Archive of Our Own

There were two very symmetrical holes in Harry’s Converse trainers that indicated exactly where the balls of his feet were. The white rubber toes were splashed with substances unknown. Harry had never bothered attempting to clean them, so he didn’t know whether the stains would come out with magic or a toothbrush.

It didn’t even matter. He needed new trainers. And jeans - his current pair were a bit too frayed around the edges.

Normally, such thoughts wouldn’t even occur to him, but today, because of his surroundings, he felt a little... undignified.

He was visiting the Ministry of Magic.

Well, visiting was a generous term.

He was…perching. On a bench.

The tax queue hadn’t moved at all.

Harry had a hunch that the postal pigeon seller who had gone in a good forty minutes ago was doing some sort of dirty business.

He eyed the other people ahead of him critically. A woman who had informed everyone that she brewed homemade gin. And a man who insisted he was in the toy business  - though what type of toys he sold remained unclear.

Harry, a broom maker, was the most normal of all of them.

Alas, he was stuck behind them on an appointment that was already running two hours late.

And there was nobody behind him in the queue, which was probably by far the worst thing of all.

What was the point of queues if there was nobody behind you?

Harry let out a long sigh. His back was getting stiff; the bench he was perched on was not made for comfort. It was made to make people suffer and worry about every tax-related thing they’d done over the past year.

Two hours in, Harry felt he had done enough tax-related penance. He was ready to stretch his legs.

And there was a curious little refreshment shop down in the Ministry atrium that he had noticed earlier.

So he got up, mumbled something incoherent to the man in the toy business about keeping his place, and headed for the lifts.

He wanted a refreshment.

He took the lift down and made a beeline for the shop, only to discover there were already two people ahead of him.

Again.

Only this time, he could hope that the queue would move quicker.

But there was another problem he hadn’t anticipated before.

The menu had far too many options.

There was tea. Iced tea - different varieties, too, from "Raspberry Ginger" to "Mango Green Tea". There were coffees with different spices, milks, foams and syrups. There were lemonades, tonics and smoothies. All of this  made Harry instantly worry that by choosing one drink, he was missing out on two others.

In the end, he settled on something utterly ridiculous - a layered brew of espresso and matcha, topped with coconut milk foam and cinnamon.

A powerful concoction, Harry thought as he took the first sip.

It was good. For one sip. Then it quickly became terrible.

Which meant there was a good chance the drink would last an hour or so, which was precisely how long he hoped it would take to finish the stupid taxes.

He returned to the lift and travelled back up. He stepped out onto the tax floor with the long corridor of vinyl tiles he knew all too well. The place reminded him a bit of a Muggle hospital.

His trainers squeaked loudly if he managed to catch the angle just right.

Like right now.

Just as Harry attempted a particularly impressive squeak, his worn, hole-adorned trainers bumped into another pair of shoes.

Black patent leather dress shoes, to be precise, polished so thoroughly that they reflected the dull ceiling lights.

It wasn’t just their feet that collided. It was everything - their chests, their stomachs. Harry nearly headbutted the man in the jaw.

But most tragically -  the terrible drink. It collided with the man's stomach and, despite all its carefully arranged layers, emerged as an aggressively greenish-brown muck that trickled down the front of his pristine white shirt.

Fuck me, Harry thought, staring at the stain.

Who would have guessed that a drink with no particular flavour could create such an abominably ugly mess?

The man was probably seething.

Which was why Harry still hadn’t looked up at his face. But continuing to do so would probably be rude.

So he glanced up carefully.

Instead of an enraged Ministry official, he found himself staring at the handsome face of the Minister of Magic, Tom Riddle himself.

This wasn’t a hallucination. The face was very real. The salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled. Large, dark eyes focused solely on Harry. And, despite the occasion, they had an expression that looked….amused?

The Minister, it turned out, looked even better in person than he did in the newspapers. Even with the greenish-brown stain on his shirt. How old was he, anyway? Were old men even allowed to look like that?

Life was just unfair.

And why exactly was he so amused?

"Um," Harry said. Should he apologise? He didn’t know.

After all, bumping into each other wasn’t entirely one person's fault.

On the other hand, he had been the one carrying the foul drink.

"Sorry," he mumbled, more out of habit than genuine regret.

"Not at all," the Minister said immediately. "In fact, I believe I’m the one who ought to apologise. It’s my fault you are now deprived of your...greenish- brown-coloured beverage and left thirsty."

Is he flirting with me? Harry thought, bewildered.

"Aren’t you mad about the..." Harry gestured vaguely towards the man's shirt, taking care not to gesture too low.

The Minister merely smiled and waved a hand over the stain.

It disappeared.

Harry was rather taken aback by the casual display of wandless magic. 

Riddle's magic, that was.

It felt really warm. And nice. Very nice.

Suddenly, Harry became acutely aware that they were still standing rather close after the collision, so he took a step backwards and promptly slipped.

Before he could topple over like a bowling pin, a strong arm wrapped around him, steadying him.

"Are you all right?" the Minister asked. He was smiling widely now. And - it wasn’t very obvious, but Harry still saw it - he drew in a deep breath, as though trying to catch Harry’s scent.

Unfortunately for him, Harry was what healers called a low-pheromone omega. He had a scent, of course, but it was so faint that he had never even needed suppressants.

"M'fine," Harry mumbled.

He straightened immediately, demonstrating his ability to stand on his own two feet.

But the arm didn’t disappear.

"Do you have a name?" Riddle asked, his voice dipping slightly lower.

"Why?" Harry frowned.

He had splashed the man's shirt, sure, but Riddle had cleaned it himself just now. Was he looking for some sort of moral compensation?

Riddle finally removed his arm, probably because the people behind him were exchanging confused looks, Harry noticed.

But he didn't relent.

"I'd like to buy you another drink," Riddle explained.

Harry hesitated.

He had just lost the drink.

But he wasn’t sure giving his name to the Minister himself was a particularly good idea.

The man was... the Minister.

"There is a cafe in the atrium," Riddle continued, seemingly missing Harry’s hesitation. "What sort of Minister would I be if I allowed my citizens to walk about thirsty and unsatisfied?"

He added the last part in a lower voice, his eyes trailing over Harry’s face one more time.

Was he this charming with all his citizens?

Harry rather suspected he was.

His gaze drifted back towards the tax declaration queue, and he realised the people ahead of him were no longer there.

As if on cue, the announcement howler mounted above the tax office door bellowed:

"HARRY POTTER!"

“Um, that would be me,” Harry said, and stepped away from the Minister.

It made him feel a bit strange - like leaving his breakfast half-finished.

“Harry Potter,” the Minister repeated in a very light voice.

He turned to follow Harry’s walk to the door with his eyes.

“It was very pleasant to meet you, Harry Potter,” he said.

The man’s barking, Harry thought. What could possibly be pleasant about having coffee spilled all over you?

The Minister’s entourage seemed to agree with Harry - they looked confused too.

Harry went into the tax office, determined not to think too much about the incident. Or maybe turn it into a fun story to tell Hermione and Ron the next time he was over at their place.

You’ll never believe who I got dirty the other day...

He couldn’t imagine telling his parents, though.

They would likely be horrified.

____________

True to his word, Harry didn’t think of the incident. Much.

He was glad to return to his broom-making shop and continue doing what he did best, and enjoy another year without being bothered about filing taxes.

In fact, he was determined to send the information monthly so that he could avoid going to the Ministry for years.

But apparently the Ministry could come to him.

Well, not the Ministry. Just the Minister himself. He was, for all intents and purposes, the Ministry distilled into one person.

The Minister was standing in the middle of his shop, in broad daylight, on an innocent Tuesday afternoon.

And he was dressed... suspiciously Muggle this time.

Gone were the official robes. He was wearing a pair of trousers and a wool jumper with a loose, high collar that looked unfairly soft.

The shoes were the same pair -  or maybe another one?-  of polished black leather dress shoes.

Harry had missed him entering the shop because he had been busy in the back, coating an oak broom with a magic-enhanced layer of preservative oil.

He didn’t drop what he was doing immediately, either.

He finished his work, took a rag and collected the excess oil, then wiped his hands on a paper towel.

Only then did he go over to where the Minister was standing. He was inspecting the broom samples lined against the wall.

Harry almost rolled his eyes.

The man could not be serious, surely?

He looked like the last person who would ever mount a broom.  In fact, Harry remembered reading an interview in which the Minister explained that he was not interested in sports.

Still, he appeared determined to play customer in Harry’s shop.

“How may I help you?” Harry asked. It was his standard phrase for any customer.

Riddle immediately turned around to look at him. 

Took his time, too - his eyes lingered on Harry’s hair and face, then trailed lower, over the worn and  paint- and oil-stained T-shirt with a hole next to the collar hem. And lower still - to the low-hung, baggy jeans clinging to Harry’s hips.

They stayed there for a while.

This is getting ridiculous, Harry thought.

“Are you here to gawk?” he asked.

That seemed to pull the Minister out of some trance.

His eyes shot up to Harry’s face.

“My apologies, I got... distracted. Indeed, you may help me. I would like to order a broom.”

“A broom?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “For whom?”

“Why, for myself, of course,” came the immediate answer.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What would you do with it?”

“Fly, of course.”

“Just fly?” Harry raised a brow.

The Minister was unperturbed.

“Yes. And, as far as the law goes - trust me, I know it well - that is not forbidden.”

Harry was still unconvinced.

“Where would you fly?”

Riddle laughed.

“Have you considered joining the Auror Office? With such scrutiny, I’m starting to think you don’t want my money.”

He was right.

Harry frowned at himself this time. What was wrong with him?

It shouldn’t matter what Riddle did with the broom. He could sweep his floors with it for all Harry cared. The fact that Riddle wanted a broom was strange, sure, but Harry didn’t have to care quite so much.

“Um... sorry,” Harry said. “I just want to make sure that you know how to do it. So that when you fly into a tree or a lamp-post, I’m not blamed.”

The Minister’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be. There might be other things you can be blamed for, but not that.”

Harry decided not to ask what things, as it was a very obvious and shameless trap.

Instead, he slipped into broom-maker mode - he told Riddle about the brooms, and the twigs. The material properties. How size affected the flight. And so on.

Riddle, to his credit, listened with mild interest.

Harry did notice that Riddle seemed more interested in how Harry talked about things than in what he was talking about.

His eyes were on Harry’s face, not the brooms. When Harry gestured towards some of the wood samples, Tom followed his arm, not the wood.

“Nice tattoo,” he said.

Harry winced.

The tattoo in question wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, or wanted people to notice.

It was a drunken mistake, and Harry had kept it as a reminder not to make rash decisions while drunk. And not get so drunk that he wanted to make rash decisions.

