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Chapter Text

The trick to being Tom Riddle's assistant is knowing every detail like the back of your hand. Better, even: Harry knows what coffee to fetch, and when, without having to be told, because he knows Riddle's wants and needs more intimately than he knows his own. This ranges from the practical, accessible sort of knowledge -- Riddle's color palette, the organization styles he uses for his desk, files, and bookshelves (all different, optimized for different things) -- to the more abstract: there is, for example, a list of words the man hates to hear, which Harry has steadfastly avoided ever saying even out of Riddle's presence.

The devil was in the details, frankly, and there was never going to be much contest between Harry Evans and any of Riddle's previous assistants anyways -- because Harry had twenty years of experience on the new hires that had churned the ranks before him.

Unexpected perks, he supposed, of being a narcissist's son.

Not that Riddle knew, of course. 'Evans' was just a stranger off the street, one he'd hired on the spot after ripping his old PA a new one in the middle of the coffee line. And as the (in)famous CEO so often observed, Harry Evans was "everything I'd wanted my son to be -- if he hadn't..."

(...hadn't done this, hadn't made that choice, hadn't said that, and Harry smiled politely behind the mask of 'perfect assistant' because he'd heard this whole song and dance before and was now immune to it.)

Harry Evans didn't make the simple mistakes, because Hadrian Riddle already had, and his alter ego had already learned from them. He knew just how to deal with every one of Riddle's mercurial moods and strange demands...

Well. Until now.

It was New Year's Eve, and that meant the board of executives was bringing their boss (their colleague, their friend, ha, Harry delighted in knowing the way Riddle talked shit about them all behind their backs) out to one of the most exclusive gentlemen's clubs in the world for their annual 'informal' board meeting. Morsmordre, was the name of the club; and Harry had heard several of his father's rare compliments directed toward the place in recent years, even given the company he kept while visiting it.

Speaking of keeping company.

"You know what," the man had decided on a whim just an hour ago, "I think you'll be around long enough to appreciate Morsmordre, Evans. Find something better to wear and come along."

Showing none of the flicker of happiness that tickled him at the subtle praise, Harry had promptly Apparated back to his flat to get ready. He'd showered and shaved and adjusted his hair with his scarce Metamorphmagic to get it to lie in the suave wave Hadrian never managed; he'd coordinated his very best suit down to the scent he was wearing, and returned to the office minutes before Riddle did. The man's glance, smirk, and approving half-nod, when he appeared, had warmed Harry like the sun; and he'd basked in the praise all the way to the club.

The problems started not long after they arrived.

Twelve men, Riddle, and Harry sat in the front section of Morsmordre, less than five feet from the dancers' platform, arranged around three large booths with tables. Riddle, on arriving, had gestured to Harry to sit at his left, the better to mutter insults about the 'inner circle' under his breath and make Harry order his drinks. That was not one of the problems.

The dancers for the night were a troupe of part-Veela on tour from the Continent, male and female and otherwise. That was not one of the problems, either. (Harry had immunized himself against Veela after Hadrian got an earful about 'losing his dignity in public' at the '94 World Cup.)

No, the problems were five in number. Five immaculate fingertips, to be precise, resting lightly on Harry's shoulder and sliding slowly down his arm.

Riddle had laid an arm carelessly around Harry's shoulders on his second drink, and was playing with the fabric of Harry's shirtsleeve while he sipped at his drink (he was now on the third) and watched the Veela dance.

Harry's mouth had gone dry the minute he'd realized what was happening. He carefully modulated his response to the continued stroking of his arm by that hand, taking calculated sips of his virgin martini and willing his hands not to shake. Hadrian was the one who got teased for being high-strung. Harry wouldn't give away any sign of how uncomfortable this made him.

He could, however, moderate the man's intake, if he was inclined to drink at this pace all night. Harry eyed the empty glasses in front of his boss (his father, his brain reminded him unhelpfully). "Sir," he asked, "would you like a refreshment course?"

"Hmm..." Riddle rolled his shoulders, and crossed one leg over the other, so that the heel of his shiny black shoe was less than an inch from Harry's knee. "You know, Evans, I think I would." Harry waved a server over to place the order -- strawberry and blood-orange agua fresca, and the lamb skewers, easy on the garlic. (He'd already looked at the menu and picked out what Riddle would like best.)

As the woman set off with his order, Riddle's thumb rubbed circle's into Harry's shoulder. "Smart boy," he sighed, sounding very pleased. "I'd have regretted leaving you behind, I think."

Harry sipped at his martini in lieu of answering.

The dancers' group routine rounded down to an end just as the server brought the food and drinks for the table. Riddle took a long drink of the agua fresca, humming approvingly at the taste; he set down an empty glass, then reached for a skewer, snagging the first section in his neat white teeth and tearing it off the bit of wood with relish. Harry passed him a napkin before he had to ask; thankfully, Riddle had to stop touching him in order to take it, wiping delicately at the corners of his mouth.

Harry breathed a mental sigh of relief, but it didn't last long. "Give this a try, Evans," his boss said, and held up the skewer to Harry's mouth.

Peripherally, he was aware of the questioning stares from everyone else at the table. But Harry had learned not to care what Riddle's colleagues thought of him. Hadrian had already shown weakness in shrinking beneath their gazes, once.

He leaned forward a little, tugging a mouthful off the skewer, and took his time savoring it. If he glanced up at Riddle through his eyelashes while he did, it was just watching for any change in his expression to indicate he'd done something wrong. "It's quite good, sir," Harry said when he'd swallowed the morsel, licking his lips.

"Isn't it?" the older man agreed. "Here."

And he wiped Harry's mouth with the same napkin he'd used for himself, just as delicately.

The spots of red that bloomed high on Harry's cheeks were just surprise, he told himself; surprise and the extra kick of spice in the lamb marinade. He drew on Occlumentic exercises to slow his racing pulse.

Harry hardly registered the return of Riddle's hand to his shoulder, when the napkin had been set aside. Riddle uncrossed his legs, splaying out on the leather seat, and sipped at the remainder of his drink while Harry ordered him another. The dancers, having fanned out from the stage, were making the rounds for individual dances now; the Lestrange brothers were waving over three of the men to their table, holding up hundred-Galleon chips that glinted in the low lighting.

Oh Merlin, did they really have to... yup. The dancers were coming over. Harry wished he could appreciate their beauty, but this wasn't the time. "Good evening, gentlemen," purred one Veela with a lascivious expression and a rich accent. "We hope you are enjoying the show..?"

"Simply marvelous," Riddle purred back, and the man who'd spoken actually bit his lip, looking him up and down. Sweet Salazar, Harry thought, borrowing one of his father's favorite phrases, he's flirting back, someone save me from this hell.

The other two men were beginning lap dances for the Lestranges. Harry resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably when the third dancer looked him over, gaze landing on his shoulder, where Riddle was thumbing circles into the fabric of his shirt again. Thankfully, the Veela focused his attentions on his boss instead. "Could I interest you in a dance, Mr...?"

