are the ones most inclined to maintain the status quo.”

“That’s- just- stop!” She splutters, red. “You’re changing the subject!”

“To something less in-”

“I know you like Harry!”

Tom stares at her.

“Why can’t you just ask him out like a normal, bloody person?”

“Harry hates me,” Tom says, unable to stop his traitorous mouth.

Granger frowns. “Harry, what? What are you on about? I already told you that wasn’t true!”

“You lied.”

"I- Not really. I suppose I didn't tell the truth about why he's weird around you."

Tom continues to stare. He feels hollow again, and the hollowness is growing, like a tree rotting from the inside. “Tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have to, Tom – it’s bloody obvious that he has a crush on you! I thought you were good at reading people!”

Tom is good at reading people. He had to learn to be. Had to learn how to fit in, to appear normal. He is good at it.

Why, then, is something about Harry tearing apart his edges? Why can he not see or think? Why does he feel these snatches of soaring happiness that suddenly vanish, leaving him tumbling into a bottomless ocean? He hates it. He misses making the smartest decision, never doubting himself, knowing his goals. And now… this. The hollowness.

The fear.

Harry likes him.

For some reason, that makes everything worse.

Tom leaves. He doesn’t care that Granger yells after him that he’s a prick. Let her tell Harry. She should tell Harry. She should scare him off.

He doesn’t go into work on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. Fudge sends him a ‘Get Well Soon!’ card. Tom lies on the hard sofa in his boring, damp, small, empty apartment, staring at the ceiling. He tries reading a book. He tries practising magic. He tries torturing a spider. Nothing makes him feel better.

He wants Harry.

Perfect, fiery, Harry.

His Harry.

It should be simple. Tom knows how to make people love him, and perhaps Harry already does. He can fake smiles and laughs, can forge false connections, can lie and manipulate. Why is it so hard to apply those same skills to Harry? He has to.

Tom wants Harry.

Tom gets what he wants.

He paces. He ponders. He steels himself.

Friday gives him a headache. He’s back in the office - the party's tonight, Fudge needs him there, Tom's career needs him there - and Granger keeps looking like she wants to say something, then not. It’s making him ill, so he spends as much of the day as possible with Weasley (Percy), which is something he’s never done before. It doesn't improve his headache.

At the end of the day, he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’s even paler than usual and his hair isn’t sitting right. He splashes cold water over his face, dries it, then stands straight and smiles at himself. It’s so clearly fake. How can no one else tell?

It doesn’t matter. Today, and everyday onwards, falsehoods are what he needs.

He meets Granger in the corridor outside their office. “Are you ready?”

Startled, she says, “For what?”

“I recall an invitation, Granger.”

“An inv… you want to come?”

“Yes. I’d like to spend more time with Harry. I believe that was your point.”

She looks slightly aghast. “Well… yes, um. I don’t know that… I don’t think you should date him.”

“Are you his guardian?”

“No, but-”

“Then I fail to see how it’s any of your business.”

“I’m his friend,” Granger says hotly. “Remember those? I’m looking out for him. You acted horribly the other day, and I don’t think Harry should be with anyone mean. No matter what they look like. He deserves better.”

Tom looks at the tiled floor. He knows how to do this. “I’m sorry, Granger – Hermione. I… let my emotions get the better of me and spoke in anger. Truthfully, my feelings for Harry have taken me by surprise and my actions have not entirely been rational. I only wish the best for him; if you sincerely believe our relationship will be detrimental, then I will pursue it no further.”

Crossing her arms, Granger huffs. “That tactic doesn't work on me. I’m not one of your politician friends, Tom.”

Tom gives her the shy smile he practised yesterday. “Technically, I think you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but the ire ebbs. She’s pleased: Granger doesn’t make friends easily. “Fine,” she says, turning and striding towards the lifts, “But be nice, else I’m kicking you out.”

Tom grins.

This time, Granger floos ahead to give the others warning. A few moments later, Tom follows her through.

The cottage kitchen is just as he remembers, with the array of stained tea towels and mismatched mugs, though fake cobwebs now dangle from the rafters and there’s a carved pumpkin on the table. It winks at him. Weasley (Ron) is there, and Harry too; he gives Tom a cautious look that immediately interferes with Tom’s plan to stay calm and collected. The hollowness creeps back in.

“Do you like risotto?” Harry asks after Granger hangs his cloak over the back of a chair. It takes Tom a moment to register the question.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how to cook it?”

“Not exactly.”

“I can show you,” Harry says. He’s nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but he’s talking, and isn’t staring at the floor so it’s progress.

Briefly, the four of them make idle chatter. Mostly, Granger and Weasley talk as Harry gathers ingredients and Tom stands around awkwardly. He’s never been so aware of the space his body takes up. These ceilings are much too low.

Once Granger seems satisfied Tom’s behaving himself, she says brightly, “I’m going to get changed out of these work clothes,” and makes for the door.

“Good for you,” says Weasley, wrestling with a packet of biscuits.

The look Granger shoots him is withering.

Sensibly, Weasley abandons the biscuits on the countertop and mutters, “Oh, yeah, need to, um, iron my hat,” then scuttles after Granger.

