Archive of Our Own ^beta

There were so many things wrong with the world today.

Children starving in cupboards under stairs, being betrayed by people you trusted and admired, societies falling to the poison of their own prejudices… Harry’s favorite cafe being sold out of treacle tarts.

It wasn’t even fair, two years ago he was the only bloke in the city who ate here.

No other ovens in the city got the crumbly crust just right. And the worst part about this, is that this was just part of an altogether, not-very-good day.

Hedwig was still in the hospital from suffering a terrible mid-mail collision with a wild owl and had just gotten out of surgery. Harry had been evicted from the clinic premises by Hermione after receiving the news, being told to “find something to eat that fills the space between his ears again”

He doesn’t even know what that means.

But luckily the Animal Healer was just a couple streets away from his favorite cafe off Diagon Alley that he usually had to go out of his way to make a visit to. Just thinking of the smell of the smooth coffee beans had his ears filling up again, or whatever.

Now though, he wishes he’d had stayed at the Healer’s and eaten a sandwich out of the vending machine. At least then he wouldn’t have had to be simply disappointed.

Harry comforted himself by still getting his coffee order and trying not to pout in front of the attendant. He moved to this side to wait patiently for his order when he stopped in his fucking tracks.

The treacle tarts hadn’t just been sold out. Some piece of shit dickhead had bought enough tart to kill a grown man. Some rich piece of shit dick head, was this man really wearing designer robes in the middle of a cheap coffee shop? Merlin, he could taste the dragonhide from here.

The criminal was waiting with his back turned, gazing out the window as he waited for a girl to package the seven(!) whole treacle tarts in containers. He was a tall, pale man with warm dark brown hair. The expensive robes obscured most of his form but they couldn’t take away from the man’s general broadness, the fabric draping down from wide shoulders. And, of course, nothing could erase the big letters spelling out ‘GREEDY” that was surely stamped across his forehead.

It was simply the last straw for Harry, hunger and stress wiped away his self-control like candy from a baby.

“Oi! Leave some for the rest of us, yeah?” He scolds brashly at the back of the man’s head.

…. No response. Harry couldn’t take this. He could feel the blood in his face rush toward his ear and his teeth clench. This idiot is ignoring him now? “Excuse me, if you’re going to buy out the whole shop you should know it’s polite to order a day before.”

That finally gets the guy’s attention. “I’m sorry,” He says with an incredulous breath, “are you trying to say something to me?”

For a very, very, very brief second Harry regrets taking up this approach at all. He hates that his foolishness is now pitting him against someone who has eyes like that. Copper red irises sear into his own, the dark features that etch his face creating an intense brow and a heavy glare. Most of all, though, the stranger has a presence. Aura reading has never been confirmed to be an accurate practice, but Harry could tell anyone who asked that this man’s aura could be felt. It makes his tongue lose its footing for a moment.

“Um- no, no. I mean- yes.” Merlin save his soul. “You’ve got more treacle than anyone would need for life, mate. Leave some for the rest of us.”

“Well maybe the rest of you should have come before three in the afternoon.”

“What? The world doesn’t revolve around your schedule. They make that many to last until past three, not because they’re at your beck and call.” He counters.

Harry can feel the creepy aura get tangibly denser before lightening once more. He can feel the pissyness in that red glare increase.

“Well,” The man snaps, “It seems at least the treacle tart is going to revolve around me today because I’m the one paying for it.”

The aproned girl behind the counter has finished tying the boxes together. The stranger’s gaze doesn’t leave Harry’s as he swipes up the boxes with a gloved hand. Harry is devastated.

He huffs offendedly, gesturing with his hands, “I’d also be a perfectly normal paying customer if there were any left.”

“Thank God you'll probably live to see tomorrow when they have more then.” With a roll of his eyes the man sweeps away to the door.

Harry has clearly made a mistake at some point and had paid the barista in brain cells and not coins. His feet are moving before he’s thinking, stepping him abruptly in front of the man and blocking his exit.

He literally had no clue what he was trying to do. Now they were caught awkwardly staring at one another because he didn’t know what to say.

A dark eyebrow raises and that broad form stretches to bend pointedly over Harry, emphasizing his distinct height advantage, “Move.”

Harry leaned hard against the back of his heels in a struggle to both fight and flee. He knew he was acting out of line, the baristas side-eyeing them, but at this rate he felt he had to die on the hill he chose if only to prove a point to the strange man. So he sets his jaw a bit and wills any power he might have behind his own piercing glare to make itself known.

This was apparently not the wrong move as the corner of the man’s mouth ticks up in a smirk and his shadowy eyes glint with amusement.

Harry’s eyes flicker away as he fights the blush he knows is creeping up his neck, “You shouldn’t hoard things that are meant for everyone.”

“You should mind your own business.”, the man tuts.