"Riddle," Harry's father smirked. "Tom Riddle. And by all means...entertain me."

The next glass of Dark Mark (a blend of reserve Maker's Mark whisky and magically enhanced aromatics, Morsmordre's signature cocktail) made its way to Riddle' hand with a quick bit of wandless levitation on Harry's part, so as to avoid bumping into the dancer's lithe body while he worked in Riddle's lap.

If Harry had held out some hope of Riddle being distracted by the dancer, that hope died a quick death. The man had spread his legs a little more, to accommodate the motion of the Veela's hips, and in doing so was pressing his knee and thigh flush with Harry's.

It could have remained weird-but-innocuous were it not for the way Riddle leaned to the side and took a deep breath of Harry's cologne, a moment after, sniffing at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. "Don't you smell good," he purred in Harry's ear, a hundred times as flirtatiously as the playful banter with the Veela, before sitting back up and sipping his drink as if he hadn't said anything at all.

His leg was still against Harry's, though, warm and firm through the fabric of Harry's trousers. And... rubbing up and down just a little, in time with the slow slide of his fingers now returned to Harry's sleeve.

The club's music was just loud enough to cover the thumping beat of Harry's heart, he hoped. He set his martini down and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt; was it hot in here, or was it just him? Had they put a little alcohol in his martini, by mistake?

The fingers toying with his sleeve slid further down past his elbow to worry at a bit of the rolled-up cuff, and Harry couldn't hold back a telltale flinch when Riddle's breath fanned out against his ear, this time. "Flustered, Harry?"

"Sir --?" Oh Salazar, his voice was betraying him. Harry Evans wasn't supposed to sound this breathy.

The hand gently encircled Harry's arm and lifted it up to the back of the seat, so Riddle's fingers could glide over the warming skin of his left forearm, tease feather-light over the bumps of his wrist, and draw little circles in his upturned palm. The touches were sending shivers up his shoulder and down his spine, raising the little hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. "Isn't this a treat," Riddle murmured, leaning in closer. He brought his mouth up very close to Harry's ear and... licked his lips.

Harry's breath hitched, and he knew he was flushing down his neck and chest now.

"That's right," his boss -- his father, Merlin help him -- sighed against his earlobe. "Just like that, Harry..." He interlaced his fingers with Harry's for just a moment, squeezing his hand, and let go, sliding up his arm again to rest back on his shoulder.

For the first time in several years, Harry found himself genuinely afraid of Tom Riddle. He had no way of knowing just how much of that fear showed in his eyes now, as the man took another sip of his drink. Harry didn't attempt to reach for his martini again; he left his hand on the table instead, not trusting it to be steady if he lifted it, and resisted the urge to thumb idly at the stem of the glass. He wished he could drink, though. His throat was as dry as the desert.

"When did you start working for me, Harry?" Riddle asked, languidly casual.

"March fourteenth, s-sir," Harry answered, cringing inwardly at the stammer.

"Mm... is that so..." the man considered, as if he didn't already know. "And in all this time, Harry, never have I heard you lose composure... until today."

Harry made a futile attempt to swallow around the growing lump in his throat. He braced himself for a round of being bullied over it, but was then reminded that Riddle didn't see Harry Evans as his son.

"My perfect assistant," Riddle went on with a sigh, "so flawless. So poised. So together." His breath raised goosebumps on the side of Harry's neck. "I find myself driven to distraction with the urge to see you... shaken. Trembling. Yes... flustered." The last word nearly a hiss, so breathily did it leave the man's lips.

"Sir," Harry rasped, "please --" please stop talking, please let me go --

Riddle's breath hitched. "Oh, Harry." His hand lifted from Harry's shoulder, instead snaking around his waist. "You absolutely maddening little tease."

A large portion of Harry's inner monologue was currently screaming. All of him that was Hadrian Riddle was telling him to pull away and flee, and never show this face in public again. He could do it, he knew he could. This was wrong this was awful this was utterly terrifying --

But he did not move. Harry Evans clung to his composure with all the grace that Hadrian Riddle's comportment and etiquette tutors had failed to impart in him over the years. Harry Evans kept his body as relaxed as it could be in this situation, and let Tom Riddle praise him in this sick, sick way.

Because Harry Evans would do anything for Riddle's approval, and only now was he realizing just how far he was prepared to go.

Absently, Harry drew out two hundred-galleon chips from his pocket and set them on the table in front of the dancer. Riddle followed the motion with his gaze, hand sliding down Harry's side to brush over his thigh. The Veela took the hint and finished a few more gyrations before standing up and sauntering off to the next person; and the minute his lap was free, Riddle gave a subtle nod toward the open space between his legs.

Harry bit his lip, and let the man's hand guide him over.

"Even now," Riddle groaned softly, sliding his arm tighter around Harry's waist to pull him up against his back, "you handle yourself with such grace, my Harry." Soft lips brushed against Harry's earlobe, and he shivered, feeling Riddle's fingers dig into his side at the tremble. "Lie back against me."

Harry let out a breath as he sagged back against Riddle' broad chest, leaning his head back on his shoulder. He was... enjoying this, now that he'd pushed aside the part of him that was nauseated with horror. (In fact: he'd compartmentalized that bit into the smallest mental corner he could imagine, and sealed it there with the Occlumentic equivalent of prison wards.) Riddle had set down his drink; both his hands were wandering up and down Harry's sides, the man entirely uncaring of what anyone else might think of his behavior, as always. Harry supposed 'Hadrian Riddle' might have had something to say about that, but right now there was only him, and he turned his head a bit to stifle a whimper against Riddle's neck.

"S-ir --" he gasped, tensing like a bowstring at the sudden grind of a solid weight in the small of his back. Riddle began to unbutton Harry's shirt, tracing lightly over the skin each button exposed with his perfectly manicured nails.

"Yesss," Riddle breathed. "Harry, my Harry. All dressed up just for me, aren't you? Even down to your scent.” The hand unbuttoning his shirt moved up to his neck, tracing the soft underside of Harry's jaw with his index finger and thumb. "Do you want me to have you, Harry? Do you?"

Harry bit his lip. He only hesitated for a second. "...I do."

The admission left him shivering, skin flushing hot all over; even hotter was the growl Riddle made against his ear, the sound redirecting Harry's blood straight for his groin. "Then I will," the man said, voice low. "I've waited so, so long."

He'd completely forgotten his surroundings, in the past ten minutes. Both of them had, really. The only thing that prevented Riddle from pushing Harry down onto the table, he suspected, was a desire for more space. The kind of space to be found in his bedchambers.

The rest of the Inner Circle watched, wide-eyed, as Tom Riddle Disapparated straight through the club's wards, his assistant in his arms.

"Rabs," croaked Rodolphus, "I don't think they'll be back."