The design was a single sushi nigiri, a piece of fish laid over rice. And it had eyes, ears and a mouth.

His first instinct was to say, “You should see my other one,” because there was indeed another tattoo from the same occasion, in a place that wasn’t appropriate for demonstration without breaking a few laws. Laws that Riddle could probably quote.

It was a face-bearing food item as well, but mochi this time, as a nod to the squishy body part it adorned.

It was better not to continue the tattoo topic at all.

“Thanks,” he simply replied.

“You like sushi?” Riddle asked. He stepped a little closer to Harry.

Harry liked sushi. Very much so.

But somehow that information seemed incriminating now.

“They’re all right,” he said. “Now, back to the brooms...”

As he continued explaining - or selling - he noticed that Riddle wasn’t even pretending to listen now.

Instead, he released a whiff of pheromones in the air.

Delicious pheromones - cedarwood, leather, and something Christmassy, like a mix of cloves and cinnamon.

The scent was working on Harry in multiple ways, the most damning being the fact that Harry worked with wood daily, occasionally with leather, and loved Christmas, so...

He immediately felt the instinct to scent back. Mark the man in scents that his pheromones carried - chestnut honey, bergamot, and the scent air had after a summer storm - rain-soaked grass and a hint of ozone.

But he wouldn’t.

If Tom was releasing his scent, it wasn't by accident. Whatever he hoped to achieve, Harry wasn't interested in finding out. His job was to serve the customer. 

So he kept talking about brooms.

But not wanting Tom to think he could simply turn up, start scenting him, and waste Harry’s time, Harry ended his little pitch with a very clear question.

“So which one do you choose?”

For a moment, Tom seemed distracted by Harry’s tattoo again, but then he snapped back into focus.

“I’ll take the hobby flyer broom with the extra-soft twigs. And the brass handle and fittings. And the calfskin holster. And the broom holder as well. I'll leave the choice of wood to the maker. ”

So he had listened - attentively, even.

Harry mentally would have picked the same selection for him, based on Riddle’s height (towering), weight (muscled but not buff), posture (haughty), and... scent.

“Good,” Harry approved.

He moved to the counter, where he leaned over to grab a notebook and write down the details.

“I will need an advance payment. There will be a waiting time, of course. But since one of my clients just cancelled, I think that I can manage it in three weeks or a bit more…”

As he turned around, wanting to give Tom the note with the approximate date, he was surprised to find that Tom was standing right next to him. It meant that he had approached and encroached on Harry's personal space while Harry had  been busy writing.

Riddle took the note between his long fingers.

“No phone number?” he asked - and pouted.

Harry ignored it.

“I will owl you,” he said.

“As you wish,” Riddle said. “Although please know that I’m not averse to Muggle technology. Here is my number.”

He produced a card - a posh one, made of thick, deep-green paper. His name and surname were written in silver letters.

“The number is on the other side.”

Harry turned it over. There it was - handwritten.

As though he had written it down before coming here. As though he had planned for it.

Before Harry could decide what to make of that, Riddle leaned forward.

“You’re an omega, right?” he asked in a low, velvety voice.

Alarms went off in Harry’s head.

If there was one thing his life had taught him, it was this - if an alpha asked him that particular question, especially in that voice, nothing good could come of it.

Apart from things that required a horizontal surface.

Or just a sturdy vertical one.

Harry had been in such a predicament a few times - answering the question truthfully, getting involved in a relationship where intimacy was rushed before feelings could catch up. Usually, it had only one outcome: the alpha never seemed able to open that emotional part of himself to Harry. Or didn’t have one.

So Harry had decided a while ago that he would avoid that question by all means necessary.

“Not that it’s any of your business, Minister Riddle,” he said. “But I am most definitely not an omega.”

“What are you, then?”

“I’m...”

What to say?

Harry wasn’t sure whether claiming to be a beta would throw Riddle off his scent. And Harry certainly didn’t look like an alpha.

“I’m an... epsilon,” he said.

“A what?”

“An epsilon. A very rare gender. Also very... unpredictable. Highly unstable. I can turn into another Greek letter at any moment. Exactly the sort of person your advisers and secretaries would tell you to stay away from if you care about your reputation.”

Instead of looking worried, Riddle looked far too amused.

The sod leaned in even closer.

“I’ve never heard of an epsilon,” he whispered conspiratorially. “You must be very…special.”

Oh no.

Instead of repelling the man, Harry had somehow made him even more intrigued.

That wasn't good.

“Yes, I’m special, but in the way people describe an ugly newborn baby to their mother as special,” Harry explained. “Special in a way that makes you want to look away.”

Riddle was openly chuckling now, a glint in his eyes.

“I’m afraid your particular brand of special has quite the opposite effect. It makes me want to look at you, not away.”

Harry sighed.

The man was hopeless.

“What do you want with someone like me, Minister? And don’t tell me it’s some long-postponed midlife-crisis decision to get a broom.”

Who knew how midlife crises worked, anyway? 

“Please call me Tom. And... indeed, my intentions extend beyond being your customer. In fact, they haven't changed since we first met. I still want to buy you a replacement drink. Except now I'd also like to accompany that drink with a proper dinner in a restaurant.”

Harry looked at the man.

Really looked.

The amusement was still there, but only barely. He looked completely serious now.

Did Harry want to go to a restaurant with an ageless, ridiculously handsome alpha, who happened to be the most powerful person in the wizarding world politically? The most desired bachelor in the country?

The man would probably want to tie him down. Turn him into a housewife. Or worse - he'd knock Harry up and then never be home. He'd complain about his joints whenever a nappy needed changing.

“Look, Minister,” Harry said, deliberately not using Tom in an effort to maintain some distance, “I’m really not looking for anything serious right now. I only just finished my broom-making apprenticeship - three years, if you can imagine - and opened this shop.”

“I would never come between you and your career aspirations,” Riddle said, sounding immediately affronted. “And if you're not after anything serious, we can keep it... unserious. Or purely platonic. Or purely physical. Whatever you prefer.”

Harry swallowed.

First at the purely physical implication, because it immediately filled his mind with several very graphic - but profoundly unhelpful - images. 

And then at the realization that Tom Riddle, Minister for Magic, was standing in his shop asking him out and offering virtually any arrangement available like a desperate man.

There was something deeply suspicious about him. The man had droves of women, men, betas and omegas lusting after him. Possibly even merfolk and centaurs.

The fact that he was choosing Harry - granted, a supposedly rare male omega - was suspicious.

The insistence was suspicious.

The smart thing was to avoid suspicious propositions from old and powerful men, though Harry didn’t know how old. Old enough to have watched the moon landing live, probably.

“I’m afraid the broom will be the only business between us,” Harry finished.

Strangely, Tom didn't press further.

He merely smiled politely and inclined his head.

“I'll wait for your text message about when the broom is finished,” he said. “And here is the advance payment.”

He placed a small pouch on the counter.

With that, he left.

Harry picked up the pouch. It was heavy. He untied it and tipped it upside down.

A small flood of Galleons spilled onto the counter. Enough to pay for several of Harry's lower-end brooms.

He sighed.

The man was smooth.

Worse, Harry had a distinct feeling he hadn't even seen the full extent of the Minister's smoothness yet.

_____

Over the next few days, Harry thought about that smoothness more than he should have.

He thought about it when picking out the best redwood he had for Tom’s broom, because it was very strong and durable and matched Tom’s eyes. The twigs - Cornelian cherry - springy, light. Also, they were almost black and the exact shade of Tom’s hair.

He thought about it when he carved the broom and polished it with more care than usual.

There was a problem he hadn’t foreseen.

The Minister had not returned.

Harry had expected the man to become highly involved in the broom-making process, but he hadn't.

Harry told himself that it didn't matter, even though there was a part of him that felt a slight pang of disappointment. The least the Minister could do was to come around and acknowledge his work.

Harry was brooding a bit when Ginny came in for her regular visit.

A highly accomplished Seeker for the Harpies, she was Harry's regular customer for broom maintenance. And, unlike his male friends, she never asked him to do it for free, or for half-price.

Quite the opposite - she paid in full, stayed for the whole process, and even brought a bottle of wine that they could both enjoy while Harry polished the broom and applied fresh layers of oil or wax.

Ginny drank her wine from a proper glass, while Harry used a chipped mug from his shop’s kitchenette. Both sat on the counter, where Harry had placed an old magazine underneath the glass and the mug as a coaster.

Which turned out to be the source of his suffering this time.

“Didn't take you for a subscriber to Witch Weekly,” Ginny said cheekily, eyeing the months-old magazine.

“It's not for me, it's for my customers. When they have to wait,” Harry said quickly.

“Is it?”

She sounded unconvinced, but didn't press further because she had become distracted by the cover.

On it was the handsome half-portrait of the Minister for Magic in full Ministry regalia.

Across it, in large letters, was written:

Rich, Smart and Powerful: The Wizarding World's Most Desired Bachelor Alpha

“Damn,” Ginny said. “That one ages like a fine wine.”

“Hardly,” Harry scoffed. “Have you seen him up close? Quite a lot of grey hair on him.”

“Which only adds to the charm, in your case, I imagine.”

“What? Why in my case?”

“Harry...” Ginny gave him a look. “I still remember you harbouring a crush on the temporary Charms professor we had in fifth year. And he was almost completely grey-haired.”

“It wasn't a crush.”

“Right, right.”

She took a sip of wine.

“Wait... didn't you get completely red-faced when the Minister visited Hogwarts that one time? When you had to shake his hand as team captain?”

“I don't remember anything like that at all.”

Ginny shook her head, looking at him over the rim of her glass.

“Funny. I do.”

Harry rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the broom.

Ginny remained suspiciously quiet. Which was usually a bad sign.

“So,” she said eventually. “How grey is his hair, exactly?”

Harry frowned.

“What?”

“You seem very certain there's quite a lot of it.”

“I just noticed.”

“Mm.”

Ginny took another sip.

“And up close, you said?”

Harry paused. There was a distinct tone to her voice that worried him.

“Well, yes.”

“How close?”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Normal close.”

“Normal close?”

“Yes.” Harry rolled his eyes.

Ginny looked delighted.

“So... you have seen him, then? Normal close? And recently?”

Harry felt his cheeks heat, but was unable to do anything about it apart from turning away.

“Just a bit. He came in.”

“The Minister came into your shop?”

“Mm-hm.”

“For what?”

“He ordered... a broom for himself.”

Ginny's eyes immediately jumped to the broom in progress on Harry's worktable.

“That one?”

“Maybe.”

Her face split into a wide grin.

“How interesting. The Minister - a person famously disinterested in sports - comes into your shop to order a broom. For himself, no less. And you are clearly attempting to make some kind of Broom of the Century over there.”