He starts to slide around Harry stubbornly planted in the middle of the walkway. A black-gloved hand smacks firmly into Harry’s chest as the larger man passes. He shivers when a smooth voice leans down, speaking into his ear, “Come back tomorrow and get your treacle tart.”

Harry is snapped out of his trance by the barista declaring his order. The leggy arsehole escapes the shop and Harry is too emotional to return to the Animal Healer office with Hermione there so he drinks his coffee at the shop. It takes longer than he’d like to put aside the thoughts of that large hand pressing against his chest.

____

Harry was one of the best seekers the Gryffindor quidditch team had ever raised. He was near famous because of it, having made a short yet successful career of it after he’d graduated Hogwarts. He’d only stopped because the media coverage was getting to ridiculous levels when a zealous reporter had rented the flat next to his and was caught rifling through his mail. Merlin knows what lengths Rita Skeeter would have gone to in order to one-up a guy like that.

What he really liked about the sport, is that he didn’t really have to play with any of the other people on the field. It was really just between him and the snitch and part of the point was to get away from the other seeker as well. All Harry had to do was sit and wait, not getting hit, until he chased and caught it. None of the kind of worries that a Keeper or a Beater have to constantly think about when they’re up in the game.

Harry does his own thing, his own way, and that happens to be a way that really works for him. Alone. Independently.

Not with anyone else’s thoughts or opinions overruling his own agency.
Harry’s just good at improvising and the like, he was the “most creative dueller in his class” he was told.

So returning to the cafe the next day is purely out of his own intention. It’s just because he didn’t get the treacle tart yesterday so now he’s honestly owed one, by the universe. It doesn’t matter that it’s kinda late in the afternoon for a snack, Harry can do what he wants when he wants if wants it.

The warm draft of air that blows at him when he opens the door to that wonder of the world fills him with such pleasure he almost forgets his anxiety about if all the tart had suspiciously disappeared again. He’s almost afraid to look when he gets to the counter but luckily when he peers into the glass case, there’s a fresh few tarts sitting in the display.

He sighs in relief before turning to the barista, “Can I get a slice of treacle tart and a hot coffee, lots of milk, little sugar, thanks.”

“Sure, name for the order?”

“Harry, please”

The barista looks up sharply, giving him a scanning glance, “oh, actually, sir, I’ve been given instructions for you.”

Harry’s eyebrows must be comically peeking over the rims of his glasses, he knows, but his surprise is genuine he can’t even think to control his expression.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been invited to dine with a guest upstairs. It’s usually where the owner takes her business meetings and lounges but it got reserved for your meeting.” She nods her head towards the stair climbing towards the back of the building, tucked off to the side, “You best not keep’im waiting. You know what they say: ‘The bigger the wallet, the bigger the tantrum’.”

Harry shakes his head in confusion, having never heard that before in his life, “I’ll keep that in mind, I guess. Can I still get my food?”

When she affirms this, he turns warily towards the staircase. He feels exactly who must be at the end of this. Unless Malfoy has taken up committing sick pranks in an effort to reminisce on the childhood days when they tortured each other with their mutual existence, Harry is certain it is the trust-fund funeral director from last time.

Lo and Behold, perched at a white wooden table in front of an open terrace is the man himself sipping a steaming floral teacup. The Bluebells and Baby’s Breath don't suit the wolf in sheepskin.

“What’s this about, then? Come here to tell me you’re personally dedicated to making sure I never taste another tart in my life?” He had to make the first move because if not, the other man would definitely feel like he had influence over Harry and not that Harry had come up here only because he was allowing the man his company.

“Surely someone, this obsessed with a dish would learn to make it themselves at some point.”, the dark haired man says exasperated.

Harry already feels that flush on its way. How can he be blamed when those long legs are elegantly crossed at the knee, flaunting their length. Glancing at the man’s face, the faint curls in his short hair dance teasingly around the cusp of his ear. Harry wants to tug on them.

“Coming from someone who most likely has a house elf prepping for dinner right now, I bet you’re less qualified to bake than I am.”, he huffs.

“You seem to take a lot of offense to wealth but have yet to even think about any of its perks.”

“Hah, like what? I doubt you could name three that don’t capitalize off of somebody else’s suffering somehow.”

“I only need one.”

With a flourish of his hand, a disillusionment charm was dropped and the shiny silver platter in the center of the table was revealed. And it carried one of the most beautiful sights Harry had ever seen.

Its crust was the perfect height; lovely, evenly spaced ridges decorated its edge in a frill. The crisp shade of dark golden brown that kissed its surface was enhanced by the sunny rays streaming through the open terrace. A divine looking treacle. Sweet Circe, Harry was only a man.

“It’s all yours,” he offers innocently and gestures towards the empty chair across from him.

Harry eyes him with suspicion. Generous people usually didn’t rob entire batches of tart, so they really didn’t just offer up free ones either.

He sits at the table folding his arms across his chest and trying his best to convey that he was only here for the dessert. “Alright then, what’s the catch?”

