Work Text:
Harry watched the man through his bedroom window, chin resting on his hand.
Another one, he muttered to himself. The Dursleys often entertained work friends thanks to their recently flourishing business. Usually, they were all superficial men, clad in ironed suits, with balding hair. A bunch of rednecks acting like ‘professional’ businessmen, as if they don’t drool over the sight of blood money.
But this man, he was different.
He was Tom Riddle, driving a black Chevrolet in the early morning sun, white hands on the steering wheel. There had been something about him even from afar. Harry had always thought he looked out of place somehow.
Aunt Petunia had called him a family friend. An uncle, maybe? was Harry's first guess as he watched Tom get out of the car, swift and sleek.
The way he walked, the way his dark eyes drank in the clumsy lavishness of the Dursleys’ home (a freshly painted country estate nestled up the hill far from other houses, the scent of damp lawn, citrus trees), and when he stood still, he looked carved of porcelain rather than flesh and blood. There was a medieval quality about him in a strange, inexplicable way. More caricature than man.
(Oddly enough, Harry thought of punching that face of his.)
But who was Tom Riddle? He wasn’t in any photograph with his parents, never mentioned by a distant cousin, and never by his aunt and uncle either. It was possible he just pranced in, said sweetly that yes, he was a family friend—and they accepted that reasoning.
Petunia, still, welcomed him with open arms, giddy with the opportunity to show this charming man around the house. How wealthy they are, how perfectly grateful they are.
She would gesture towards the gardens, then point to the blooming dandelions and vibrant poppies; walk him right up the swirling staircase, wood creaking beneath their feet, and show him to his room, which was right in front of Harry’s. They’d share a bathroom.
Oh, don’t mind that boy; he won't be a bother. Will you, Harry? Petunia had said, with malice forming in her vowels. Tom gave her nothing more than a sweet smile.
It had been two days since Tom’s stay in the estate. They didn’t talk to each other that much.
Although sometimes Harry would catch a glimpse of his slender figure, drifting down the stairs, barely a sound made from his footsteps. The man was virtually ghost-like in that way.
Maybe his door would leave a barely imperceptible gap, a space enough for his eyes to fill—and he'd watch Tom tug on his boxers, pop some pills into his mouth, light a candle, and methodically write inside a leather-bound book. All in a ritualistic manner.
Harry wondered if there was anything he did that wasn't prim and proper.
Harry flopped onto his bed with a sigh. Mindlessly, he scratched at his collarbone, a red bite settling over his skin. His room was a mess, old photographs strewn over the floor, a stolen bottle of wine abandoned, velvet liquid spilled onto the carpet.
He had been searching for any evidence of the prior existence of Tom Riddle. Yet, there was none. The man merely appeared out of nowhere in fancy cars and even fancier riches, apparently. He was older than Harry, that he knew, at least. Tom had a youthful physical appearance, but his movements lacked the hastiness that people his age usually possessed.
A pretty face that looked like the front cover of a magazine. Clean, sophisticated in each step he walked; such a refined man he was—all black leather shoes, soft linen shirts, and meticulously slicked-back hair.
He was practically a teen girl’s summer dream, or everything a middle-aged woman like Petunia would've—knock, knock, knock.
Three times, all with the same impatient force. His shoulders stiffened.
“Harry, open the lock, boy!” Petunia’s high voice came from outside the door. That woman again.
He got up from his bed with a sluggish reluctance. The floor felt like ice beneath his feet as he walked over to the door.
The harsh raps against the door became louder; Petunia’s annoyingly shrill voice sounded grating to his ears. His hands clenched into fists by his sides, waiting a little longer. Just to piss her off even more.
“Open the damn door!”
Harry twisted the key. And in seconds, practically slammed the door open. Petunia blinked at him, before her horse-like face contorted back into that usual nasty scowl. Her dried-up, wrinkled red lips curled into a sneer at the sight of him.
“What do you want?”
“Get dressed for dinner. The guest wants to see you,” the woman said tersely.
That was unexpected. Harry frowned, brows knit together in confusion. “Me? What does he want to do with me—”
“I have no idea either, but he was insisting and all. You better get down there fast, boy,” Petunia said. Clearly, there was no room for questions.
She turned her back on him, heels clicking.
Petunia cooked a hefty plate of chicken and served it on the table. Stuffed chicken breasts. Their juice oozed out of the meat when she cut it in half; the pink skin glistened with an obscene amount of oil. Looking at it made Harry sick.
Dudley, greedy as he was, put his chubby paws to use and wolfishly stabbed each piece with his fork. Their utensils created a discordant noise against glass and metal, nigh unbearable to his ears.
Harry never in his life sat down at the dinner table with the Dursleys. Never engaged in any normal familial activities. His first taste of family was when Dudley punched him in the face once, knuckles bruised and his fat, ugly face flushed red. Harry had licked his own busted lip, swallowed the lump in his throat with indifference. They were barely eleven at that time.
The word Family left a metallic, bitter taste on his tongue.
They made small talk to prove they were a civil, well-bred species. Tom, in all his chivalrous manner, engaged in conversation with Petunia that had filled her heart with such awe—her usually thin and pallid cheekbones blossomed with color at his perfectly curated words. Perhaps it was for the good that Vernon was out on a business trip after all.
Harry poked at the slab of meat on his plate, stared at Petunia's glass of wine, rim stained with her red lipstick.
How about you, Harry? Any good in sports? Tom asked, all of a sudden. Their attention was directed onto him next. Petunia gave him a pointed look, as if saying, 'don't fuck this up.'