Chapter Text

Harry Evans had been keyed into the wards of Riddle Manor for efficiency's sake months ago, so they did not delay either wizard in Apparating directly into the master bedroom, wrapped up in each other's arms. As soon as he'd gotten his footing, Harry found himself being pressed into the wall, caged in by the sculpted body he'd just been held against. He looked up at Riddle, who was several inches taller than him, and bit his lip, wanting very much to drop to his knees.

Before he could do it, though, Riddle had seized his mouth in a deep and hungry kiss, curling his fingers in Harry's hair and tugging his head back for better access. He tasted like whiskey; smelled like whiskey, too, even more than his cologne.

Harry felt the man groan into their kiss, and raised his hand to pull Riddle in closer, but then he realized -- he was sober, but Riddle was drunk. And that, he decided, was the line in the sand that he would not cross.

He slid his hands up to feel at Riddle's racing pulse and loosen his tie, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand while the other cupped the man's cheek with more affection than Harry had felt for him in a long time. With a nod, he guided them to the bed, and laid Riddle down, straddling him while he unfastened both of their belts. The groan Harry earned from Riddle when his knuckles brushed the man's erection through the fabric was, objectively, one of the most erotic things he had ever heard.

He leaned in closer, rutting against the bulge in Riddle' trousers, and tangled his fingers in the man's lush hair.

"Somnus," Harry breathed, directing the magic into Riddle's head through his fingers. Sober, Harry knew, Riddle would have resisted -- but it was obvious from the lack of reaction just how drunk Riddle was. Letting it go any further, no matter how pleasurable, would have been -- well.

This was the practicality that had endeared Assistant Evans to CEO Riddle in the first place, at work: he withdrew vials of Hangover Cure from his pocket, pouring one into Riddle's mouth and massaging his throat to ensure he swallowed it. The other he set on the nightstand, summoning a house-elf for a pitcher of water and a glass.

(Even the house-elves didn't recognize Harry; or if they did, they were remarkably astute at discretion.)

He moved Riddle to the side of the bed he preferred, arranging his head on a pillow and his body under the sheets. A neat bit of spellwork removed the rest of Riddle's clothes to a neat folded pile on the armchair on the opposite side of the room, shoes on the floor. Harry laid just one layer of sheets over him, so he wouldn't get too warm, and crossed the room to the closet, retrieving Riddle's morning robe and slippers.

When he'd returned to the bedside, his boss was sprawled out in true sleep. Harry smiled softly at him; Riddle was more likable unconscious, he thought.

He stepped out of the room and into the study next door, taking a slip of parchment and a fountain pen from the desk to leave a note. But what to say? 'Sorry for not going through with this but you were too drunk'? 'I liked everything up until the part where we're father and son'?

Ultimately, Harry settled on a polite, relatively warm note, signed in the elegant calligraphy Hadrian's tutors had never managed to teach him. (Harry had perfected several formal and informal hands, night and day compared to Hadrian's dreadful scrawl.) He returned to the bedroom to leave the note, then took his leave through the foyer downstairs like any guest did, returning to his flat.

Only then did he allow himself to scream.

Tom Marvolo Riddle opened his eyes to the warm, diffuse sunlight of midmorning on January first, 1999, as nude and comfortable as if he had gone to bed himself. But the taste of stale whiskey in his mouth told him he had not completed his evening routine, and a moment's recollection brought back the progression of the night in total clarity -- all up until the wandless Somnus Evans had used on him in this very bed.

He smacked his lips, tasting the remnant sweetness of the Hangover Cure in the back of his throat, and sat up, reaching for the water glass that was already waiting for him on the nightstand. A second vial of Cure sat beside it, and beside that, a note.

Thank you for the invitation out, sir. Have a pleasant New Year. Best, Evans.

Salazar, his assistant was slick. Tom sighed, running his hand through his hair, remembering how his assistant had done the same hours before. Evans would have been a Slytherin if he'd gone to Hogwarts, he just knew. Would have networked with his allies' sons and earned the top spot in every class. Tom was utterly certain of it. Evans was perfect.

It was agony knowing that he'd only dared to make a move with alcohol in his system, not because he regretted it, but because Evans had been too much of a gentleman to take advantage of him when he knew he was drunk.

His assistant had even laid out a silk robe and slippers for him against the chill of the room. Tom downed the second Hangover Cure, refilled and drained his water glass, and got up to take a long shower.

Harry Evans, the latest -- and, he hoped, last -- assistant in a long line of new hires and internal promotions, had kept his poise from the very first day. Had never slipped up. Had never gotten on Tom's nerves. He fit so neatly into Tom's routine that it had bothered him in a visceral way.

Tom stepped into the shower, leaning into the spray. He had begun to actively try and catch Evans wrong-footed three months ago, giving him more challenging assignments, things he shouldn't be capable of, things far outside his job description -- sending him to attend meetings in his stead and bring back concise reports. Tom's executives had remarked on it amongst themselves; had surely tried to get a rise out of Evans too, and nothing. Nothing worked.

Tom was the type of man who aimed for the impossible. When it began to seem impossible to rile Evans... Salazar help him, he had begun to want him. To fantasize about breaking the boy's composure with his hands, his mouth, with lewd words spoken in an undertone in public.

And last night, I managed it, Tom reminded himself. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the shower wall, and let the memory play out again under the cascade of hot water.

The minute he'd laid eyes on Evans last night, he'd known he wouldn't be able to resist escalating. Tom had bade him sit at his left, just so he could sling an arm around him, trace his fingers over the smooth silk of his shirt, so close to his skin -- warm from it, even -- and yet so far. It hadn't seemed to get a response, he'd thought. So he'd gotten bolder.

The way Evans had looked at him through his eyelashes, had licked his lips, had blushed when he'd wiped his mouth with the napkin... "It's quite good, sir." Merlin. Tom couldn't have resisted if he'd tried.

His hand, in the shower, had wandered lower, beginning a slow, leisurely wank as he remembered each moment in turn. Rubbing his leg with Evans' -- no discernible reaction from his assistant, but Tom had felt it. Smelling that maddeningly enticing cologne on Evans' skin -- that had done more, for both of them. Evans had unbuttoned his shirt; Tom's cock had twitched in his pants at the way Evans' skin warmed, tangible through his sleeve.

That -- that breathy voice, that 'sir', that flinch . "Oh," Tom gasped aloud, hips jerking at the memory.

He'd called him 'Harry', hadn't he? "Oh, Harry," Tom murmured, reprising his words from the night. "Isn't this a treat... that's right..." He was already so hard, and he'd barely begun to recall in detail.

He'd... spoken against Evans' neck, every breath filled with more of that cologne, and his lips had been so close to the boy's skin that he could feel the phantom heat of it on his face even now.

Sir, Evans -- Harry -- asked him in that ragged voice, please --

Tom's knees buckled as he came in his hand, long before he'd meant to. He groaned against the cool tiles of the shower wall and bemoaned the two days of holiday before the office opened again.

Worse, Tom thought, he would have to go to that restaurant in the evening for the twice-yearly dinner with his wayward son, Hadrian.