“None at all,” the man chuckles darkly, “I simply want to apologize for your missing out yesterday. What kind of man would I be if I left another bereft of what you so clearly desired?”

Harry takes up a delicate silver fork and wanders it above the tart. Where to start…?

“Probably whatever kind of man you are that made you the source of my bereft-ness.”, he looks up with furrowed brows, “Who even are you?”

He finally gets something other than a smirk from the stranger when his face slackens in apparent astonishment. The expression is quickly replaced by dark eyes narrowed towards him in disbelief. “You don’t know who I am?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I knew, would I?” He rolls his eyes as he lifts the first bite to his lips, “Once again, you are not the center of the world.”

The tart is heavenly perfection, the sweet filling melting against his tongue. He’d started from the outside so he gets a chunk of crust right behind it and- oh.

“My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle.”

The crumbs of the crust add a wonderful, slightly crunchy texture to the smoothness of the treacle. Harry vaguely notices that his eyes have closed in delight.

However, they flick wide in embarrassment at the involuntary moan that escapes him. To add to his humiliation, the man is staring back at him with an equally shocked expression. Harry’s blush inflames his face, he’s going to need to be admitted to St. Mungo’s if he gets any more blood in his head.

“I am so sorry,” Harry laughs awkwardly, “it’s really very good.”

“I know the tart is good; I bought it myself. Does my name not- ring any bells for you?”

He shrugs, “I was a little distracted, could you say it again and we’ll see. I promise I’ll listen.”

“Tom Riddle.” he deadpans.

Harry knows the names and faces of a few really famous wizards, most of them quidditch players, to be honest. He doesn’t know any athletes by that name and he knows the Minister isn’t either. So he’s at a bit of a loss. ‘Tom Riddle’ is a very normal name for such an intense man, Harry thinks.

Tom seems to find this a worse injustice than his daylight robbery, “You really don’t know? Maybe I should be asking who you are.”

“I’m just a guy who enjoys treacle tart,” he dodges, “thank you very much for the apology, it's accepted. I’m sure someone as essentially important as you has many important things to do so I won’t keep you.”

“Please, Harry, I’m important enough that those matters will wait until I’m available.” Tom says, “And anyway, I still feel terrible about how I treated you last time. Let me make it up to you more.”

One of those long, gloved hands slides across the table towards Harry, just resting within his space.

He considers picking up the tart and ditching but the barista had promised to bring his coffee up.

“No, no, the tart is more than enough. I can assure you, I am no longer bereft.” He’s not sure he wants anything else to do with this weirdo.

“Oh, but I’m sure the emotional damage is still present, I hate that you have this negative impression of me now,” Tom shakes his lowered head as if Harry could believe that this man felt remorse about the stolen tarts, “I won’t sleep tonight if you don’t let me atone.”

Harry couldn’t care less about how the taller man sleeps but now he spitefully hopes it's fitful and cold. “There’s no need for it really, all is forgiven, Mr.Riddle”

“Wouldn’t you like to see where all those treacle tarts went?”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t eat them all yourself?”Harry remarks dubiously.

He gets seared with that red glare from before.

“Do I look like I could fit a bakery’s worth of treacle tart?” Tom sneers.

Harry pointedly looks him up and down.

“That was rhetorical, and no.”

He doesn’t think this man has a sympathetic bone in his body but he also knows that the glint he sees in those brown eyes means that he’s going to get roped into something whether he wants it or not. And Harry does kind of want to know if the tarts were used as an ingredient in some dark, outlawed ritual.

________

Tom Riddle is a man that Harry can say he knows very well now. So well, that he wishes he never knew him in the first place. Now he knows exactly why people say to never trust a pretty face: because it belongs to a sadistic, black-hearted, evil man.

The treacle tarts were donated to a literal orphanage. Like the actual place where children with no caretakers lived.

Tom had walked them right through its front doors as if he owned the place (he actually might) and had been warmly welcomed by the plump, smiling matrons within. They were standing in the kitchen talking with Head Matron Chatterley. Harry can see the stack of white pastry boxes poking from the trash bin.

“We’re glad to have you back so soon, sir.” the matron chirped, “We’d be thankful if you stayed for dinner.”

The pink-cheeked woman turns to Harry and imitates whispering to him behind her hand, “He’d never admit it himself, but the children absolutely adore Mr.Riddle.”

She was right, the man hadn’t outright said anything from his own mouth. That clearly didn’t stop him from rubbing it in Harry’s face.

He gives her a taut smile, “I don’t doubt that his- charm, could win over the most stubborn of individuals.”

“I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, Mr.Potter.”, Tom is radiating smugness.

The Matron doesn’t seem to read this and sighs in reverence, ”always so modest, sir!”

They manage to get away without sitting for a meal but they are subjected to a nine year old girl’s flute performance in homage to the black-cloaked wizard.

He’s never going to be able to hear the flute the same way again. Nevermind hear in general.