“I'm not.”

“It's just another customer, you tell yourself. And yet you've noticed his hair. Really, I wouldn't be surprised at all if you knew the colour of the flecks in his eyes.”

“Amber,” Harry replied immediately.

Ginny snorted into her glass.

Then she carefully placed it back on the magazine and walked over to Harry.

“My dear friend,” she said solemnly, “I've known you for a very long time. This must be a difficult period for you.”

Harry stared at her.

How did she even know that?

“But,” she continued, “whatever your silly, stubborn mind decides to do, remember one thing: sometimes your heart is the wiser of the two. Let it guide you.”

“What kind of rubbish is that? Are you having a seizure?”

“Harry...”

“Don't Harry me,” he grumbled.

Her broom was finished, so he handed it back to Ginny and walked over to the counter where his mug was waiting. He picked it up and took a large gulp of the white wine.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to convince me that something could happen between me and the Minister because that would be terribly exciting for our group of friends. You’d all have a field day - probably a whole month - teasing me. But I assure you, that’s not going to happen. It’s just a broom that I’ll finish and send to him by owl.”

Ginny watched him for a moment and smiled. “Good luck with that. But don’t be surprised if he wants you to take him for a lap to show how it works.”

___________

The whole matter was beyond ridiculous, Harry thought.

After Ginny left, he made a few deliberate wrong cuts in Tom's broom. Just to prove that he was not making some Broom of the Century.

He promptly sanded them out.

They looked terrible and could cause splinters.

He made sure the shop was more or less tidy and closed up for the evening.

It was a late Thursday night, and he considered what to do next. In theory, he could return home, get changed, and join the usual pub night organised every week by his old schoolmates.

But he already knew he wouldn't.

Harry was the sort of person who often regretted promises he'd made while in a particularly good mood.

No, today he would go home, get himself a cold drink, and watch a film to relax. He only hoped his parents wouldn't pester him again about not leaving the house.

In theory, living with his parents while having been of age for a good seven years after graduating school was a bit... odd.

Perhaps even shameful.

But not really.

In fact, quite a few people his age had chosen the same arrangement. 

For Harry, it wasn't so much a question of money as a question of space.

Over the years, after deciding on his profession, he had accumulated materials for his craft. Meanwhile, his parents had at some point built a large shed that they never ended up using.

It was far more convenient than trying to store all those materials in a rented flat in London. He’d probably have to sleep on a mattress of twigs with a pile of brooms for a pillow.

The downside, of course, was that his parents sometimes were nosy about where he was going, when he would be back, and - more often than not - why he wasn't going out every night as a normal young person apparently should.

Harry had serious questions about how his parents had spent their own youth.

He also had to endure the occasional guests of his parents. He usually tried to slip past them by retreating upstairs to the attic, where he had an entire floor to himself, even a tiny kitchenette for keeping snacks.

As he entered the hallway, the sounds drifting from the dining room were unmistakably guest sounds.

Why hadn't his parents told him they were having people over? Had he known, he would have used the side entrance.

As he stepped into the dining room to perform the obligatory greeting before making an escape, he was met with an unexpected sight.

Several platters of sushi covered the dining table, nearly obscuring it completely.

There was enough food for ten people. And not the cheap kind, either. There was tuna. Caviar. Even eel.

And seated at the head of the table, in the place of honour, was the Minister for Magic himself.

Upon noticing Harry, he immediately smiled.

His mother, however, sprang to her feet. 

“There you are, darling! What took you so long?” she exclaimed. “We have an unexpected guest tonight. He even brought all this food, can you imagine? Please join us - we're already stuffed.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“So... was this in any way planned? Or did this guest simply decide to turn up?”

“Harry!” his mother scolded. “The Minister can hear you.”

“Let me explain,” Tom interrupted smoothly. “I know this may seem unusual, but it actually isn't. I make an effort to visit all Ministry employees at some point. As such, your parents' turn finally came.”

Harry stared at him.

“So it didn't come during the last twenty-four years,” he said, “but it came this year?”

Tom smiled pleasantly.

“An unfortunate administrative delay.”

Harry looked at his parents, who looked puzzled, but definitely not suspicious enough.

Harry looked back at Tom, attempting the most unimpressed expression in history.

Tom didn’t even seem to register it. If anything, he looked entirely too pleased with himself.

“Please, join us,” Tom invited.

He waved a hand and a chair moved - wandlessly, of course.

The chair happened to be right beside Tom. Somehow, the seating arrangement had ended up with Harry’s parents on the opposite side of the table.

There was even a plate, a napkin and a pair of chopsticks laid out for him. By the pedantic way they were set out Harry could tell immediately that his parents hadn’t done that.

Harry looked at the chair.

Then at the sushi.

Then at his own clothes.

His clothes were dusty and dirty, as usual at the end of a workday. There were a few stains of wax and oil on his T-shirt, and one leg of his jeans bore a distinct handprint from where he’d absent-mindedly wiped his fingers earlier.

The proper thing to do would be to run upstairs and change.

Or perhaps even take a shower.

Or…

Harry could use this as an opportunity to demonstrate the exact extent of his lack of propriety.

Just to further cement how incompatible they were.

Because Tom, Harry noticed now, was once again impeccably dressed.

An elegant black dress shirt. No blazer - presumably to appear more approachable. The top buttons were undone. His hair was artfully tousled and looked as though it would feel very nice beneath one’s fingers.

And he was wearing one of those expensive wristwatches that immediately conveyed that his time was worth more than everyone else’s in the room combined.

So if Tom was determined to waste that time, Harry could certainly help him.

He sat down, wiping his hands on his shirt unnecessarily.

“Pardon my appearance,” he said. “I just came from work.”

“You could change quickly-” Lily began.

“No need at all,” Tom interrupted smoothly. “If anything, it’s my fault for barging in like this. I’m grateful you welcomed me into your home.”

“It’s our pleasure,” James said. “You really are spoiling us with all this.”

Harry noticed that everyone else was drinking white wine. As though he had followed Harry’s gaze, Tom summoned a bottle from somewhere and topped up Harry’s glass.

Harry accepted it and, mimicking a wine connoisseur, gave it a swirl before sniffing it critically.

“So what’s it laced with?” he asked, turning directly to Tom.

“Harry!” Lily exclaimed.

“You must forgive Harry, Minister Riddle,” James said quickly. “Sometimes he’s very suspicious.”

“Takes after you, I believe,” Tom replied immediately. “Such a highly respected, seasoned Auror, with an impressive record and even more impressive instincts. I was very impressed with the work you did on the Hogsmeade Heist case.”

For a moment, James seemed to be stunned, but then he visibly straightened and gave Tom a nod and a pleasant smile.

Traitor.

Tom then turned back to Harry.

“No worries, Harry. There’s nothing added to it, unless you object to a few notes of fruit.”

Harry pointedly ignored him.

He was busy loading sushi onto his plate now. Plenty of salmon maki, eel, tuna, and several varieties whose ingredients he couldn’t immediately identify. 

Lily and James were helping themselves as well, and before long Lily had drawn Tom into another conversation - something about the recent legislation concerning the protection of rare magical creatures.

To Harry’s dismay, Tom was charming. His answers were immediate, witty, and backed by facts and statistics. Worse, he seemed genuinely interested in what other people had to say.

And, most annoyingly of all, he was funny.

“The case of Blast-Ended Skrewts, of course, requires separate consideration,” Tom said. “In many cases, the primary threat to a Blast-Ended Skrewt is another Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

James snorted into his wine.

Tom continued with complete seriousness.

“And unfortunately, current legislation is rather unclear on whether one may prosecute a creature for exploding at its own species.”

This time Lily laughed too.

Tom was looking at Harry now. “A legislative gap, certainly. But not one that keeps me awake at night. There are other matters of late that do that.”

“Well… if there’s anyone who can figure out how to solve it, it’s you, Minister,” Lily said.

Tom turned away from Harry to look at his mother.

“That is perhaps the highest praise I could receive, Mrs Potter. Especially coming from you -  a magical attorney who has spent years protecting the more vulnerable members of our society.”

Lily chuckled.

“You’re too flattering,” she said, though she looked rather pleased by the compliment.

Harry couldn’t believe any of this.

It was one thing for Tom to appear out of nowhere and haul in so much sushi that it was comparable to eating half the residents of the London Aquarium.

But sweet-talking his parents - and succeeding at it - was an entirely different matter.

One that Harry wasn’t going to let him get away with easily.

So when Lily and James stood up to collect the empty plates and remaining sushi before disappearing into the kitchen to prepare the tea and the lemon tart Tom had brought, Harry immediately turned to him.

“I know what you’re doing, Tom. And I need to warn you - it isn’t going to work.”

“What do you mean?”

Tom widened his eyes slightly and looked at Harry as though he had just said the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Showing up out of nowhere. Buttering up my parents. Bringing enough food to feed Hogwarts express full of first years. All this for what? Because you’ve set your sights on me? Because I’m a male omega?”

Tom frowned.

“Don’t you mean a male epsilon?”

Harry closed his eyes.

Then, for emphasis, gritted his teeth.

Tom continued in a surprisingly gentle voice.

“As for the other accusations, cannot a superior visit his employees and enjoy a pleasant evening with them?”

Harry opened his eyes. “No.”

“Ah.” Tom nodded thoughtfully. “That does complicate my defence.”

Ugh. Harry hated how rich and smooth his voice was. He could probably earn millions by recording books for the wireless. 

“I found our conversation quite stimulating, actually,” Tom continued. “I’ve already had several ideas for Monday’s meetings.”

“Good for you.”

“And as for setting my sights on you…” His gaze lingered on Harry for a moment. “While I cannot entirely deny that part, I would hope that even in such unfortunate circumstances, it remains entirely my problem.”

Harry stared.

Tom smiled back.

“It should not prevent you from enjoying a pleasant evening at home. A nice meal. Good company.” His eyes gleamed. “And perhaps a small surprise in the form of an unexpected guest.”

There was nothing small about him.

Harry very nearly said it aloud.

The man was almost as tall as a tree. A tree with broad shoulders, defined biceps, and a very solid chest.

Harry couldn’t let Tom know he’d noticed any of those things.

So he settled for glaring.

Tom seemed entirely untroubled by it.

In fact, if anything, he appeared encouraged. Which was somehow worse.

The tea and dessert arrived.

For once, Harry was grateful that his parents were remarkably oblivious. They somehow failed to notice how Tom’s eyes kept returning to Harry even while he was talking to them.

They also didn’t seem to notice the subtle release of pheromones - just a hint of them - but Harry noticed.

Of course he would resort to chemical warfare.

Harry wouldn’t stoop to the same level. No, never.