What Tom wouldn't give to replace Hadrian with Harry. Perhaps he could invite Evans along with him to the restaurant...?

Alas, that would probably not be worth Hadrian's complaints, much as Tom would like to do it anyway. He sighed.

At least, Tom supposed a few hours later, arriving outside the restaurant his son had chosen -- the Purple Elephant, the London branch of a successful Mediterranean eatery in Edinburgh -- the dinner would scarcely last an hour at most, considering how Hadrian tended to behave.

He arrived early; his son arrived precisely on time. They barely looked at each other until they'd been seated by the windows, and then, only spoke after Tom had put up privacy wards (not trusting his son with such complicated spellcasting). "Hadrian," Tom greeted politely. "You seem well."

His son glanced at him with polite disinterest in his eyes. "You too, father," he remarked, already resting his chin on his hand. "How's business been this year? Fire any more employees?"

"Only my previous assistant, which you would know if you'd shown up in July --" Tom paused, reining in the urge to lecture Hadrian in person when he had already told him off in a letter. He let out a steadying breath. "Thompson got on my last nerve in March. Honestly, he didn't know the difference between a mocha and a latte."

"Chocolate," Hadrian murmured, nodding lazily. He glanced over his menu. (Tom found it mildly aggravating that his son had never picked up the habit of checking menus ahead of time.) "So you replaced him?"

"I did," and Tom didn't know but his entire expression brightened at the change in subject. "The same day, in fact. Harry Evans, Hadrian -- I'd have you meet him if I thought you two had anything in common."

He told his son about Evans. Hadrian let him talk, for once, and they made their way through the appetizer and the soup without arguing once. It wasn't until midway through the main course that his son interrupted the retelling of Evans' recent meeting with the executives to observe, "You're calling him by his first name."

Tom blinked. "Am I?" he mused, taking a forkful of a bolognese that was actually quite adequate. Better than he'd expected from a restaurant his son had chosen.

"You are," Hadrian answered unnecessarily. Tom hated that. Answering his rhetorical questions. Hadrian should know not to do that by now; he'd told him a hundred times.

"Oh, right," Hadrian blinked at him, "rhetorical question. Sorry." He took a mouthful of his own food, a fish dish over long noodles. "It's just, you've never called any of your underlings by their first name before."

"I suppose none of them have ever measured up to par," Tom sighed. "He's never caught off guard, my Harry --"

"Your Harry, father?" Hadrian raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. "Bit possessive, aren't you?"

"Never interrupt me," Tom hissed, stabbing his fork through a clump of ragu and breaking the linguini underneath. "Are you jealous, Hadrian, is that what this is? That I've finally found a man I like and you haven't --"

Hadrian's eyes were wide with shock, as Tom cut himself off, reconsidering his words. "Oh my god, Dad," Hadrian snorted, using the Muggle expression and title Tom so disliked. "You have a crush on your assistant. I can't believe this."

"I do not have a crush," Tom scoffed, affronted. "In fact, I have reason to believe my interest is reciprocated."

Sir, please --

"Ooh, you think so?" Hadrian teased him in a singsong voice. "Go on, father, I'll be your gossip clique, tell me alllll about it." He set his cheek in his hand and beamed at Tom, bringing his fork up to his mouth.

"Neither of us is descending to low gossip," Tom refused, nose wrinkling. "But I suppose I have no reason not to talk about Harry if you will listen."

Oh Merlin, this was a nightmare.

Hadrian -- he was Hadrian at the moment, no forgetting -- picked at his (honestly not that great, he would have gotten the bolognese if he'd known) lobster spaghetti fra diavolo, and tried very hard not to react as his father talked about Harry Evans like he owned him.

Bad enough that he had even brought up the topic in the first place and listened through an extended play-by-play of all his achievements over the past year -- though it saved him from having to make up stories about what he'd been doing, allegedly abroad in France. He'd been trying to goad his father into getting mad and storming out like he usually did, and it had gotten him here instead.

Perhaps the worst of it was that Riddle wasn't pretending. He hadn't, say, found out who Harry was and just been playing along. There was no faking the way talking about 'his Harry' (oh Merlin, oh Salazar, no no no ) was making his father's expression light up.

He really was infatuated.

Harry was doomed.

Resigned, Hadrian listened mostly attentively while his father went on and on about his Harry, through the dessert and coffee course at the end. It was the first time in years that they'd finished a full meal without starting a fight. If only that peace didn't have to come at the price of watching Riddle's lovestruck expression.

Hadrian had drained his espresso by the time the server brought the cheque. Surreptitiously, he checked his watch. Merlin, they'd been here for three hours, and Riddle still didn't seem like he would run out of things to say any time soon.

"...so I invited him along to Morsmordre last night," Riddle was saying.

"The club you never go to except with your executives," Hadrian observed dryly. His quip went completely ignored.

"Ugh, exactly, it would have been a dreadful bore. My Harry was showstopping, Hadrian, he's always dressed well but this took the cake. Salazar, he even had the cologne I kept telling you about last year. If he was trying to seduce me it worked."

"Well, you'd told him to dress up."

Riddle sighed dramatically, stirring his empty cup. "I did, didn't I," he muttered, "and then I couldn't keep my hands off him."

"So did you come on to him or what?" Hadrian snarked, rolling his eyes.

Riddle put his hand over his brow, expression weary. (It was the campiest thing Hadrian had ever seen him do.) "I got him all the way to the bedroom," he admitted, "but I'd been drinking and he hadn't, and he had to be a gentleman instead of let me embarrass myself."

"More than you do already," Hadrian muttered under his breath, hoping Riddle would hear him and get mad, but apparently he was too absorbed in his own self-pity.

Louder, he tried again: "Are you sure he even likes you, then?"

Riddle glared at him. "I do know, yes." Spots of color had appeared on his cheeks. "And I think I've had enough of this conversation if you're going to try and sow doubt. I suppose you can find out what happens at dinner in July."

Finally, Hadrian thought. "All right, then," he said, and they both stood to leave.

Hopefully, by July he'd have this whole mess resolved somehow or other.

Or I'll be sleeping with him, came the intrusive thought.

Harry tried not to think about how that excited him.

Chapter Text

Among the few talents of Hadrian Riddle known to his father was an inherited aptitude for the mind arts: particularly Occlumency. Hadrian hadn't put in the effort to become a master Occlumens or Legilimens, naturally, despite his father's pestering -- but Harry Evans had.

So when he brought Riddle his morning coffee, the day the office opened, and apologized for his own behavior, Occlumency let him not only keep a straight face at his boss's shock, but sound entirely honest when he informed Riddle, expression solemn, that "it would have been unprofessional to take advantage of you, sir."

If he sounded like he regretted not taking advantage, well.

Harry made no mention of what had happened that night, after his apology. Internally, he smirked every time he caught Riddle's eyes on him, every lingering brush of their fingertips as he handed his boss coffee, lunch, documents, and so on. He'd never known Riddle to be so shy. It was actually quite cute...