Alone outside the stony walls of the orphanage, the sun has set and the temperature has dropped enough that Harry can see his breath in the air. He’s slightly furious with Tom Riddle. The man couldn’t have been bothered to tell him he was interfering with a generous act of charity before he went and made a fool of himself trying to stop him? Harry feels like an ass, the man had gifted him that mouthwatering treacle and was apparently the savior of orphaned magical children. Putting the arrogant attitude aside, Tom’s actions spoke of better intentions.

“I hope you’re not thinking of running off before I’m through with you, Harry.”

It should be illegal to have someone speak your name like that.

“Through with me?” He laughs mirthlessly, “I think you’ve made your point quite clear.”

Red eyes regard him closely. The light from a streetlamp casts pitch shadows that distort his face.

“I think I’ve taught you well to mind your manners now,” he starts, “However, I think my last point has yet to make its mark.”

Harry turns to look at him in confusion, “I don’t want anything else you could give me. If anything it should’ve been me sweeping you off your feet to apologize.”

Dragonhide boots draw closer to his own worn trainers, “there is one thing you can do for me if you want to repent so bad.”

“Woah, just a normal amount, I’ve got too many other problems to take up a life-debt.”

If he could see the taller man’s eyes, Harry’s sure they’d be rolling.

“I assure you it’s not nearly as much of a burden.”

Harry still considers his offer with hesitation, “You’re not coercing me into organized crime are you? Because I feel like that’s something I really should have been informed of earlier if so.”

That gets the man to look to the dark sky in obvious exasperation.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs, “besides, you would make a terrible lackey. Not nearly enough respect for authority.”

“Alright then, what do I owe you?”

“A dinner with me.”

The most evil, nefarious, man Harry has ever met.

“Um, I don’t know if you’ve realized but I can’t afford anything that a man like you probably eats when he’s out.”

“Don’t be daft, I’ll pay and pick the place,” Tom waves him off, “What you’ll be giving me is the pleasure of your company, Harry.”

Meeting that dark gaze, Harry shivers and tells himself it’s the cold. Tells himself that it’s only in his mind that the fingers gripping his shoulder linger before they side-along .

_____

They end up at a place called Uncommon Antidote, a posh spot looking over a fancier block of wizarding London than Harry hadn’t even known existed.

Tom’s popularity continues to hypnotize anyone and everyone. When they arrive, the hostess manning the front takes one look at the man and nearly falls over herself to personally escort them to a table.

She leads them to a setting that is positioned perfectly in front of a window that lets Harry look out onto the street a couple floors below. He whistles to himself in awe as they’re seated and is relieved he doesn’t have to split the bill.

They don’t have to wait long before a waiter approaches, “Good evening, sirs, my name is Micah and I’ll be your server tonight. What can I get you started with?”

Harry is only slightly miffed the man is directing his words solely to Tom. Everything is a bit above his level here anyways, there’s not even a bloody menu. He doesn’t bother listening in when his companion orders whatever he wants for them both.

‘Micah’, however, is loving being the center of Tom’s momentary attention. The man leans on his hip towards him as he recommends dishes and what not. Harry decides this has nothing to do with him and that the ants/people milling around outside are more interesting.

The waiter disappears with their order and Harry can feel the tangible gaze settle on himself, “I do hope you’ve no allergies. I’d hate to accidentally kill you on our first date.”

The flush that colors Harry’s neck feels like a second nature when he’s around Tom.

“First date? That’s a bit much for this, isn’t it?”, he’s still stubbornly turned towards the window.

From the corner of his eye he sees Tom flounder, “What else would you call me inviting you out for dinner and you accepting?”

Harry huffs at him, “I don’t know it just seems a bit crowded with all your adoring fans. Aren’t dates supposed to be more private?”

He can hear Tom’s teeth click against each other as his mouth snaps shut.

“You know, you’re absolutely right, Harry.”

Harry is shocked into finally meeting the other man’s eyes, “I am?”

“Yes, of course, I want you to feel like the priority that you are to me tonight.” Tom waves over a passing waitress, “without anyone else intruding.”

He has the waitress lean down so he can whisper in her ear which does nothing to help Harry’s mood about the whole thing.

But the expression on the woman’s face as she speed-walks away makes his stomach drop in a different way.

“What did you just tell her?” he hisses at Tom who shrugs uncharacteristically.

His worst fears are answered when, like a choreographed event, the staff of uniformed waiters disperse and approach every occupied table on their side of the restaurant. Harry is speechless when the people sitting at those tables actually get up and either leave the building or are gracefully relocated away from them. Some of them even nod deferentially in Tom’s direction and Harry can’t help but wonder what they could have possibly been told to move with such speed and alacrity.

He slumps forward and hides his face in his hands as the last of the surrounding tables clear out. Tom must have a thing for causing public humiliation because he keeps making Harry suffer it.

He’s startled from his embarrassment by cold fingers tugging at his chin. Following their pull, he lifts his head towards the man now leaning across the table to reach him.