Tom's eyes were unusually intent, boring into Harry's own eyes. It reminded him bizarrely of a snake that he had encountered when he was ten.
Sure. Sometimes, Harry replied curtly with a shrug, glancing back and forth between Tom's eyes and the necklace resting in the hollow of his collarbones—a serpentine 'S' engraved on its golden surface.
Tom smiled. Just like your old man, huh?
After dinner, Tom excused himself to go to the bathroom with a polite nod, his gaze flicking towards Harry for a split second. Before Petunia or Dudley could open their mouths, Harry mumbled something that sounded like an excuse and left the table. He couldn't stand the company alone.
Harry chose to venture out into the gardens. A sinking feeling in his heart told him that Tom was somewhere out there, and that he wanted him to follow.
He found Tom standing in front of a small stone statue; a naked cherubic figure, its serene face looking at him, holding a goblet. Child-like innocence draped in flowing cloth, unknowing and at the same time omniscient. It was horribly quiet, save for the faint murmur of water flowing from the pond.
"Are you my uncle?" Harry asked, standing beside him.
Tom turned slowly. His gaze fixed on him. "Why, did you think so?"
"I didn't. I was asking," Harry replied. "Just answer the question."
He chuckled. The sound was odd, mechanical, almost. It startled Harry, then, how his expression morphed into one of an aberrant somberness that even he could not explain. After how the man acted during dinner—cordial, warm, and pleasant—his demeanor in that moment was something quizzical for Harry.
His hand reached out towards Harry; knuckles brushed against his cheek in a gentle, nearly reverent stroke.
"Ah, you haven't got a clue after all," Tom said. He sounded disappointed, almost.
Harry drew a sharp breath, quiet. His hands were clammy, and a cold, biting feeling nipped at his nape. He couldn't help but relish his fleeting touch, wondering if he could erase the disappointment in his tone.
Just tell me. I can be good, was what he wanted to say.
There was a creature living in the house, and he had no idea what it was.
Harry woke up with drool pooling on the corner of his mouth. He blearily wiped his face with his palm, yawning. Light poured through linen-laced curtains; a plethora of vibrant colors bathed him in warmth. The clock's shorter hand pointed towards seven, sharp and precise. It was early, and staying in bed seemed to be all he wanted to do that day—huddled in the haze of his plain, white bedsheets. Uncaring of the world and its people.
He lay there for what felt like hours. After his vision cleared, and boredom finally took over his long, winding thoughts, he finally got up from bed. He navigated himself down the spiraling staircase, fingers tracing the flowery wallpaper Petunia had chosen, coarse to the touch.
It was only then that he heard a muffled, mellifluous brass.
The distant melody of someone playing the piano. Not a single soul had touched the object for years. Not since the death of Lily Evans. Petunia had been drunk on burgundy wine once, told a small Harry that he should not ever touch the piano. Or his mother would come and haunt him.
As he walked further down the stairs, every note whistled clearer in his ears. He followed that noise like a moth to a flame, feet numbly moving as if hypnotized. Harry entered the living room, which was a wide, cavernous space. Walls painted blue, mahogany flooring.
He stood there, frozen.
There was Tom, sitting on the bench. His lithe fingers pressed on each key with a graceful nimbleness, head bowed, feathered noises lilted from the piano. Harry sat next to him in a daze, eyes fervently watching the man be consumed by a riveting force. His swan-like frame almost became one with the notes he played.
All of a sudden, Tom's other hand reached for his, and guided his hand to the piano. He only hummed, gently interlacing their fingers together. Harry's breath hitched. Their palms juxtaposed one another. The one above his was pale, slender, violet veins dancing beneath his skin. Harry felt small, like a child.
The song continued in its feverish stupor, his hand connected with Tom's as he controlled its movements. Puppet master, puppet show. It was a gradual descent to a noise that was piercing and deep—abrupt from its previous gentleness, and Harry felt as if the room could swallow him whole. Body consumed by music and its ocean of azure walls. He couldn't breathe, not with Tom's gaze pinned on him, as if he was a taxidermied butterfly framed by the wall.
In this light, his eyes were uncanny, leached of color except for the hollow abyss that Harry found himself constantly falling into. Harry could not, with any of his will, look away from him. His wanton gaze, his crimson lips that were slightly ajar, revealing some of his pearly teeth.
The song stopped abruptly. Harry's heart could not stop its rapid flux of blood, his chest heaved. Something unfamiliar coiled in his gut, twisted into desire. He wanted more.
Harry, with uncontrolled impulsiveness, grabbed Tom's face and kissed him. He did not have any experience; all he knew was that he wanted to taste, wanted to feel and touch. A boyish clumsiness. Tom held his neck, goosebumps riding all over his skin from the coldness of his touch.
"Please, please—" Harry whispered into his mouth. Tom grinned, and practically devoured him.
Time stretched languidly, till all he could do was follow Tom in the throes of his passion. His trousers were unlaced, and they made love with Harry’s back arched on the piano, keys fumbling and creating a dissonance in harmony. At that moment he felt like an animal, bereft of reasoning. He shuddered as Tom touched him all over, gasping against his neck, warm breath on his flesh. Beautiful, he murmured into his skin, as Harry said yes, yes, a soft, high noise punched out of his throat. Harry kissed him again when he came, shivering into his embrace. The air was fragrant with the scent of lye soap beneath Tom's fabrics.
"You are my most precious creature," Tom said, caressing his cheek. Harry did not realize what it had meant.
It was only then, when Harry felt Tom’s arms wrapped around his naked body, that he could understand why prey could unknowingly fall into the luring trap of a predator. How easy it was in the end to surrender.