Gradually, the touches grew bolder. A hand on his shoulder; fingers trailing over the back of his hand. Riddle tended to stand closer to Harry now, moreso on days when he wore the expensive cologne that had caught the man's interest on New Year's Eve.

The most entertaining consequence of that night, however, was the wary looks he was now getting from the executives who had witnessed them leaving Morsmordre. Harry hardly cared what they thought, of course, but he'd still held some expectation of being leered at, talked down to, or generally frowned upon. He'd thought their estimation of him would fall -- and it hadn't.

No, they were intimidated. Harry had to wonder just what was going through their heads, to think of him as the more intimidating compared to Riddle, but perhaps it was simpler -- perhaps, if he Legilimized them, Harry would hear, 'if we cross Evans, we cross Riddle.'

Watching his boss dress down an otherwise well-liked client who'd just stepped on Harry's shoe, late in January, he barely suppressed a dark grin.

But this was all during work hours. When Harry got home, when he was Hadrian again, he found himself taking long showers and struggling to reconcile what Harry Evans was doing with what Hadrian Riddle knew of right and wrong.

Because for all that his father had insisted there was no good or evil, Hadrian had been a Gryffindor -- he'd accepted the notion of a universal moral compass, partly out of spite at the time, and he'd never been conflicted over anything serious under its purview... until now.

It wouldn't have been wrong, per se, to lead Riddle on -- if he never planned on following through. If this were merely a petty revenge for the way the man tormented Hadrian. By Gryffindor standards, it was even a prank, and therefore above reproach.

But.

He'd heard the way Riddle spoke about 'his Harry'. The man had been possessive. Prideful. Praising. Hadrian had heard all about how Evans was everything Riddle wanted his son to be, and more. And the way he looked at Harry Evans, all the time, with affection more often than infatuation even now...

Hadrian shivered, not only because of the chill in the room. I'm fucked up, aren't I, he despaired, that I'd go this far to have him look at me with more than mere disdain.

Embrace it anyway, murmured Harry Evans in his ear, the metaphorical devil on his shoulder. If this is wrong, then revel in being wrong.

The worst part was that Hadrian wanted to listen to him.

Tom barely kept back a groan at the absolute vision that was his Harry departing his office, having brought in the mail or something, he hadn't been paying attention. Hurriedly, he pulled up the privacy wards on his office, and let out a stream of swears, leaning forward over his desk while he palmed himself through his trousers.

Evans had continued to style his hair the way he'd done for the club, in the weeks since; it was the only change in his appearance, the only outward indication Tom had gotten that his assistant reciprocated his interest, since the day the office opened again.

Salazar. He'd apologized to Tom, so genuine in his words -- all the while watching him through his lashes with burning desire in his gaze. And the looks he gave, in the days afterward! It was unthinkable that Tom would be the affected one, in any other circumstance, but the hunger in Harry's eyes whenever he caught Tom staring... "Fuck, Harry," he bit out, huffing a hot breath against the smooth wood of his desk.

And the change in their dynamic had even made its way to the half-formed imaginings going on behind Tom's eyes, in moments such as these. He had wanted to fluster his Harry, to tease and torment him until he begged. And he still did. But every once in a while, their roles would... shift.

Like in his current fantasy, in which Harry might return to his office, disregarding the privacy wards with a subtle-but-effective (Harry was always subtle but effective, when he wanted things) twist of his own magic to cross through without disturbing them.

He would know precisely what Tom was doing. "May I help you with that, sir?" Harry might ask, or perhaps he wouldn't ask at all, would simply take initiative the way he always did and -- "haah --" unbuckle Tom's belt to take him in hand, knowing Tom wanted it the way he knew he wanted anything else, that mysterious intuition that bordered on Legilimency.

Tom sat up, fumbling blindly at his trousers -- he'd closed his eyes, the better to imagine -- and threw his head back against the leather of his chair, gasping as his palm was slicked with clear fluid on the first stroke. The Evans of his imagination knew just how he liked it, too; stood behind his chair, reaching around to grasp Tom, the quiet huffs of humid air against Tom's ear in counterpoint to Tom's own increasingly-harsh breaths. He would bring him to the edge, again and again, for as long as Tom let him, until he decided Tom had had enough.

"Harry," Tom moaned around the fist he'd made with his free hand, arching his back. "Harry..." please --

Tom Marvolo Riddle did not beg.

He didn't. He didn't.

He -- "fuck, Harry, please," -- he did.

His fantasy dissolved into darkness as he came all over his stomach and chest, the day's suit utterly ruined in the most pleasurable of ways. Tom sagged back against his chair, gasping for air, and when he made to get up and Floo to his study in the manor, some time later, found himself more loose-limbed and sated than he'd been from this activity in years.

He had to do something about this. It was driving him mad.

"Harry." Harry looked up from his copy of the latest internal financial report; Riddle had approached his desk, for once.

"Sir?"

The man eyed the book-bound memo where it sat, half-read. He leaned forward on one hand over the desk, fingertips nearly brushing Harry's. "I see you are also suffering through the latest Lestrange report," he observed with a smirk, then looked up to meet Harry's eyes. "Would you like to discuss its contents over dinner?"

Ah, so he'd finally caved. Harry had been... well, not waiting for this, exactly... since the first week of the work year. They were currently quite alone in the sprawling office floor, it being a Friday evening and all; the better for Harry to keep the sight of Riddle half-bent over his desk to himself --

Erm. Anyways. This was obviously not only an invitation to dinner; anyone with half a brain could see that, even if they were blind to the faint flush high on Riddle's cheeks or the gleam of his dark red eyes. But Harry had wrestled down his Gryffindor side's objections to what he wanted weeks ago; so he offered Riddle a polite smile. "I would love to, sir. Where would you like to meet?"

"The Partridge and Pheasant, about half seven?"

Ah, the Partridge and Pheasant. Hadrian had been there, before. It was known for its private rooms. Harry's smile shifted to something rather less polite, and he lowered his voice to a purr, gazing up at Riddle through half-lidded eyes. "It's a date."

"Marvelous," Riddle breathed. Oh, he had it bad. Perhaps worse than Harry had expected. There was a spring in the man's step as he returned to his office to Floo home for the night, wards locking in place behind him.

Alone, Harry bookmarked the page he'd pretended he was on -- he had already read the report in full, this second read was so he could memorize Lestrange's bad analogies for later mockery -- and licked his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth, grinning far too widely. Oh, he couldn't wait.

Tom had heavily admired the sight of Harry Evans during New Year's Eve at Morsmordre. He was doing more than admiring now, in the waiting room of the Partridge and Pheasant. His assistant had dressed well for the club, certainly, but that had been -- narrowly -- a work function. This was not, and his Harry had known it: he was downright dripping in sin.

It was all Tom could do not to drool over him while they were escorted to the private balcony he had reserved for their dinner: a spot on the mezzanine offering an excellent view of the rest of the hall, if he could just tear his eyes away from Harry for a moment.