“Don’t hide yourself, Harry.”

He feels like Tom is trying to tell him something. Unspoken but spelled out clearly in his eyes.

Harry tries to pull his head back but is stopped by the grip on his chin which tightens before relenting. He blinks to himself as he regains his bearings.

“I hope I never encounter one of the staff after this.”

“You shouldn’t be thinking so hard about what other people think when you’re out with me,” Tom chides, “and those people were happy enough to move.”

“About that, I still don’t know exactly who you are.” Harry says accusingly. He’s been out with this man all evening and no one has told him why Tom Riddle is famous. Tom had been clearly surprised that Harry didn’t recognize him but surely he couldn’t be the only wizard in England who doesn’t frequent the tabloids.

Tom seems to consider his answer for a moment, odd when the man exudes the impression that he has a solution for every question. “The only reputation of mine that matters is whichever you hold to after tonight.”

Harry snorts inelegantly, “So you’ve changed your mind? You were so put out that I didn’t recognize you and now you don’t care?”

“Yes, actually,” he responds sincerely, “It only benefits me if you form your own idea of me rather than being influenced by someone else’s.”

Ha, “benefits” him. Every other thing this guy says makes Harry worried he’ll be bowing to the next Dark Lord before the night’s over.

“That’s understandable,” Harry agrees, “But I don’t think anything anyone says could top the word of an orphanage full of children singing your praises.”

Toms laughs, a breathy sound accompanied by his eyes glinting in amusement.

“So was that your only altruistic endeavor or does everyone know your name because you’re a philanthropist?” Harry questions.

“I would say I do more than my fair share in improving wizard society,” Tom says, “however, I will admit the orphanage is the only one I commit any significant personal time to.”

It seems they had something in common then.

“Ah, I’m so sorry.” Harry winces, “I don’t mean to bring up anything bad.”

“It’s fine,” Tom brushes him off, “I’ve long put the circumstances of my childhood behind me.”

“The circumstances, maybe, but I can speak from experience that that kind of loss can hurt in more ways than one.” Harry meets his eyes, “I’m glad you’re looking after them, and I could tell they look up to you.”

“I kind of like this pedestal you’ve put me on.” Tom nods in satisfaction.

“It’s not completely like that,” Harry laughs, “but I can say that you’re not the treacle-demon in disguise I thought you were.”

“I’m glad to have your high opinion of me as ‘better than a demon’.” Tom’s tone is dry but Harry can see his preening within.

“I don’t see why you’re so concerned about how I think of you. And you certainly don’t seem like the type to care what people think, especially seeing as they all think you could do no wrong.” he says wryly.

Tom only smirks, “Yes, I’m not the type at all.”

_______

The food is delicious, it’s too separated from everyday fare for Harry to correctly identify but Tom seems to have nailed what kind of flavors he’d like. The portions are smaller than he’d get at Three Broomsticks but after Tom reassures Harry enough times that he can order as much as he wants, he does exactly that. He manages to fit in three different entrees before they call the waiter to decide on dessert.

It was a bit awkward initially, when the second plate came around and Tom was only halfway through his first. But the taller man insisted Harry eat his fill and practically threatened him into finishing each dish.

If the dark eyes that follow the path of his fork between his lips motivates him into the third plate, only Harry needs to know.

The chef herself comes out briefly to deliver them their dessert, a small bowl filled with a glowing rice pudding adorned with delicate orange shavings and almond slivers. Harry thinks Tom was lying to him when he said they didn’t serve treacle tart there but trusting the man with his taste buds has worked out for him well so far.

It’s only after she leaves that Harry realizes she’s only brought them one bowl. Tom wouldn’t- would he?

“Um, she’s only brought us one, we should probably call her back.” Harry swears the skin of his ear must be blistering from the heat of his blood rushing to them.

Tom’s knowing and anticipatory expression doesn’t help him a bit. Harry sees the man reach forward and push two tiny silver spoons to reveal themselves from their hiding spot behind the bowl.

“Don’t be silly,” he says teasingly, “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself trying to eat a whole serving by yourself after the meal we’ve had.”

Harry yields ought to give up on trying to avoid going wherever this man would pull him.

He reaches out to grab a spoon but a cool hand stops him, “would you indulge me something, Harry?”

“Like what?” he responds with genuine curiosity.

The larger hand squeezes his and Tom leans forward over where they’re entwined.

“Let me treat you,” he speaks lowly as if disclosing a secret. It’s only when long fingers slip beneath Harry’s palm and grasp the spoon he was reaching for that his meaning clicks into place.

Tom must see something in Harry’s expression because he quickly adjusts, “-only for the first bite. If you’d let me.”

Harry had been on dates before and he had a track record for being the victim of horrible cheesiness from his partner. Cedric had said that it was nice to spoil someone who was genuinely affected by it and Ginny had attributed it to the “endearing helplessness” of his reaction. But both of them had done it out of some amount of irony. Tom looks deadly serious, if not the tiniest, most imperceptible bit shy, about his request.