Even though the Earl Grey tea and lemon tart, served with vanilla ice cream - apparently the result of Tom either researching or simply guessing Harry’s weaknesses -formed a combination of flavours that would normally disarm him completely.

As if on cue-

“Harry likes citrus flavors, right, Harry?” James asked.

“Um.”

Harry decided that was the only answer that adequately communicated cannot confirm nor deny.

“Is that because of his own scent?” Tom asked.

That question was highly inappropriate.

Right?

Right??

Harry waited for his father to stand up and slap Tom across the face.

Instead, James took another bite of tart.

“Oh, yes. Harry’s pheromones have citrus notes. Bergamot, to be precise. And some type of honey.”

“Chestnut honey,” Lily corrected. “A very rare type. Also, the scent after a storm.”

Tom’s gaze settled on Harry.

“Sounds absolutely mouth-watering.” 

The Minister (The Minister of Magic!!) had just said that.

Out loud.

At Harry’s family dinner table.

There was no reaction from either of Harry’s parents.

They simply sipped their tea.

If Harry had been making the broom of the century, his parents had just committed the betrayal of the century.

Harry was still recovering from it when the evening finally came to an end and Tom began saying his goodbyes.

When it came to Harry and the deliberately limp hand he offered, Tom took it in one hand and then enclosed it with the other.

The gesture was entirely unnecessary. Which meant it was probably premeditated.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Tom said.

His thumb brushed lightly across Harry’s knuckles.

Then he left.

The bastard.

The front door had barely closed before Lily sighed.

“What a charming man.”

“Aren’t politicians supposed to be charming?” Harry muttered.

“No, dear. Most of them are simply politicians. Or, if they are charming, they are not very clever.”

"Exactly," James agreed, his mouth full with another piece of tart already.

“A true shame he’s so alone,” Lily continued. “That’s probably why he sought out our company.”

“Right,” Harry said. “He looked absolutely desperate.”

“Harry, stop with the sarcasm.”

“No, really. I could practically hear the cries for help.”

“Harry.”

“The tragic loneliness of being rich, powerful, handsome and universally adored.”

Lily gave him a look.

“The man truly must be lonely. I do hope some lucky woman or man snaps him up soon.”

“I hope so too,” Harry said immediately.

If some lucky person snapped him up, they might finally save Harry from becoming the target.

Unfortunately, a small voice at the back of his head pointed out that Tom Riddle wasn’t the type to be snapped; he was rather the type who did the snapping, relentlessly if necessary, until the snapee yielded to him.

Harry chose to ignore that voice.

——————— 

The next morning, Harry woke to discover that his trousers had shrunk overnight.

It was bizarre, because there was no good reason for it. He hadn’t washed them. He certainly hadn’t put them through a tumble dryer.

He tried several pairs.

They were all a little too tight.

Was this some kind of prank?

Harry couldn’t imagine his parents pulling something like that. Well, his father had played a few pranks on him over the years, but not recently.

In any case, Harry decided not to dwell on it. He extended the trousers with a spell, even though it weakened the fabric slightly, and went off to work and tried not to worry about it. 

Until it happened again the next morning.

And the morning after that.

All of his trousers were cursed by some dark spell.

After a while, he reluctantly considered another possibility.

His work, while skilled, was mostly done sitting on a workbench. Combined with his questionable workday meals - usually sandwiches, or a salad if he was feeling particularly ambitious - it was entirely possible that the real explanation was that his bum was getting bigger.

It was a horrifying thought.

Fortunately, Harry had a remedy.

Every Saturday morning, he trained pre-Hogwarts children in basic Quidditch skills. So when the next training session arrived, he started an hour early to give himself some extra exercise.

Between his bottom-related concerns and everything else happening at work, Tom’s broom had been largely abandoned.

There was no reason to treat Tom differently, Harry told himself.

Sure, he’d given him a vague deadline.

But he hadn’t signed it in blood.

Tom could wait.

Apparently, Tom disagreed.

During training, Harry glanced towards the spectator benches and discovered that they were no longer empty.

Tom Riddle was sitting there.

He looked absurdly elegant for someone attending a children’s Quidditch practice. He sat on the benches with his fancy deep red robes on a display like he was an exotic bird and watched the game like a referee.

Several of his assistants sat nearby, ready to bring him anything he needed. On a Saturday. 

The man was officially stalking him. Worse - he was making his underlings unsuspecting accomplices.

Harry assigned the children a flying exercise and flew down to confront his stalker.

The moment Tom spotted him approaching, his face lit up. A wide smile followed. The sort of smile that probably won the hearts of his followers.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked.

“Hello to you too, Harry. It’s wonderful to see you again.” Tom looked genuinely pleased. “I must admit, your question surprises me. As Minister for Magic, I care deeply about building a prosperous future for our society.” He gestured grandly towards the children. “And children are our future.”

“And your plan for securing that future is gawking at them?”

“Of course not. I’m watching over them,” Tom explained.

Then he released a wave of pheromones.

Merlin.

Even from several feet away, the scent carried perfectly through the cool morning air.

Harry immediately felt warmer,  which was ridiculous.

“They don’t need watching over,” Harry said. “These children are highly capable flyers because of the rigorous training I’ve provided - ”

He broke off.

Tom had shot to his feet. A wand appeared in his hand instantly.

“Arresto Momentum!”

Harry spun around. His stomach dropped.

Four children were suspended in mid-air. Their brooms were flying without them several feet above them.

Harry launched himself forward, but there was no need to rush. Tom had already taken control: the abandoned brooms descended neatly through the air, each one guided back to its owner. One by one, the children settled safely onto their brooms. Tom somehow even returned each child to the correct broom.

Harry was mortified.

Not only had he looked away long enough for that to happen, but now he owed Tom a favour.

Tom.

Of all people.

And the rescue had been annoyingly impressive.

For the remainder of the session, Harry avoided looking at him.

Yes, Tom had distracted him. But confronting him had still been Harry’s choice. He could only hope none of the children mentioned the incident to their parents.

When the training finally ended, Harry was gathering equipment when he sensed a presence behind him.

For once, he wasn’t annoyed. He turned around.

Tom was wearing his fancy dress shoes again.

On a Quidditch pitch.

Harry looked down at his own trainers. One of the holes had gotten bigger. He really needed new shoes.

He looked back at Tom. “Thank you for…” he began, staring somewhere around Tom’s collar rather than his face.

“No need,” Tom said easily. “After all, I’m partially responsible for what happened.”

“No, you’re not.”

“For me, it was merely useful research.”

“Research?”

“Learning how to handle children.”

“Why?” Harry asked. “Planning to resign as Minister and become a pre-school teacher?”

Tom laughed.

“No, not at all.”

“Then why?”

Tom’s expression softened.

“Well… I’ve recently realised that my days as a seasoned bachelor may finally be coming to an end. Thank Salazar.”

Harry immediately regretted asking.

“I ought to prepare for the next stage of my life." The look Tom gave him was entirely too meaningful.

“Well… good luck with that,” Harry said quickly. “I’m sure you’ll find someone who’s right for you.”

Preferably someone else.

“I know I will,” Tom said.

And then he smiled again.

Harry really hated that smile.

——

After the Quidditch incident, Harry spent several days nervously waiting for angry parents to sue him.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, no repercussions ever arrived.

What did arrive, several days later, was another morning where none of his trousers fit.

Worse, even his most forgiving pairs were suddenly tight.

And that wasn’t all.

His nipples felt oddly sensitive as well.

That finally pushed him into action.

He waited until his parents had left the house, then stood in front of the largest mirror in the hallway.

Burning with embarrassment, he lowered his pyjama bottoms and inspected himself.

Oh, gods.

His bum had never exactly been small because of the omega genes.

But now it was definitely larger. By at least two sizes. Possibly three.

His hips looked wider too.

This wasn’t good.

Harry had heard stories about hormonal disruptions in omegas - irregular heat cycles, pheromone fluctuations. For Harry such things never posed a problem. He barely had heats, and he never experienced problems with uncontrollable pheromone release.

But this felt different. He needed a reproductive healer, immediately.

Abandoning all plans of opening the shop before noon, Harry threw a robe over his pyjamas and Apparated straight to St Mungo’s without even eating breakfast.

After a short wait, he was finally called in.

The healer was kind and professional. She listened patiently as Harry described his trouser difficulties and strange body changes. 

To her credit, she never once looked amused. She even asked several follow-up questions.

The most unexpected being:

“Have you been exposed to an alpha’s pheromones recently?”

“Um…”

Harry hesitated.

He had been exposed to Tom’s pheromones.

Repeatedly.

And, unfortunately, had found them rather lovely. But he wasn't sure if that qualified as exposure.

“Only a little,” he said. “A few times, maybe. Nothing like actual scenting.”

“Only a few times? That’s…unusual. Did you find the pheromones enjoyable?” she asked.

“Yes,” Harry swallowed.

“In that case, the explanation is quite simple.”

She glanced down at her notes.

“I know it may sound strange, but we do occasionally see this in omegas. Essentially, your body has identified an alpha whose scent profile and other features it considers highly desirable and suitable.”

Harry immediately disliked where this was going.

“Suitable for what?”

“Reproduction,” the healer said matter-of-factly. “To increase the chances of reproduction and draw the alpha’s attention, the body begins enhancing traits that are generally perceived as attractive or indicative of fertility.”

Harry stared at her.

“You mean my body’s doing this on purpose to...entice an alpha?”

“Not consciously, no. But biologically speaking, yes.”

Harry felt horror crawl up his spine.

“My body is showing off? 

“That is not the medical term,” the healer said.

“But that’s what it means. My bum is…peacocking.”

The healer paused.

“In very simplified terms, yes.”

Sweet Merlin.

Harry had experienced a lot of things related to his body - puberty with all its wonders: awkward erections, starting to grow facial hair, presenting as an omega, - but having his body grow a larger bum had never been on his list of things.

It was a betrayal of the highest degree.

He kind of understood why his parents were so amped up about Tom, or even Ginny, but his own bum?

It was unacceptable.

Harry needed to have a serious talk with his backside. The only problem was that he couldn’t look at it in the mirror anymore without thinking about the alpha who had caused his current predicament.

Later, after purchasing several new pairs of pants - sadly, some of them were quite frilly because the men’s section of the shop didn’t carry enough boxer briefs in the size he now required - he did some thinking.

It was clear that he couldn’t let Tom see what had happened to him. That would be the worst thing.

So he needed to resume working on the damned broom more intensively, get it finished sooner, and then get rid of Riddle’s business and presence in his life. His bum would regain its normal shape and he could go back to wearing his normal clothes. 

So he did just that - paused all his other work and focused on Tom's broom.

Within a few days, it was done.

Harry had promised to get in contact with Tom to let him know when to collect it.