(He couldn't.)

There was just so much about his Harry that Tom adored, admired, desired; his appearance had been only a minor facet of that until now. But now -- the interplay of hundreds of low light sources set his assistant's complexion aglow with hints of gold that only brought out the vivid green of his eyes; shadows caught every curve of his face, every small quirk of his lips as their mockery of Lestrange's financial report continued. (Thank Merlin for Occlumentic parallel-thinking, or he'd have found himself at a complete loss for words. Any thoughts he might have had about how Hadrian ought to have mastered Occlumency to this level, though, went unheard in his distraction.)

He had so rarely gotten Harry alone like this, in the past months; there were always things to do, meetings to attend, other people Tom couldn't entirely ignore. The Partridge and Pheasant was one of Tom's favorite restaurants not only for the food and atmosphere, but because magic had taken the place of the servers who would otherwise interrupt them: the food simply arrived. Their two-person table was just the right size, too, for Tom to rest one hand palm-up, midway across the deep green tablecloth, while he rested his head on the other. "But I suppose I have bored us long enough with business discussion," he sighed, gazing unreservedly at Harry. "There are... so many other things we might talk about, to entertain ourselves."

And there it was -- Harry's expression shifted into the suggestive look that Tom had been dreaming of all week. "I assure you, sir, I could never get bored." He laid his hand in Tom's, lips curving up in a smirk.

Gently, Tom brought Harry's knuckles to his lips for a chaste kiss, albeit for much longer than was appropriate. "You flatter me, Harry," he purred. "I insist you call me Tom."

When the next course arrived, a moment later, Harry slipped his hand from Tom's hold, brushing his fingertips over his palm. "Are you coming on to me again, Tom?" he wondered. "Because if so..."

Harry brought the hand up to his mouth, and traced over the spot Tom had kissed with his tongue, baring a glint of teeth beneath his lascivious lips. "...I believe I may be less inclined to stop, this time."

Tom's heart skipped a beat.

Riddle's -- Tom's -- pupils were blown wide, deep red blooming high on his cheekbones. His mouth hung open just a little; the plush of his bottom lip looked perfectly bitable. "Oh," the man breathed, and Harry felt that sound low in his stomach, stirring up heat like nothing else had, lately.

Slowly, deliberately, he took one of the tiny figs from his plate and brought the morsel up to his lips, watching Tom watch him do it. "Are you enjoying dinner as much as I am, Tom?"

He bit down, letting the sweet juice trickle down his chin, mixing with balsamic glaze. Tom was blinking, dazed, as a droplet gathered and fell to the plate with a 'plink'. When the man spoke again, his voice had gone exactly as breathy and weak as Harry had hoped it would. "Very much so."

Slipping the other half of the fig in his mouth, Harry sucked juice off his fingers, making brazen eye contact with Tom for every swipe of his tongue. He hummed, pleased, at the flavor. "Ah... delicious. It would be cruel of me not to share."

And he picked up another fig, this one dripping in balsamic, and brought it across the table to Tom's lips.

The older man immediately engulfed the fruit with lips and teeth, up to the tips of Harry's fingers; his tongue darted out to lick up the juice left behind, each fingertip in turn. Harry knew his breath had hitched, from the matching response felt against his knuckles. He let his thumb linger on Tom's bottom lip a moment, smearing the last of the glaze against it, and watched the man's throat work as he swallowed. Oh, yes, Harry thought. Under his breath, just loud enough for Tom to hear: "Very nice."

He could sit here, playing this game, all night. Perhaps longer; the expressions Tom made were so very erotic.

And if being affected by this eroticism is evil, he thought, licking his lips, then evil I am, and evil I shall be.

"What do you think," Harry proposed, pressing Tom's lower lip down with the tip of his thumb, "of having dessert?"

Chapter Text

"What do you think.. of having dessert?"

Harry was- Harry was driving Tom mad, and he knew it. Salazar, he thought, dizzy with the force of his want, how can he even pretend there is a choice?

"If I may be so bold," he managed to say, tasting the remnants of the fig on his tongue and teeth, "as to propose we return to my chambers..?"

His Harry licked his lips with just the faintest smirk, and stood without a second glance to the remaining fig on his plate. "It would be an excellent place to.. take advantage," he suggested lowly, "in all manner of ways."

Heat diffused across Tom's face and neck, breath catching. He rounded the table in a single motion to take Harry's hand in his for their Disapparition, and his assistant caught the offered arm in a loose grip and brought it up to his mouth instead, planting a kiss on the inside of Tom's wrist. Surely, thought Tom, Harry could feel his racing pulse against his lips?

From the satisfied glint to the eyes that rose to meet his, he had.

"Delicious," Harry murmured against Tom's palm, releasing his grasp in the next moment so as to seize Tom in a tight embrace instead, bodies pressed flush together in a manner that made very clear just how Tom was affecting him, beyond the darkening of his green eyes and the slow, hungry smile spreading across his face. Harry's mouth was less than an inch from the side of Tom's neck, close enough for him to feel the heat of his breath against his jugular, the both of them frozen in this aching tableau.

Harry took a deliberate sniff of the cologne at Tom's collarbone, brushing the hollow of his throat with his nose. "Don't you smell nice," he purred in Tom's ear - and the return of the words Tom had said to him, in his memory of New Year's Eve, left Tom's knees weak.

Harry's arm tightened around Tom's waist, supporting him; the symmetry was not lost on either of them, and while his assistant may have managed to disguise his reaction to Tom's seduction earlier this night, Tom was too far gone to pretend Harry had managed anything less than make him harder than he'd ever been in his life.

The hand in the small of Tom's back twitched lower for just a moment; he only barely resisted the urge to rut against Harry right here, and Apparate them away, instead.

Harry had half-expected a sudden change of heart when his feet alighted on the plush carpet of Tom's bedroom for the second time in as many months - some last gasp of horror at what he was doing, some shred of reluctance for the acts he was soon to perform - but no. The part of him that was Hadrian Riddle was utterly, wondrously silent.

This time, unlike before, it was Harry who was pressing Tom down, bending him back onto the man's oversized bed and standing between his splayed knees.

Tom tasted of the balsamic vinaigrette Harry had wiped off on his lip with the fig slice; and he returned Harry's kiss as though that was all he had eaten at dinner, as if he wanted to flip them and devour Harry in every way. One of them groaned into the kiss, a chest-deep sound more felt than heard; both of them pressed against the other, rocking their hips together to chase pleasure through their clothes. But when Harry gave Tom the opportunity to switch them around, he didn't take it.

It was a ploy that Hadrian was familiar with from his extended time abroad, when he had taken dozens to bed in similar ways, their handsome faces and needful bodies sprawled beneath him or looming over him as the mood struck. His experiments with men had brought out in Hadrian his father's impulse to perfectionism: but where Tom Riddle had applied it to all that he did, and lamented Hadrian's lack of the same, Hadrian focused his attentions singularly on the pursuit of pleasures of the flesh.