Finally, he and Harry are alone.

There’s an odd sort of tension in the air, heady and thick. They’re watching each other, curious, careful, waiting to see who makes the first move.

It’s Harry. He backs toward the door and pulls it to, then casts a quick silencing charm, all without taking his eyes off Tom. It’s strange, but Tom enjoys the unconventional, and the silencing charm is prudent given how much of a nosy snoop Granger is.

Harry’s holding his wand.

“Hullo,” says Tom, softer. It isn’t the most interesting thing to say, but it’s the only word his brain supplies.

Those eyes are so lovely, gazing up at Tom. Swirling, green pools tinged with caution.

“Expelliarmus,” says Harry.

Tom’s wand clatters to the kitchen floor, rolling to a stop by Harry’s socked feet. He doesn’t bend to pick it up, he stays frozen, wand pointed at Tom’s chest.

“Let’s talk about this like adults,” Harry says.

“Yes,” Tom agrees. He wasn’t the one who’d cast a spell. Normally, being disarmed would irk him, but Harry looks so beautiful that Tom might be able to forgive him. Just this once.

“You’ve been following me.”

“I… have,” says Tom. Lying would get them off on the wrong foot. Besides, isn’t stalking romantic? Tom’s read that in a book somewhere. “How did you know?”

“I’m an auror. Training to be an auror. And you weren’t very subtle.”

Tom frowns. “Yes I was.”

“Not really. Um, Hermione says you don’t like coffee.”

“Oh.”

They watch each other. Harry’s still on edge, still griping the wand. Perhaps this is how he best communicates? He is most confident when he fights. It’s an odd quirk, though not a bad one. Tom can get used to it.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Harry says. “As long as it was a, y’know, a one-time thing. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Tom smiles. He doesn’t think stalking is against wizarding law, not if Harry isn’t kicking up a fuss about it, but it’s nice to hear Harry’s willing to keep his secrets. Tom has lots of secrets.

“I appreciate that, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry says, the wand lowering ever so slightly. “So, you’re going to stop following me?”

“I don’t know that I need to anymore.”

“No,” Harry says. “No, you don’t. I promise.”

Tom smiles again. There’s still that hollow feeling, that… fear that Harry might run away screaming the moment he peeks behind Tom’s many masks, yet now there’s something else too. A sapling, growing in the darkness, struggling for the light.

Hope.

Harry wets his lips. Tom wants to kiss them.

“I just…” Harry says. The wand lowers further. “I just don’t understand how you found out.”

“I suppose you weren’t very subtle,” Tom says, repeating Harry’s words from earlier. It’s meant to be a joke, but Harry’s face falls. Quickly, Tom backtracks. “No, I meant - I didn’t realise that you… uh, Granger told me.”

That doesn’t work at all. Harry turns ashen. “Hermione told you?!”

“I suppose that is her first name.”

“Fuck! But I didn’t tell her! I swear! And why would she-”

“Harry, it’s okay,” Tom says, stepping slowly towards him. “You don’t need to panic.”

Behind his glasses, Harry’s eyes are very wide. He presses back against the door. Tom doesn’t entirely understand why.

“I’m glad she told me,” Tom says, using his best calm voice, taking another step closer. “I was going insane, I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Harry quickly says. “I wanted to talk to you about it. I wanted to understand. I didn’t tell Hermione, I promise. I don’t get how she found out. I’ll convince her not to go to the aurors.”

Tom’s so close now he can reach out and touch Harry, tuck a stray strand of black hair behind his ears, press a finger to his pink lips. His brain still isn’t working properly - he knows that because it takes him far longer than it should’ve done to realise he has no idea what Harry’s talking about.

He pauses. “The… aurors?”

Harry nods. “We can figure everything out.”

“Is… Is this about the stalking?”

“What?” Harry asks. He looks as confused as Tom feels. “Um, no… I mean, I won’t mention that either! I followed you around too, so it’s only fair.”

“You did?”

Harry flushes. It’s very charming, how the pink stains his neck. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t a danger to anyone else.”

Harry’s looking up at him with those bright, pretty, earnest eyes. It gives Tom pause. “Why would I be a danger?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry says, laying a hand on Tom’s arm. The touch shoots warmth along his veins and he shivers. “Sorry!” Hastily, Harry removes the arm and tucks it in the space between his back and the door. His other hand still holds the wand, Tom can feel it pressing into his abdomen.

Harry wets his lips again. “It’s just… from my perspective… I didn’t know why you did what you did and whether you’d do it to anyone else… I’ve felt a similar way about my aunt and uncle before - not that I did… that. But I think I understand why you did and… if you ever want to talk…”

Very, very softly, Tom asks, “What do you think I did, Harry?”

Harry swallows. Tom watches the bob of his throat.

“Are you going to make me say it?”

“I think I have to,” Tom breathes.

Up close, Harry’s so beautiful. Tom can count every eyelash, can watch every breath fall past his lips, can smell tea clinging to Harry’s soft, woollen jumper; tea mixed with something sweet and spiced.

“I know you killed your father.”

Tom freezes.

And then, he panics.