He had since changed his mind.

He packaged it neatly with all the additional items and even added some wax as a gift so Tom wouldn’t be tempted to visit the shop immediately after receiving the broom. He didn’t ask for more money, as Tom’s advance payment had covered the entire cost. 

He chose to send it during the early morning hours - assuming Tom would have meetings - and via owl post. It cost him a few more Sickles than he’d have preferred, but at least he wouldn’t need to face Tom.

Or would he?

Less than half an hour later, Tom walked into his shop.

He was in full ministerial attire again, tall and important.

Harry took one glance at him and promptly looked back down, where he was trying to make the month-end accounting balance cooperate.

Tom stood at the entrance for a while without saying anything, simply looking at Harry. Then he approached the counter.

“Good morning, Harry,” he greeted. “Thank you for sending the broom. It is truly exquisite craftsmanship. Everyone in my office said they’d never seen a broom of such quality or beauty. I was, however, disappointed that you didn’t send me a text message to arrange its collection.”

Again with the texting.

The man was under the impression that Harry’s number was a straight path to his heart. Or his enlarged bum.

“That’s alright. I didn’t mind sending it,” Harry brushed him off.

“I did mind. Very much so. You robbed me of the opportunity to purchase more items for it. And you didn’t even include an invoice.”

“The pile of money you left the first time around was more than enough.”

“I most definitely doubt that. It’s the finest broom I’ve seen in my life.”

Against his will, Harry flushed a little.

“It’s because you haven’t seen that many.”

“Oh, I’ve seen plenty, trust me,” Tom smirked.

Harry wasn’t entirely sure they were still talking about brooms.

It didn’t matter. He didn’t need more money. He needed to get Tom out of his shop-

“Tell you what. I won’t pester you anymore if you let me take you out to dinner,” Tom suggested. “My choice of restaurant.”

Harry immediately became suspicious. What was Tom playing at? Getting him into some secluded corner and drowning him in pheromones, probably.

“I’m afraid I must decline. I have the distinct feeling that you want to choose some pretentious and absurdly expensive place.”

Tom bit his lip.

Harry continued.

“I already explained that I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Besides, I think we’re highly incompatible,” Harry lied.

“What do you mean?” Tom frowned.

“Well… you’re the type who likes fancy French restaurants. I’m the type who likes the kebab shop on the corner with greasy chips and rumours of breeding rats for the meat. You walk around dressed like some duke, whereas I- ”

“Look absolutely stunning every time I’ve seen you,” Tom interrupted.

He was fully fixated on Harry’s face now.

“Have your eyes become greener?”

“No,” Harry replied, even though he couldn’t be entirely sure.

Tom kept staring at him. 

Then he let out a long, suffering sigh.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” he said, sounding a tad dramatic. “Have it your way, then.”

He turned to leave.

But before he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder and said,“Your inventory row is causing the imbalance.” And walked out.

And left Harry completely puzzled, while simultaneously arriving at an absolutely mind bending realisation:

Tom Riddle could do bookkeeping with the book facing upside down. If Harry dated him, he wouldn’t have to struggle with any of that.

Harry felt a brief pang of regret for sending Tom away like that when he could have been actually useful to him.

Maybe I should consider his proposal?

But - no.

Tom still was behaving far too suspiciously. Harry wanted for all this drama to end. His decision was final.

—-

As it happened, Tom was able to undo decisions made by other people.

The next morning Harry woke up and found that there had been no changes in the bum situation. It seemed to be more of a permanent thing now.

Harry sighed and put on a pair of very frilly knickers as the normal boxer briefs had run out. As for trousers, it was a shame that so many of his favourite jeans no longer fit him. The only trousers that fit him now were his stretchy training leggings, something he usually wore under a pair of shorts when jogging in colder weather. This time, instead of the shorts he threw on an oversized zip-up hoodie that reached to his thighs. It wasn’t the most fashionable look, but it would have to do.

Determined to open the shop on time today, he trudged downstairs to the kitchen.

An unusual sight greeted him: both of his parents were still there, sitting at the table. On it lay the newest edition of the Daily Prophet.

The last time his parents had greeted him like this in the morning was the summer after graduating from Hogwarts, when Harry had spent rather too much time clubbing. There had been one memorable incident when he had been unable to unlock the front door at night and had climbed through the second-floor window instead - except he had taken the entire window frame and some family heirloom vase with him on the way in.

That had been the last time his parents had waited for him at breakfast in such a manner.

But this time Harry hadn’t done anything wrong.

Right?

And why was there a newspaper?

With growing concern, Harry asked, “What’s going on? Have I done something wrong?”

“Not at all!” Lily exclaimed. “It’s just… highly unusual. Have a look for yourself.”

She handed him the paper.

There, on the front page, beneath the Ministry Notices section, was what appeared to be an official legal announcement.

==

MINISTRY NOTICE

Invocation of the Ancient Courtship Provision

By ministerial declaration issued in early hours of this morning, the Minister for Magic, Tom Marvolo Riddle, has formally invoked the Ancient Courtship Provision, a lawful procedure established under the Secondary Gender Relations Act in 1737.

Under the provision, an unmated alpha who has reached the prescribed age and satisfies the statutory requirements of financial stability, magical capability and hereditary suitability may formally petition any unbonded omega of their choosing for a period of courtship.

Following such a petition, the intended omega is required to present themselves for magical and pheromonal compatibility assessments conducted by the Ministry. Should compatibility be deemed sufficiently high, a mandatory six-week courtship period shall commence, at the conclusion of which the omega may decide whether to proceed to a permanent bond.

When asked by the Daily Prophet to identify his intended and explain his reasoning, Minister Riddle gave the following statement:

“The name of my intended is Harry James Potter. I have attempted the means of modern courtship for several weeks without success, and therefore this decision has not been made lightly. This omega - or, more specifically, this epsilon - is a remarkably avoidant individual, which has become a source of considerable emotional and even physical distress, as I have every reason to believe our compatibility would prove exceptional. I regret resorting to this ancient provision, but my intended has left me with no alternative.”

In accordance with the Act, Mr Harry James Potter is hereby required to attend the Ministry of Magic in three days’ time for the prescribed assessments. Failure to attend voluntarily will result in authorised Ministry officials carrying out the procedure at his place of residence.

==

Harry winced.

Not only had Tom unearthed some ridiculous ancient law, he’d also publicly announced that Harry was an epsilon.

This was the definition of a joke taken far too far.

He looked back at Lily, alarmed.

“Is this for real? Can he actually do this?”

“I’m afraid so,” she replied immediately. “I knew you’d ask, so I just got off a Floo call with a Ministry friend who specialises in secondary gender law. It is, apparently, perfectly legal.”

“No way,” Harry huffed. “It means I have no choice but to… to do those ridiculous tests! What if I refuse?”

“The paper doesn’t mention it,” Lily said, “but it seems the law has an entire section covering situations where an omega refuses to attend voluntarily. In those cases, the Ministry is permitted to ensure the assessments take place by any means necessary. Needless to say, my friend has already set out to change that law immediately.”

“But it won’t be applicable… retroactively.” Harry guessed.

“I’m afraid not,” Lily finished.

James broke the silence.

“Is it true what he said about… trying to court you in modern ways?”

“If you count stalking and buying dinner for someone’s parents as modern courting, then yes.”

Both of Harry’s parents looked somewhat uncomfortable, though not nearly regretful enough.

“Well,” James said, attempting to sound cheerful, “if the tests show you’re incompatible, that’ll be the end of it. No more stalking. No more dinners for the in-laws.”

“We’re not even married yet!”

“Are you worried the tests will show a high compatibility?” Lily asked.

Harry tried his very best not to let a single emotion show on his face.

Because the truth was simple.

Yes.

He was worried. Very worried.

If Tom could smell Harry’s pheromones and liked them - which Harry strongly suspected was the case - that already suggested high pheromonal compatibility. And Harry knew he liked Tom’s scent, too.

And magical compatibility... that could mean anything, but there had to be a reason Harry always felt warm and comforted whenever Tom used his wandless magic.

But he couldn’t exactly admit that now, could he?

“Not at all,” he lied. “I’m certain it’ll be tragically low.”

His mum and dad merely nodded, their expressions making it abundantly clear how little they believed that statement.

Harry decided to ignore them. He made himself a hefty breakfast - two fried eggs, bacon, sausages, and two slices of toast with an indecent amount of butter. If his arse was going to expand, he might as well enjoy the journey.

His parents exchanged a look, muttered something to each other, and disappeared into the Floo, presumably heading for the Ministry. Except Lily, before stepping into the flames, leaned back out and called, “See you soon, Harry!” as though it were already settled that he'd be going through with the tests.

Again. Betrayal.

After breakfast, Harry checked in the hallway mirror that his jacket concealed his enhanced backside, then Apparated to his shop with the distinct feeling that the day was going to be challenging.

_____

And so it was.

It seemed that everyone in the entire country had seen the damn paper.

From the first customer that morning - a Chudley Cannons player who popped in to buy some broom wax - to the owner of the nearby pastry shop, to, most annoyingly of all, a pre-Hogwarts kid who wandered into the shop just to gawk at the brooms. Every single one of them asked him the same question:

"So, when are you going to the Ministry?"

By now Harry was used to the betrayal. If the whole world had decided to gang up on him, then fine. It didn't have to mean anything. He could withstand a bit of social pressure.

What he hadn't expected was the message he received that afternoon.

From Ron.

It arrived by owl.

=

Hey, mate,

Since you're going to be at the Ministry anyway, can you bring me one of your twig-grooming kits? The twigs on my broom have been going bonkers for weeks.

Ps. Hermione says hi, and if you've got some time after the tests, pop by her office and tell her how it went 

=

Harry let the note fall onto the counter.

Then he lowered his forehead onto it and banged it against the wood a few times.

It's not the twigs, he thought. It's the entire bloody world that's gone bonkers.

It was clear that his own efforts to set things right weren't going to be enough. He might as well go with the flow, no matter how absurd it all was.

He finished his afternoon pastry, drained the rest of his tea, and got to his feet. Without brushing the crumbs off his clothes - better to look as shabby and incompatible as possible - he set off for the Ministry.

Upon arriving at the Apparition point, he barely had time to gather his bearings before a young witch hurried over and took him gently by the arm.

"Mr Potter," she said briskly. "How good of you to come. I've been instructed to escort you to the examination room. I'll also notify Minister Riddle that you've arrived, although I'm afraid you may have to wait a little while if he's occupied at the moment."

Great, Harry grumbled to himself. Tom could afford to be occupied while Harry had to wait for him?

Still... perhaps that wasn't so bad. At least he'd have a chance to familiarise himself with whatever ridiculous tests they intended to perform before Tom arrived.