He nods his allowance, too dazed to speak, and squashes down any girlishly squealing thoughts.

Tom’s hand escapes his and gently dips to take a spoonful of the desert that he smoothly raises to Harry’s lips which have decided they have never known a drop of moisture. He nervously licks them before accepting the man’s offering.

Red irises are latched onto the movements of his mouth across the spoon and Harry can see them flicker down to glimpse the bob of his throat when he swallows. He doesn’t look away until he’s reseated across the table.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Tom says, pleased. Harry can’t answer because he’s too enthralled by the sight of the spoon Tom is sucking exaggeratedly into his own mouth, his cheeks hollowing. The same spoon he’d just used to feed Harry.

The man carries on, beginning to eat the rest of the sweet rice as if he hadn’t done a thing. Harry struggles with himself before taking up the remaining spoon in a shaky hand.

_____

When they finish, they linger in the lobby as they put on their coats.

“Thank you for dinner,” Harry remarks, “I don’t know how good of a compensation my company is but I’m glad to have had the chance to get to know you beyond our first meeting.”

Tom reaches out and tugs the lapels of his jacket together, the zipper easily closing the distance when he pulls it another few inches higher than Harry had had it.

“Please, our time tonight was worth another seven treacle tarts, at least.” he teases and Harry's eyes roll accordingly.
Black gloves slide up his chest and grip the collar of Harry’s jacket. The amusement falls from his face when Tom’s scorching gaze draws his attention. He’s powerless to stop their locking eyes.

“Let’s not end it yet, Harry,” Tom implores, “indulge me once more.”

A leather-clothed thumb drags across his parted lips and, oh, Merlin, Harry is so tempted.

“I… I won’t be a luxury you treat yourself to for a night, Tom,” Harry attempts to extract himself from the tall man but strong arms shift to wrap around his back, holding him even closer.

“Then don’t let it be just for tonight.”, Harry is about to tell him that they’re both too old for those kinds of games, “You intrigue me, Harry. Let me see you tonight, and if you truly want nothing more to do with me, you’ll never see me again.”

He knows it’s probably a bad idea but, “How do I know you won’t want anything more to do with me by tomorrow?”

It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is but the smug look that comes over Tom’s face sends tingles down Harry’s spine.

“I can assure you my interest has less to do with your bedroom skills and more with your personality. And,” he grins suggestively, “I’m talented enough for the both of us in that department, if you were worried.”

Harry can already hear the grilling he’s going to get from Hermione tomorrow about following strangers across the country and then sleeping with them but it gets lost in the crack of their apparition.

______

Tom’s house is a lot less office-y than Harry was imagining. He had visualized a massive, brood-worthy study and a bare bones bed with silk sheets. No kitchen, Tom is too superior to cook in his own flat.

The actual place seems to have been designed as a refuge from such stresses. Vast rugs and expensive looking artworks decorate what he catches a glimpse of. Harry swears he even saw a living plant somewhere.

In the end, he doesn’t get to see much before he’s led by the hand up to the master bedroom,Tom giving him all the time in the world to say otherwise. The man holds his eyes as he slides his heavy cloak from his shoulders and hangs it over a nearby loveseat.

Harry toes his trainers to the side and shrugs off his jacket, tidiness the least of his priorities right now. He steps into the taller man’s space, wanting to be consumed into his shadow

When their lips finally meet, that wish comes true. Tom’s mouth presses firm yet chaste at first, then he’s prying Harry’s mouth open with his own. Gentle caresses trace against his cheek and encourage his parted lips.

The flesh of their tongues are tingling hot compared to the cold air that had bit at their cheeks. Harry feels more than hears the faint sounds of pleasure they pull from each other that are punctuated by the indecent symphony of their kisses.

Their fingers tangle together when they reach to pull at the hem of Harry’s shirt which breaks their contact before being haphazardly thrown off. Tom’s fingers drag hungrily over the newly exposed skin. Fleeting friction across a pebbling nipple causes Harry’s abdomen to clench in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed by the man.

Tom pulls away from him to tug him eagerly to the dark green bed that dominates the room. Harry was right about one thing, it’s definitely silk sheets that he feels beneath him when he’s pushed onto his back.

The difference in their size is embarrassingly notable now, the larger man moves so he’s kneeling above Harry who is feeling like a mouse between the paws of a lion. Tom is just so much broader and taller than Harry. He reaches a hand up and slips it beneath the man’s untucked shirt. He breathes shakily at the feel of the warm, lean body.

He has to drop his hand as Tom leans down over him, his lips meeting Harry’s beating pulse in an open kiss that curls his toes.

“You taste delicious,” Tom praises, “I’m going to make you feel so good.”

Harry blushes and nods, he reaches out to tug at the buttons of Tom’s shirt but is stopped.
Tom takes his wrists and pins them to his sides.