And Harry, who took all that Hadrian was and improved upon it, had in all his explorations never been so enticed by a body, a voice, a man, as he was by Tom Riddle.

Just as Tom began to pant for it, arching his back to find the perfect friction, Harry smirked, and stepped back, cock twitching in his pants at the faint, bitten-off whine that Tom made at the loss. He did not complain, however, as he realized what Harry had stepped back for: indeed, he had sat up to watch, entranced, as Harry unfastened the buttons on his waistcoat with no particular haste or deliberation.

One of the many mirrors in Tom's room provided Harry with ample view of the sight that he himself made - in particular, the way the bulge in his trousers was completely ruining the line of his suit. As his fingers trailed lower, deftly freeing the last button, Harry watched Tom's eyes linger on the matching button on his trousers.

When Harry spoke, his voice - unlike Tom's - was steady, carrying in the tense silence of the room despite the low murmur of his words. "I think I will take my time undressing you tonight, sir," he purred, shrugging out of his waistcoat; he laid it on the back of the armchair behind him without looking at it, and dropped his hand to the button Tom's attention had so singularly fixed upon, savoring the way Tom licked his lips at the sight without even realizing he'd done it.

The lights in the room dimmed down to a low yellow glow, presumably at Tom's whim; Harry teased him, then, leaving the button fastened in favor of removing the golden cufflinks at his sleeves instead. "There's no need to call me 'sir,' Harry," Tom observed breathlessly, and Harry's sly smirk only grew at the sight of the man biting his lip, eyeing him up and down - Tom's red gaze a near-physical weight against Harry's skin.

"No need, perhaps," he countered, letting the cufflink fall to the ground with a dull 'clink' on the carpet, "but there is need, and there is need, my darling-" Tom's breath hitched at the pet name- "and I should like to call you 'sir' sometimes, while I am.. serving."

A slow blink, and a low breath, as Tom's mind caught up to his ears. Harry could forgive him for being a bit slow, when he was distracted; indeed, it was his privilege to accommodate his superior's limitations.

"Oh," Tom shivered.

Harry only smiled.

The other cufflink was no challenge to unfasten, and Harry summoned the first into his palm to stow both in the pocket of his waistcoat behind him, now beginning to unbutton his shirt. When he had descended three buttons, exposing his collarbone, he caught Tom leaning forward, enticed out of patience by the sight. That would do, Harry thought, stepping out of his shoes to approach the bed on socked, silent feet. He stood over Tom, relishing in the way the man blinked up at him as through a daze. "How would you like me, sir?" The words rolled off his tongue like honey. "I thought to begin.. on my knees."

The suggestion struck Tom like a physical blow; the deep red blush the bloomed high on his cheeks, framing widening eyes, could just as well have been the result of a strike with Harry's open palm. (And wasn't that an idea?) He had parted his legs again without even forming a response; in the oblique lighting, Harry could see the full outline of his erection throb where it strained against his trousers, no doubt glistening at the tip with eager fluid the way Tom's forehead, face and neck shone with new sweat.

"I would like that," the man agreed in a choked voice, and Harry did not miss the strain in his words that turned the answer from a statement to a plea.

So beautiful like this, thought Harry, pushing the words to the forefront of his mind so that Tom might almost hear them with his passive Legilimency. You are the butterfly caught in my spider's-web. And thus pinned, held open on glistening threads, he would have no choice but to be consumed entirely. My Tom.

Oh, how he would consume him.

Harry swallowed to wet his dry throat, letting that idea trail off before it led him prematurely over the edge. He folded up his sleeves once, twice, thrice, drawing Tom's eyes downward, and then went gracefully to his knees.

Tom's breath caught, much more loudly than he had likely meant it to, and Harry did not care to disguise the lust in his voice now. "Have you imagined me like this already, sir? On my knees.. about to put my mouth to better use.."

"In my office," Tom growled, trembling - trembling, oh Merlin - under the hand Harry rested on his thigh while he unfastened the buttons that held his trousers closed. "Under my desk.."

"Mm." Harry palmed Tom's erection through his clothing, considering. "I wonder.. was I there to please you, or to please me?"

He hooked a fingertip under the waistband of Tom's silk briefs in lieu of an answer, leaning in close to breathe deeply of the heat and scent of him there: utterly ambrosial. It would not surprise Harry in the least if Tom's taste turned out to be the sweetest nectar on his tongue.

"Forgive my insistence, sir," Harry mouthed against the shaft of Tom's erection through the sheer fabric, eliciting a soft sound from the man's mouth - he was so responsive, so sensitive, he would be so good for Harry soon - as he rubbed circles into the fleshier part of Tom's inner thigh with the pad of his thumb. "But I never heard the answer to my question." He slid his hand under the silk and began to draw out Tom's substantial erection with a deliberate patience that belied his own desperation, the same echoed in Tom's eyes when he brought his gaze up to meet the man's again.

"When I use my mouth on you.." Tom's cock twitched, throbbing in Harry's grasp, and he gave one firm squeeze, thumbing at a spot just under the head that had driven lesser men to tears with need. "Will I be pleasing you, or pleasing myself?"

He felt Tom's thighs tense, saw the man sway where he sat as if he meant to lean back against a chair that was not there. "Either," Tom gasped, "oh, Harry, my Harry-"

My Tom, Harry agreed, examining the lovely, perfect shape of the blood-dark erection he had freed from its bonds. He licked a narrow stripe up along the glistening trail of fluid that had leaked from the end, letting the tip of his tongue dip into the slit when he reached it and savoring the taste nearly as much as he savored the bitten-off moan the action had torn from Tom's lips.

"Myself it is, then," he agreed, and promptly swallowed Tom down to the root in one motion.

Tom dug his fingers into the bedding, jolting at the sensation as if struck by lightning. He groaned, unable to help himself, because Harry had- his Harry had swallowed him so deep, so expertly, the way no one had ever managed to do so soon. The hotter, wetter press of Harry's throat beyond his soft palate was an indulgence beyond even his imagination; he swallowed around him without any hesitation, and seemingly, no need for air.

The hand on Tom's thigh was all that kept him from thrusting up into the impossible perfection he had just been presented with; and then Harry hollowed his cheeks, sucking Tom with a skill and enthusiasm that, if he'd been standing, would have brought him to his knees; and as it were, nearly brought tears to his eyes. "H-Harry," he heard himself gasping, "I-"

Salazar, he had only just begun, hadn't he? Just as the thought crossed Tom's mind, his Harry pulled back, taking him down again and again. Tom wanted to tangle his hands in that gorgeous black hair and pull, wanted to hold Harry's head still and fuck into his perfect throat, but his hold on the sheets was all that kept him upright, all that kept him from lying back and-

"Harry," he moaned, the muscles below his navel spasming, "Harry, please-"

Tom's under-the-desk fantasy would be unachievable, he realized, because he would never be able to work, or speak, or see, or breathe, with this mouth closed around him. His Harry hummed, pleased, at Tom's responses; the vibration had his balls tightening, drawing up, and though he tried, he did not manage to warn Harry that he was coming before he came. The last vestiges of strength in his arms left him, and he fell back on the bed, still coming, his next utterance of Harry's name a sob.