Naturally, fate had other ideas.

After a lift ride and a walk through what felt like an endless maze of corridors, they reached a large, windowless room. Dark wooden panelling covered the lower half of the walls, and several chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

At the far end stood a long table behind which sat a group of important looking people who seemed to be profoundly bored. Two were reading books, another was knitting what appeared to be an exceptionally long scarf. The moment Harry entered, all three straightened, hurriedly setting aside their books and knitting as though they'd been caught doing something terribly improper.

Opposite the table stood two heavy chairs facing the panel - one for Harry and, presumably, one for Tom.

Harry had barely finished taking in the room when the door opened again.

Tom stepped inside. His eyes found Harry immediately.

And, just as immediately, his face softened into a joyful expression - as though seeing Harry was the first pleasant thing that had happened to him all day.

"I am so glad to see you, Harry," he said, and, to Harry's immense annoyance, he sounded entirely sincere. "Please, come and have a seat. Before we begin, you should know how the compatibility assessment works. We will evaluate both magical and pheromonal compatibility. In addition, the panel has elected to include a newly developed assessment method."

He gestured elegantly towards the people seated behind the table.

"Allow me to introduce our esteemed panel. Matilda Willow, a leading secondary-gender anthropologist; Professor Robert Grimshaw, an expert in alpha and omega magical development; and Mrs Primrose Waissal, a reproductive healer with extensive expertise in pheromonal physiology."

Harry gave them all a little wave. He felt far too nervous to go and shake their hands, even though that probably would have been the more polite thing to do.

"Thank you, Minister," Matilda said at once. "Although this case is highly unusual by modern standards, we are confident we will be able to conduct the assessment appropriately. And I am especially pleased that you agreed to include my proposed methodology."

Tom nodded.

She continued. "We will begin with magical and pheromonal compatibility testing, which will be conducted by my colleagues. They are fully prepared. Afterwards, we shall proceed to the additional assessment. This method was developed by me and is best described as a lifestyle and preference compatibility evaluation."

This time Harry nodded as well, because that last sentence gave him hope.

A lifestyle and preference assessment had to go catastrophically. The two of them had practically nothing in common.

"Are you both ready?" Professor Grimshaw asked.

"Yes," they answered simultaneously.

"Very well. The first assessment measures magical compatibility. It's quite straightforward. I shall throw an enchanted object into the air. You will both cast Wingardium Leviosa upon it and keep it suspended. The object will absorb traces of both your magic, and the colour it produces will indicate the degree of your compatibility."

That sounded easy enough.

Harry was almost disappointed. He had expected something considerably more complicated. Or dangerous. Perhaps a duel against Tom.

"Wands ready? Good. Three... two... one... now."

With that, he threw a small ball into the air, almost as high as the ceiling. It looked surprisingly light, almost sponge-like, giving Harry plenty of time to cast the spell.

Tom was faster.

For once, he was actually using a wand.

The ball hovered between them, held in the air by both spells.

Harry watched as it began changing colour. At first it was green, then purple, then yellow.

Then...

Red.

Professor Grimshaw frowned.

"That will do, thank you."

He lowered the ball, opened a large leather briefcase, and withdrew an impressively thick tome.

"What is the result?" Tom asked.

"I should verify this first," he murmured, already turning pages. "It's... highly unusual."

Harry's hopes immediately soared. Maybe unusual meant dreadful. Maybe they were the least compatible pair ever tested.

For a long moment the room remained completely silent, broken only by the rustling of old parchment. Finally, Professor Grimshaw cleared his throat.

"Well... this is certainly not something one encounters every day. The red response is triggered only when the magical signatures are so compatible that the artefact struggles to distinguish them as originating from two separate individuals."

He looked up from the book.

"That places your magical compatibility at... 118%."

"That isn't possible!" Harry protested. "Percentages don't go above one hundred!"

"I am aware of that," Professor Grimshaw replied, looking at him over the rim of his spectacles. "Which is precisely why I consulted the reference text. Nevertheless, the result is the result."

Harry huffed and stole a brief glance at Tom.

Just to see how unbearably pleased he looked.

Well.

Tom looked satisfied, certainly.

In fact, judging by the expression on his face, Harry would have estimated his satisfaction somewhere in the region of 811%.

So the first test had gone terribly.

Harry was dreading the next one.

Mrs Waissal rose from her chair. Before standing fully, she cast one lingering glance at the knitting she'd abandoned, making it abundantly clear what she'd much rather be doing than conducting compatibility assessments. 

Then she produced two pieces of fabric. They looked like thin silk scarves. She walked over and handed one to each of them.

"You will need to scent these scarves with your pheromones. After that, I will place them in a sealed container and perform the necessary charms. The colour the container produces will indicate your pheromonal compatibility."

The instructions were simple enough, but Harry immediately ran into a problem.

His scent gland wasn't exactly good at following instructions. It didn’t respond to stress. Heck, it rarely even responded to another alpha’s pheromones. What it did like was the feeling of comfort and feeling safe.

He wrapped the scarf around his hand and pressed it lightly against the scent gland on his neck. Closing his eyes, he tried to summon comforting thoughts - soaking in a hot bath at home, drinking cocoa by the fireplace...

Nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, he found Tom watching him.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. My scent gland just doesn't take orders, you know," Harry huffed.

Tom looked at him with unmistakable fondness.

"Why am I not surprised?" he murmured.

He folded his own scarf in half and draped it loosely around his neck.

Seconds later, the room filled with his pheromones.

The scent was delicious.

Harry immediately shut his eyes, determined not to betray any reaction, but unfortunately his body had other ideas.

The image of drinking cocoa by the fire returned, only now someone else was curled up beside him beneath a blanket. There were books around them, candles burning nearby, and a bottle of massage oil sitting on the coffee table.

Harry's eyes flew open.

Only then did he realise he'd scented the scarf rather thoroughly. The fabric felt almost damp beneath his fingers.

Worse...

Harry became painfully aware that his frilly knickers felt slightly damp, too.

It had taken less than three minutes.

My body is hopeless, he thought as Mrs Waissal collected both scarves.

A moment later, she placed them inside a large glass jar. It looked suspiciously like the sort of mason jar Harry kept instant porridge oats in his kitchenette.

A bit primitive, he thought. I'd imagined pheromonal compatibility testing involved something rather more sophisticated than kitchenware.

Still, it appeared to do the job. 

Several spells struck the jar. Just like before, colours swirled wildly inside, chasing one another in a miniature vortex. When they finally settled...

It was red. Again.

Harry had a bad feeling about this.

"Well," Mrs Waissal said, sounding more fascinated than surprised, "while this degree of compatibility is certainly unusual, I see no need to consult the reference texts this time. My assessment is very close to my colleague's. Red indicates compatibility significantly exceeding the conventional scale. I would estimate your pheromonal compatibility somewhere between 120 and 130%."

She looked between them.

"While unusual, it is not entirely unexpected. Mr Potter's pheromones present as fresh and unbridled, whereas Minister Riddle's carry qualities typically associated with security, stability, and domesticity. It is well documented that pheromonal profiles of opposing nature often exhibit exceptionally strong mutual attraction."

Damn her.

Harry felt too tired to argue now. Besides, there wasn't much to argue with. He was attracted to homely things. Things like curling up on a sofa with someone and using a massage oil together.

The time had come for the final test. Mrs Willow stood up.

“For this test,” she said, “we will use a written assessment. I will ask you a series of questions concerning your lifestyle and general preferences. Your task is to answer them truthfully. At the end, we will compare your answers and calculate your compatibility score.”

“Will we have to take Veritaserum?” Harry asked.

“No. I trust that answering honestly will work to your benefit,” she replied. “So please, no cheating.”

It dawned on Harry. 

This was why Tom had agreed to this test so readily.

He was probably planning to cheat by tailoring his answers to match Harry’s as closely as possible.

Harry couldn’t allow that.

In fact, he needed to be one step ahead. He would simply write the exact opposite of every truthful answer.

Just you wait, Tom, he thought as he accepted the legal pad. I’ll show you.

“Let’s begin. First question. Are you an early bird or a night owl?”

Harry was the furthest thing from an early bird. He hated opening his shop before noon, but those were simply the business hours everyone else kept. On the other hand, he loved working late into the evening, long after everyone else had gone home. Tom had probably noticed as much during all his stalking.

Harry could practically picture him writing night owl.

So Harry wrote:

Early bird.

“What foods do you prefer?”

Harry loved food from all over the world. Asian cuisine, especially Thai and Korean, so hot it made his eyes water. Greek and Middle Eastern food. Mexican food. Anything bold, colourful and spicy. What he generally didn’t care for was classic and overly fancy European cuisine, which he mostly associated with tiny portions, absurd prices, and astonishingly bland flavours.

Tom already knew Harry liked sushi. He’d undoubtedly write something similar.

Harry wrote instead:

British cuisine. Best in the world.

The words made him shudder a little.

“Your idea of the perfect holiday?”

Harry loved disappearing into nature with nothing but a broom, a tent and few supplies to last several days in the wild.

Instead, he wrote:

An all-inclusive beach resort, preferably in the Mediterranean region.

In his mind, it was practically a nightmare. Children screaming around swimming pools, pensioners dancing to ABBA tribute bands at evenings. Buffet queues stretching halfway across the hotel lobby.

“Your favourite film genre?”

Harry loved science fiction and horror, so he wrote:

Romantic comedies and documentaries.

The questions continued.

And continued. And continued.

A whole fifty of them.

Harry caught Tom glancing over at him from behind his legal pad a few times and narrowed his eyes. The man clearly looked pleased with himself.

Enjoying your clever little scheme, are you?

We’ll see who’s clever in the end.

When the assessment finally concluded, Harry expected some elaborate spell to compare the answers automatically.

Instead, Mrs Willow simply picked up both answer sheets.

“We’ll review them aloud.”

Harry immediately regretted everything.

“The first question, as you may remember, concerned whether you are an early bird or a night owl. I’m pleased to report that both of you answered early bird. Another indication of exceptional compatibility.”

Harry ground his teeth.

Tom hadn’t cheated?

His only remaining hope was that Tom’s genuine answers were wildly different from Harry’s fake preferences.

“As for preferred cuisine, Minister Riddle has written: Classic European cuisine. Plus, I am particularly fond of traditional British dishes, such as Beef Wellington and Shepherd's pie.” Mrs Willow smiled pleasantly. “Mr Potter has written: British cuisine. Best in the world.”

Harry felt his stomach drop.

Across the room, one of Tom’s eyebrows rose. He looked genuinely confused.