“Don’t move.” he threatens.

The man moves further down Harry’s body until he’s level with the erection straining shamelessly against the front of his jeans. Even the vibration of the zipper as it’s pulled down makes his member twitch within.

Tom pulls his jeans down only until they’re beneath his hips, limiting the spread of his legs. Steady hands tuck the waistband of his briefs under his balls. Harry groans at the slight pressure and then in anticipation as the other man blows a teasing breeze on his revealed cock, “Hm, you’re so much more agreeable like this.”

Harry leans up on his elbows to glare at the man, “you better get on with it before I become disagreeable.”

Tom chuckles at him but listens to his demand. He takes the head of his cock into the warm cavern of his mouth, a hand gripping the base. Harry moans at the feeling of a tongue licking firmly around his glans and flicking at the sensitive underside.

He forgoes torturing the spit-slicked head to lick long strokes from base to tip while stroking and tugging at his hardness. By the time he’s swallowing him back down, Harry is panting with need.

It gets very difficult to keep his hands where they’re clenched in the sheets when he feels the back of Tom’s throat roll wetly against him.

“Oh god,” Harry groans. Tom has taken him deep into his throat and is moving lewdly up and down Harry’s length. The sight of the spit and precum that glazes the man’s lips makes Harry’s balls tighten where they’re being squeezed by the band of his briefs.

“I’m close, I’m close,” he begs off and at first he’s unsure Tom won’t keep going but he does spare him, detaching with a slurping noise that nearly brings the blood back to Harry’s head.

How he manages to still look smug and prideful while his lips are swollen and sloppy from sucking Harry down is beyond him. It might have something to do with how clothed the man still is.

Harry eagerly starts at the buttons of his shirt, without being stopped this time, needing to see Tom in his bare glory.

Tom stands and lets Harry, kneeling on the end of the bed, push his shirt from his shoulders. He follows behind his hands with meandering trails of kisses and nips of teeth that make large palms tighten around their place on his hips. Harry’s teeth tug playfully at a pink nipple and he moans when he gets his hair pulled in revenge.

He lets his hands wander down to the clothed erection, he’s quick to unlatch the belt and free Tom from his trousers. The prize he finds there elicits a whimper of appreciation at the substantial size. Tom’s penis is more girthy than long but it is definitely proportional to the rest of his large form. In the back of his mind, Harry hopes that his limp won’t be as bad as he thinks it’s going to be come morning.

He strokes the hardness in his hands, noting that his thumb and forefinger don’t touch when he encircles it, and revels in the pleasured sounds he wrings from the man. The flushed tip weeps clear fluid that smooths his grip.

Tom leans down to kiss him sweetly and moans between their lips as Harry’s grip tightens.

“I want you inside of me,” Harry breathes.

Tom’s aroused groan and the twitching in Harry’s hands answer exactly how the man feels about that.

“Lay down,” he commands.

Harry lays back down on the bed. Looking at Tom, his ego takes minor offense that even rumpled and stripping the man appears the spitting image of composure.

He slips his hands beneath his knees and pulls them towards his chest, exposing his most private area to Tom’s piercing gaze, “Make me ready for you.”

The blush that burns his neck is worth seeing the predatory flash of teeth and hearing the tight inhale Tom makes when he sees Harry offer himself so immodestly.

The larger man kneels, now naked, in front of Harry and lays kisses down the expanse of his lofted thighs. Harry squirms as his mouth dances around his hole.

“Anything,” Tom promises darkly and places his first licks across Harry’s quivering opening. His tongue switching between teasing brushes and pointed prods against the sphincter. Harry is helpless to stop the outpouring of whimpers and moans that leak from his panting mouth, still worked up from the blowjob.

Tom lets up to spit inelegantly on his hole before working a finger into the loosened anus. He barely gives Harry a second to clench around it before the second is pushing its way beside the first.

“Relax,” He soothes, watching intently at Harry’s changing expressions, ”You open so well for me.”

“Fuck!” Harry cries out when the long digits push directly on his prostate. His cock makes an impressive jump and he knows he’s not going to be able to last.

Tom is fingering him enthusiastically now, Harry sobs as he makes unerring swirls around his prostate. The friction of his knuckles working in and out of his stretched hole cause Harry’s hips to jerk up in an effort to fuck back on his hand.

His knees draw impossibly closer to his chest as he tenses up in his orgasm. The fingers in his ass don’t stop while Harry moans loudly and his cock spurts messy, white spend over his stomach.

Tom finally lets him recover his breath after he’s sure he’s milked Harry’s orgasm for its worth, his fingers sliding free from him.

He takes Harry’s hands away from their grip behind his knees and his legs fall to the sides of his hips. Tom leans down on an elbow to kiss Harry in a way that sends as many shivers down his spine as his climax did. They pull apart and Tom rests their forehead together, “So beautiful.”

Harry pulls him by the hair into another kiss.

He feels the other man hike a thigh up his hip and the blunt press of the head of his cock at his hole. Looking down between them, Harry is just about humiliated by the stark difference in their sizes. Tom’s hardness appears to literally dwarf his when they’re near. They both watch as that thick length pushes at his opening, meeting little resistance before the head slips within.

Harry’s mouth is caught open in a silent moan at the feeling of his hole stretching around the girth of the larger man. His hands scratch red lines on those broad shoulders. Tom groans into his collarbone and pushes in until he bottoms out, petting Harry’s hips to gentle his overstimulated squirms.

When their pelvis meet with a slapping of skin on skin, Harry wordlessly cries out and tries to focus on relaxing himself enough. Tom is pressed close to his chest so as he starts to thrust into him, Harry’s still hard cock is ground between their stomachs.

He keeps a steady pace that Harry is thankful for as it allows him to avoid experiencing a too uncomfortable barrage of overstimulation. Instead they rock pleasurably, their breathing in a miraculous sync. He bites his lip at the drag of Tom’s cock against his sensitive inner walls.

Tom’s teeth pull his lip free from his own, freeing his sounds to the air between them, he kisses the imprint left on his pink bottom lip. Their eyes lock and Harry is breathless from the depths the blood-red irises draw him to. Why does this man make Harry feel this way? Why can’t he get enough of him?

They seem unable to look away from one another now.

“Mmnh, more,” Harry pleads, “more.”

Tom nods breathlessly, their lips brushing together. His hips pick up pace and Harry matches him at it. The thick cock pressing into him in a way that was so good, so right.

“Yes, yes,” he cries, back arching up to better meet the pounding of Tom’s hips, “yes, Tom!”

“Harry,” the man above him moans his name in pleasure and breaks their eyes to kiss him again. The vigorous thrusting turns it into a harsh shared panting between open mouths.

Harry feels the melty stirring in his gut of a growing orgasm that urges him to push harder back onto the penetrating length. Tom seems to hear this in the pitch of his sounds and changes his position so he has one arm tucked beneath Harry’s knee, opening him wider to his impassioned fucking.

“Oh, god, I’m going to come, ” Harry whimpers, “Tom, I’m going to come”

The new angle drags wonderfully against that spot within him that makes the battered muscles of his anus pitifully clenching around the other man’s cock.

“Come for me, Harry,” Tom pants, “so good for me, you can come.”

Harry gives a shout as he ejaculates hard, painting his and Tom’s chests and stomach with his cum and adding to the previous mess. The now brutal pumping of Tom’s cock stuttering his orgasmic moans.

Tom had apparently been holding out for him as it’s not long before he comes as well. The man pants into the crook of Harry’s neck and his hips slow to a fierce grind that pulls the breath from them both. He pulls Harry down hard onto his cock before he feels the slight telltale warmth deep within himself, Tom’s load marking him in a way his nipping teeth and bruising fingers can’t.

They lay together, breaths evening out.

Even if they never spoke again after tonight, Harry is sure Tom Riddle would remain in his mind for a long time. But he doesn’t want them to never speak again. He wants to talk to him tomorrow morning, and maybe even the morning after that too.

Tom slips gently from him but runs two fingers over his puffy, wet hole which sends shivers through Harry’s legs. The man chuckles and gets an indignant glance from him in return.

The man reaches across the bed to retrieve his wand with a wordless accio from where they dropped their clothes. He cleans the mess that was slowly drying onto their skin and the stains in the sheets disappear like they never happened.

Harry is startled when two pairs of nightclothes fly towards them out of the nearby dresser. The fabric is a luxurious black pinstripe.

“I suppose this is another one of those perks of wealth you spoke of?” he raises an eyebrow at the man dressing himself.

Tom raises his chin haughtily, “You tease as if you think I would spend money on something not worth the extra galleon or two. That tart was amazing quality, no?”

“The tart was delicious,” Harry nods in assent, he then pales, “maybe it’s best that you don’t tell me how much it cost though.”
Tom laughs heartily as he slides beneath the sheets, flipping one end open for Harry, “I wasn’t going to but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Harry only buttons the pajama top up halfway before jumping in after Tom. He sidles close to the larger man but is unsure where they might stand on cuddling. Thankfully, Tom smirks and readily tugs him into his chest. He uses the closed distance to run his fingers through Harry’s dark bird’s nest that has been exacerbated by their activities.

His eyelids flutter in pleasure, relaxed by the gentle touch and the decline from sex. It’s been years since he slept pressed against someone that wasn’t Ron when they both passed out smelling of firewhiskey. It was nice to be held. Tom’s surrounding scent, though largely unfamiliar, felt similar to when he’d smelled the amortentia in potions class: something he never could have imagined himself but when scented, was exactly what he would have wanted to.

As sleep laps at the shores of his mind, Harry turns his head up to Tom, this strange whirlwind of a man, “Could this… be real for you?”

Auburn twin flames flicker across his eyes, searching.

“I think it could.”