“For holidays, Minister Riddle has answered: A five-star boutique hotel somewhere on a Mediterranean island. Mr Potter has answered: An all-inclusive beach resort, preferably in the Mediterranean region. Slightly different accommodation, but a remarkably similar destination. I’ll award half a point.”

Harry wished the floor would open beneath him.

“And for favourite films…” She beamed. “Another perfect match. Romantic comedies and documentaries. How lovely.”

Harry stared blankly ahead.

It kept going.

“Both of you would ideally like three children.”

“For both of you, your favourite sport is chess.”

“Both of you prefer rainy weather over hot sunshine.”

“The only significant disagreement so far concerns favourite pets. Mr Potter has written dogs, while Minister Riddle has written cats.”

Everything else either matched exactly or was similar enough to receive at least half a point.

Harry felt as though he were having some bizarre out-of-body experience.

If only I hadn’t cheated.

What possessed me?

Did I subconsciously want my answers to match Tom’s?

Have I just been betrayed by the last thing I thought I could trust… my own mind?

Mrs Willow finished her calculations. “The final result for lifestyle compatibility…”She adjusted her glasses.“…is 88.5%.”

Harry briefly wondered whether one could voluntarily enter a coma.

And as if that hadn't been enough, the woman continued cheerfully.

"Which makes your total compatibility score... an incredible 110%! I must say, in all my years of experience, I have never seen numbers this high. This is truly a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I consider myself lucky to have witnessed it."

The rest of the judges gave supportive nods and applauded. Tom Riddle clapped too, because clearly he was the type of person who celebrated his own achievements in the field of trapping unsuspecting omegas and achieving record-breaking compatibility scores with them.

Harry sighed and looked around at the cheerful faces.

And one very smug face.

A small, traitorous idea was forming in his head.

His instinct was to squash it before it took shape, but... he didn't.

He let it evolve.

He let it snowball.

Fine, he thought. Fine! I'll do exactly what they all want - my parents, my friends, my stupid bum.

I'll go ahead and date the handsome man standing in front of me.

Wait. No. 

I'll do even better.

I won't just date him. I'll shag him immediately - to show them all what can actually happen when you force two entirely different people together!

He stood up and looked at the panel of judges.

"That's all great and everything," he said. "But there's one more compatibility that needs to be tested before we can proceed with this…relationship or whatever."

"What is it?" Professor Grimshaw asked curiously.

"Sexual compatibility. I am not going to waste my time dating this alpha if he's unable to satisfy me in bed."

Dead silence filled the room.

Then Mrs Waissal spoke up carefully. "Given pheromonal compatibility of this magnitude, I would consider... deficiencies in that area rather unlikely." 

"So you say. But I want proof."

Harry turned to Tom.

"So, what do you say, Tom? Why don't we have a go at it?"

His eyes landed on Tom, who was still sitting in his chair, his eyes wide as saucers and his mouth hanging open. He blinked a few times.

"You mean... here and now?" he rasped.

"Of course not. I hope you're not only an alpha, but also a gentleman. You'll have to take me to your bed."

Tom shook his head, regaining his composure.

"Wait, wait, wait. You cannot be serious."

"But I am."

"This... um... is very unusual."

"So everyone keeps saying today. Unusual law. Unusual tests. Unusual results. And so on. What's one more unusual thing to add to the list?"

Tom drew in a slow breath. He was gripping the chair's armrests so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

"As tempted as I may be," he said, with remarkable restraint, "I assure you there is no need to rush into... demonstration of intimacy. Especially after you've been so determined to avoid rushing anything else. I believe this particular assessment can wait until the courtship concludes." 

It sounded reasonable.

Logical, even.

Good. That means at least one of us in this relationship will be able to keep his cool, Harry thought.

He took off his oversized jacket, revealing his bum in all its, albeit clothed, glory.

He threw the jacket over his elbow as though he had simply become too warm.

"Well, that's just sad, Tom. I was hoping we'd be compatible in all the fun things as well," he said.

Then he turned around and started walking towards the door, adding a little sway to his hips.

He could feel the stares of three pairs of eyes on his back.

And one pair on his arse.

Half a second later, there was a presence behind him, followed by a warm breath against his neck.

"I take it all back, Harry," Tom purred. "I think you do need a demonstration of how much fun I can provide you... especially after you've done so much to prepare for it."

There it was.

A large, possessive hand on his bum.

So Tom had finally noticed it.

Tom turned to the judges.

"We will report on the last compatibility assessment in a few hours. Or... days. Better not rush this type of test."

Then he looked at Harry.

"You agree, Harry?"

"Um, sure," Harry said, though his mind could think only about that large hand. It felt so warm. So good. Unfairly good.

He barely registered the pull of Apparition when suddenly he was in a dark and pleasantly cool bedroom, pressed into a wall.

Tom was kissing his neck. Not even the side where the pheromone gland was - the other one. Still, Harry felt his own scent releasing in the air, thicker than ever before.

Slick was dripping out of him - embarrassing - but he had a hunch that Tom would like it.

Indeed - now both of Tom’s hands were on his bum, squeezing and caressing it.

“Can’t believe I didn’t notice it,” he said into Harry’s neck. “It seems your body has become considerably less avoidant than its owner. ”

Harry rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help - a small whimper escaped his lips.

"You don't mind that it's... increased in size?" he asked, hating how uncertain he sounded.

Tom pulled back just enough to look at him. “Mind? Harry. I've been making a fool of myself over you for weeks. And now I find out your body has been responding all the while?" his hands tightened around Harry’s bum. “I thought that enhanced reproductive traits were merely a theoretical possibility. For very special ome- epsilons only. And you did it because of me,” he said, sounding a bit awed. 

Harry couldn’t help it - he chuckled.

Tom took that as permission to kiss Harry’s lips.

He wasn’t wrong, either. Harry didn’t mind it one bit. In fact, it was the perfect kind of kiss - slow, gentle, but also possessive. It was probably all the experience of kissing Tom had accumulated at his age, Harry thought as his brain continued to transfigure itself into cotton.

Tom’s hands were still on his bum, protecting it against evil eyes - but then Tom parted from Harry, denying him those lovely lips, and - oh.

He was kneeling down and spun Harry around.

“What is happening, Tom?” Harry's voice came from far away.

“I want to show you just how much I like your new figure,” Tom said.

With a flick of his wrist, Harry's leggings slipped to his feet, revealing the frilly knickers.

Fuck.

Harry had completely forgotten about them. He risked a glance at Tom, who appeared frozen once more, his gaze fixed on the knickers. Then Tom raised a hand, his long fingers lightly tracing the frills.

“Very nice,” he murmured. “These are, in fact, the only appropriate undergarments for such a lovely and exquisitely proportioned rear.”

“Please don't say rear,” Harry begged.

Tom reached for the knickers.

Harry suddenly felt nervous.

“Wait!” He scrambled towards the wall. “I've been in the shop all day! I need to wash first!”

“Oh darling,” Tom was rubbing his nose against the frills. “You have no idea how much I love the smell of the shop on you. The wood and the sweat is driving me crazy. I was over the moon when you didn’t want to change for the sushi dinner.”

Tom liked him dirty and sweaty? 

That was good news. Not that Harry had any problems with hygiene, but…the idea that Tom - this pristine, posh man - liking him just the way he was made his toes curl.

“I'd still like to shower,” he said, a bit shyly. Just in case Tom had some more plans. 

Tom was nuzzling the wet spots on the knickers. 

“Salazar,” he whispered. “So wet for me already.”

“Shower, Tom,” Harry repeated, looking down at him. Tom looked like a cat who had found a whole catnip plant all for himself.

Through his daze, Tom got up and picked Harry up. He deposited him on the bed for a moment, taking off his shirt, the leggings and the trainers. Then, he took out his wand and murmured a spell.

Another Apparition took them straight to the shower. It was large and the showerhead seemed to occupy half the ceiling.

Harry was so busy inspecting the shower that he didn’t pay attention to Tom for a moment.

When he did, he was surprised again.

Tom was all naked now, standing behind him.  When had he managed to take off all his clothes? 

“Had some practice in undressing, have you?” Harry asked, feeling a bit jealous of all the theoretical reasons why Tom was so skilled at taking his clothes off.

Tom looked at him with a very cheeky expression.

“Indeed I do,” he said easily. “Though it's not undressing myself that I enjoy the most.”

Harry wanted to say something witty in return, perhaps hinting that it was poor manners to flaunt one's sexual experience, but at that moment, water started pouring from the ceiling. Probably to distract Harry.

The shower was quite amazing. The water was the perfect temperature from the start, and clouds of mist drifted from somewhere. It smelled like rain, not just a shower.

Like the air after a storm.

“Have you charmed the shower somehow?” he wondered.

“Yes. To smell like you,” Tom said.

“But I haven't released my scent around you,” Harry frowned. “Besides, my scent is almost... non-existent.”

“That's precisely the point. I have an exceptionally acute sense of smell. It's been more of a curse than a blessing for most of my life, until...”

“Until what?”

“Until you bumped into me with that dreadful drink,” Tom said with a grin. 

Tom dropped to his knees again - it really seemed that his joints didn’t have any problems - and inspected Harry’s wet knickers one more time. Then, he pulled them down.

Harry heard Tom draw in a breath. His bum tensed up a bit.

He's noticed the mochi tattoo, Harry realized. He probably thinks it’s vulgar. 

“My, my, Harry, you are full of surprises,” Tom was practically purring again. “And here I thought nothing in life could surprise me anymore. Is that a…mochi dessert?”

“You can say just mochi.”

“It has eyes and ears and mouth,” Tom remarked.

“I’m aware.”

“Well, I find it absolutely delightful,” Tom said. “Unexpected, but delightful. And in the best place imaginable. Because I have a thing for desserts, you see.”

“Do you?” Harry asked, a bit sceptically, still unable to hide his joy at the fact that Tom liked the mochi.

“Absolutely,” Tom said and gave Harry’s cheek a very light smack, making it jiggle. He did the same to the other cheek immediately afterwards.

“I could watch this for hours,” he said. “It’s almost hypnotising. The mochi moves like it’s alive.”

Harry immediately realized that there might be one important aspect that could still have low compatibility. It was their opinion on appropriate or embarrassing declarations.

“Please don’t,” Harry begged. “It’s not sustainable to be in the shower for that long.”

Tom laughed deeply and looked up at Harry.

“I’m glad I’ll finally have someone to teach me more about the environment,” he said seriously.

And promptly bit into Harry’s plump bum right where the mochi was.

Merlin. The man seemed to have skipped both breakfast and lunch. He proceeded to nip on Harry’s bottom like it was the best pudding he’d ever tasted. At least he knew how to soothe the imprints of his teeth - he kissed it all better, too.

Harry felt like there was a shower between his legs. He was leaking slick at this point, and was glad that the shower was helping to hide it.

Until Tom grabbed the cheeks and spread them apart in a very obscene manner, leaving nothing hidden.

Harry felt his entrance pulse in anticipation. Another body part was betraying him, he supposed, but by now he was used to it.  He expected Tom to do something more - touch him, press a finger inside.

Instead, it was Tom’s mouth that continued the exploration.

Harry’s knees nearly buckled. This wasn’t his first time getting rimmed, but it was the last thing he expected Tom - the bloody Minister of Magic - to do to him. On their first time. In a shower.

Tom didn’t seem to be bothered by titles - he just spread Harry’s cheeks even more to delve deeper with his tongue.

Harry felt another gush of slick trickling down - stopped by Tom’s tongue now. Tom seemed to notice the slick too, as he hummed in appreciation and started thrusting the tongue inside and out in slow, maddening movements.

It was too much, but not enough at the same time. Harry felt his release building with every jab and lick of Tom's tongue. Still, the position wasn't comfortable. A small worry lingered at the back of his mind that, if he reached orgasm in the shower, he would lose his balance entirely and topple over, hitting his head on the tiles.

He made a little sound - nothing loud, but Tom reacted immediately.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he asked.

“I don’t want to come here. In the shower,” Harry admitted.

Harry risked turning his head to look at Tom.

He looked sinful. His hair was all wet and slicked back, his face glistening from Harry’s slick. But more than anything, the mix of desire and fondness in his eyes was going to undo Harry more quickly than the rimming would. 

Tom didn’t ask why. He just nodded, stood up and reached for his wand.

“Alright. I wanted you to sit on my face anyway,” he said.

A few spells later, they were dried up and on Tom’s bed. Tom arranged them the way he wanted  - with his face under Harry’s arse.

“I want you to ride my tongue, love,” he instructed. “Use it how you want to. I want to be smothered by your beautiful arse.”

Harry usually wasn’t very good at following instructions, but this time he succeeded alarmingly well. His body moved on its own, hips settling into a nice pace, hands placed on Tom’s torso.

Our sexual compatibility is very high, too, Harry realised. At least 100%. Maybe even 200%.

In his current position, he was approaching climax again, but soon he was distracted by something else.

Tom’s cock. Standing tall and proud and alone like a toppled statue of a dictator, relocated to the middle of a forest. It was also gloriously big. It was truly shameful to leave such a magnificent specimen unattended. So Harry leaned down and kissed it, licking up the precome, and sucked on the head lightly.

Tom paused for a moment - before hurriedly pushing two fingers into Harry, alongside his tongue.

At his age, he probably is worried that he might come only once tonight, Harry thought, though he was becoming increasingly puzzled about exactly what age that was. Maybe Tom wanted to hurry things up. Which was entirely okay with him.

For whatever reason, his brain wanted to reassure Tom.

“Don’t worry,” Harry said. “It’s alright if you only do it once. And I don't necessarily need you inside me to- ”

Seconds later, strong arms had flipped them over. Tom somehow rotated himself a full one hundred and eighty degrees, and now hovered above Harry, a dangerous expression on his face.

“What kind of talk is that?”

“Um...” Harry hesitated. How honest could he be? “Well... I think it's... obvious that you're not exactly in your... teenage years anymore,” he said, deciding to be as politically correct as possible. “So I just wanted to say that I don't expect you to - ”

“My dear Harry.” Tom's voice had dropped by an octave. “I promised that I would satisfy you. I rather thought my word would be sufficient.” His lips curved into a slow smile. “But it seems you've decided to put that promise to the test.”

Harry swallowed.

“How very unfortunate for you,” Tom went on.

He leaned down until there was barely any space between them.

“Now I feel positively obliged to demonstrate exactly how capable I am of satisfying you...” His eyes gleamed hungrily. “...again and again.”

And Tom did.

From there, Harry’s memory got really fuzzy - all he knew was that Tom entered him from the top and fucked him relentlessly, pressing a palm against Harry’s stomach where his cock was bulging out,  and Harry came embarrassingly fast. Then, Tom flipped them and made Harry ride him - and the same thing happened again. The bastard knew exactly where to push and what to say.

And boy, but for all his politeness, he had a very filthy mouth.

“That’s right, take my cock, my little epsilon.”

“You’re wetter than the Thames on a high tide.”

“Your cock is so cute I want it in my mouth every morning.”

“I need to bend you over my desk in the Ministry.”

After making Harry come already two times, Tom went down with his wicked tongue again, feasting more on Harry’s sweat and slick, and Harry couldn’t even protest. He was too tired, and Tom seemed to really enjoy what he was doing.

“Your slick tastes heavenly, darling…”

“You’re gaping so prettily, love, like you’re ready for another round…”

There indeed had been another round - Tom flipped Harry on his stomach and entered from behind, and it was about then that Harry decided that their sexual compatibility was in the range of 400-500%, came one more time, even though he wasn’t sure what kind of fluid it was, and passed out.

Some time later he woke up.

There was a strong body cuddling him, arms locked around and holding him, like he was about to run away.

It took a moment for him to remember where he was and what was happening.

First he noticed that he was sore - in the good kind of way. Satisfying way. Tom had kept his promise.

Embarrassingly, he couldn’t remember if Tom had come at any point during the night. Tom hadn’t knotted him, either - which Harry was thankful for. Merlin, he remembered now that Tom had even used condoms - while Harry had whined and asked him to hurry up like a complete slut.

Other memories from the night came rushing back.

How Harry had begged Tom to go deeper, but also gentler (who even said things like that?).

How he had wrapped his legs around Tom and solemnly declared that he wasn’t letting him go until he had been bred properly full of pups.

Tom had only chuckled. Then he had leaned down, saying Harry was probably not entirely himself and that they would need to have a separate conversation about children once Harry was lucid again.

Horrible.

Harry had been utterly horrible.

Tom probably thought their compatibility was below 10%. Below five, even.

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"Good early morning, darling," a voice murmured into his ear.

The arms around him tightened, and he felt a soft kiss pressed to his nape.

"So," Tom asked, sounding far too energetic, "what's your final verdict?"

"My... verdict?" Harry asked.

"On our compatibility."

Merlin.

Tom was actually asking for his verdict.

He really was a gentleman.

"I think it's..." Harry searched for a number that sounded suitably apologetic. "99.98%."

Tom chuckled.

"Not one hundred?"

“Well, I need to make sure you still have room for improvement,” Harry lied. If anyone needed to improve anything, it was Harry.

“I give you my word that I shall never cease refining my... talents. Especially where your satisfaction is concerned, my epsilon,” Tom said solemnly.

Harry turned to face him.

“You don't have to do that,” he said quietly. “You're already... all this.”

Tom frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean... you're the Minister for Magic. Probably the most handsome Minister the wizarding world has ever had. You're frighteningly smart, and witty, and charming… And apparently some sort of... sex god as well.” Harry looked away. “If you're truly serious about dating me, then you should know I'm nothing like you.”

Tom's frown deepened for a brief moment before melting into the familiar smile Harry had come to know far too well.

“No,” he agreed softly. “You are nothing like me.”

He reached up and brushed a thumb across Harry's cheek.

“You are the fiercest omega I’ve ever met. And the prettiest - you have the  most beautiful eyes I have ever had the privilege of looking into. You are a craftsman of remarkable talent, capable of producing work that borders on artistry, and I have little doubt you could have become a professional Quidditch player had you wished. Still can, in fact.”

His gaze drifted lower for the briefest moment before returning to Harry's eyes.

“And as for your body...” His eyes turned positively smoldering. “I confess I remain undecided whether it ought to be worshipped publicly... or hidden from the rest of the world entirely.”

Harry felt the heat rush into his face.

Tom chuckled.

“I cannot believe you were carrying all these doubts in you, Harry.” He leaned forward until their foreheads almost touched. “You needn't concern yourself with measuring up to me. We were made to suit one another. Where we don’t match, we balance each other.” His voice softened. “That, my darling, is rather the whole point.”

“Like...in the question about cats and dogs?” Harry asked. 

“Almost. I know you cheated on the test, love. You have cats written all over you.”

Harry decided to kiss Tom before he could say more about the wretched test. Tom responded instantly and eagerly - and his mouth tasted sweet and fresh, even after all the places it had visited beforehand.

When they came apart, Harry tried to sit up - to make sure that he hadn’t dreamed all this conversation. He blinked a few times, taking in the room.

It was lighter than before thanks to a few lamps lit in the corners but the room in general was quite dark. The walls were painted in dark green. There was a wall clock that showed it was just a bit after 1 am. 

Harry’s clothes were neatly folded on a chair. Even the knickers had been dried.

And his old Converse trainers were placed on a carpet near the door, in a very pedantic way. Next to them was a pair of elegant black patent leather dress shoes.

So that's how we will balance out each other, Harry thought.

Maybe it was time to put the balancing into action already. The month end was approaching after all.

He dropped back onto the pillow, took Tom’s arm and pulled it over himself again.

“Do you need anything? A glass of water? A sandwich?” Tom asked, a bit concerned at Harry’s behavior.

“Umm, no. Let’s go back to sleep and wake up early maybe?” Harry suggested. 

“For another round?” Tom asked excitedly.

Merlin. The man had the libido of a teenager and the stamina of a marathon runner.

It was good that Harry had the means to calm him down.

“Let’s see. More importantly - how do you feel about doing some accounting?”

——

Seven months later

WITCH WEEKLY EXCLUSIVE

BRITAIN’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR IS OFF THE MARKET!

Today marks a day that will go down in the history of modern wizarding Britain. The nation’s most eligible bachelor is a bachelor no more!

Witch Weekly has learned that Minister for Magic Tom Marvolo Riddle has quietly married his partner, Harry James Potter, a talented broom-maker, in an intimate ceremony atop a mountain in Scotland.

Following the ceremony, the newlyweds reportedly departed on a broom before later being spotted visiting a Muggle tattoo parlour. Sadly, our reporter was unable to discover what matching - or perhaps not so matching? - tattoos the happy couple chose.

The celebrations continued at an elegant restaurant, where the pair dined with close family and friends.

Witch Weekly managed to gather a few exclusive comments, though the guests wished to remain anonymous:

“I knew Harry had a crush on the Minister since fifth year. This was only ever a matter of time.”

“The moment the Minister came to our house for dinner, I knew there was something between them, no matter how hard Harry tried to hide it.”

“I always knew it would take someone extraordinary to persuade Harry to get married. Of course, it had to be the Minister of Magic.”

After dinner, the happy couple departed by Portkey for their honeymoon: a luxury hotel in a picturesque village on the island of Sicily.

The editors of Witch Weekly wish the newlyweds a lifetime of magic, love and happiness!