Harry was right: Tom's taste was ambrosial, a more intoxicating drug than anything he'd tried. The sounds that came out of his mouth as his seed filled Harry's were enough to make him think he'd sucked a piece of his soul out along with it: especially as Harry kept sucking, to the point of near overstimulation that had Tom struggling feebly beneath him.

He stood up, now, and leaned over Tom on the bed, planting kisses along the side of the man's throat which began as chaste, close-lipped things and soon sharpened, teeth grazing along Tom's racing pulse. Tom was slack beneath him, eyes a bit glazed; he looked wrecked, and yet, Harry thought with a lazy smirk, they had only just begun.

"I know how you detest unnecessary talk, sir," Harry murmured hoarsely against Tom's chest, unbuttoning the man's shirt with a bit of idle magic and tonguing down the center-line of his chest. "Fortunately.." he traced his fingers lower, to the waistband of the trousers Tom still wore, rumpled though they had become, "I can anticipate and fulfill your needs here, just as I do everywhere else."

Tom bit his lip, glancing up at Harry. His breath left him in a quivering gasp as Harry lifted him up effortlessly in his arms and laid him down in the center of the bed, divesting him of the shirt and trousers he had worn thus far. (Those outer garments, jacket, waistcoat, and tie, which Tom had worn to dinner were piled in a chair through some act of magic Harry hadn't cared to note beyond appreciating its effect.)

Sprawled out on the sheets in just his undergarments, Tom looked like any of Harry's previous bedfellows in the half-light of the room. (That so many of Hadrian's partners had matched Tom's appearance was an observation Harry set aside for later.) He shifted position on the bed as though expecting to be restrained, cuffed to the headboard, perhaps - but Harry had no need for bondage to get his way this night, and they both knew it.

"Oh, Tom," Harry teased, tugging the silk briefs down and off of the man, and unfastening the sock garters on his calves with a reverence no less hasty for its devotion, "did you think dessert was for you?" Socks and underwear joined the rest of Tom's clothes in their pile, and Harry unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way to shrug it off; the fine sheen of sweat beading on its chest had its match on his back, one droplet slipping ticklish down his spine. He crawled closer on the bed, splayed his hand on the skin below Tom's navel, and cast a wordless, wandless spell. "The one who's eating.. is me."

He swept his hands under Tom's thighs to raise him just enough to plant his face between them, holding his legs open so his tongue could trace a line down Tom's perineum and over the tight puckered muscle of his arse.

Tom gasped, flinching; when Harry's response was to kiss him there, sucking, grazing his teeth against the nearby curve of his buttock, the man bucked and swore breathlessly, gasping out 'Harry' before Harry interrupted him again, breaching him with the tip of his tongue.

Harry was, was, was, ah-

Tom's mind stuttered to a halt, gone utterly blank for a moment as he clawed at the sheets and curled his toes in the air, throwing his head back against the pillows. He was probably making noise, but everything was a bit fuzzy from the blood rushing south so quickly.

A stray thought: Harry must have specifically avoided stretching him magically to have the pleasure - the pleasure, yes, yes, ah, Harry - of working him open like this. Only now was he introducing slicked fingers, and they were focused not on readying him for penetration (even if he wanted it more than anything), but on seeking out his prostate and just, just destroying him, that was what Harry was doing-

He was aware of himself moaning louder, wanton, under Harry's masterful ministrations; of begging him for nothing in particular when his mouth descended once again upon his erection; of wetness in the corners of his eyes that he could do nothing about even if he wanted to, he could hardly move; of Harry bringing him closer to the edge, again, already, like he was a schoolboy discovering these acts for the very first time, the way his son would be-

"Hadrian," Tom sobbed, bucking up into his partner's throat-

Hearing Hadrian's name called from Tom's lips would have made Harry jealous, if he were anyone else; but since Hadrian was him, he instead felt a bolt of heat at the cry, and milked Tom's prostate through the orgasm that the name had accompanied, quite aware of the way he was going to come in his pants if he didn't hurry up.

So he swallowed, and sat back on his heels, taking in the sight of what he had reduced his father to: the tears in his eyes, the tremors in his arms and legs, the expression of panic that was beginning to grow on his features the longer Harry went without acknowledging the slip.

"Well, if that's who you want," Harry breathed, finally unbuttoning his trousers as he let his features shift back to his true form. Preoccupied with freeing his tortured prick, he almost didn't hear the words Tom breathed between heavy breaths, lying sprawled and exhausted on the bed.

Fuck... Hadrian...

"No need to tell me twice, father," Hadrian smirked, pulling Tom half into his lap to line the head of his cock up with the man's slicked entrance. "Or was that a rhetorical statement?"

Tom's expression shifted into annoyance for only one moment before he was being thrust into, far more gently than Hadrian wanted, but more than enough to wipe the crease off his brow and slacken his jaw with a cry.

It made so much sense in retrospect, Hadrian thought - an undercurrent which threaded through years of their antagonism. Had their first fight - about expected OWL results - not coincided with Hadrian's admitted newfound interest in men? Had every major argument that followed not been in some way related to Hadrian's choice of independence over success? What if - what if it hadn't been about the lack of ambition after all? What if Tom just didn't want Hadrian to leave?

"You have what you want now," he groaned as he bottomed out in Tom's perfect, tight body, digging his fingers into the man's hips. "You have me," he gave a minute thrust, staring heatedly into Tom's eyes.

Despite having come only a few minutes ago, Tom was already getting hard again, though he gritted his teeth in oversensitivity. "Mine," Tom bit out, moving in time with Hadrian's increasingly punishing thrusts. "Ah, Hadrian-"

"You have me," Hadrian repeated, leaning in to rest his forehead on Tom's, bringing their mouths closer, sweet Salazar he was going to come so hard, "and I have you," he gasped, "ah.. father-"

He brought their lips together, kissing Tom hungrily, and felt the man clench down around him with a third orgasm that ripped Hadrian's own climax from him in a release that had him seeing stars.

Afterward, Hadrian rolled off to lay beside Tom, the wet mess they had made easily taken care of with a bit of spellwork that neither of them, at the moment, seemed inclined to actually cast. When he'd caught his breath, Hadrian turned to look at Tom, who seemed to have something to say.

Guess I'm fired, then, he thought, a bit gleeful at the prospect.

But what came out of Tom's mouth was,

"Thank you, Harry. I have no idea how you knew about that fantasy.. but you don't have to maintain the illusion for my benefit. I am more than satisfied." He offered Harry an exhausted smile, of the sort Hadrian had not received since he was just starting Hogwarts.

"As you wish, sir," Harry supposed, shifting back and summoning a water pitcher and glasses from the nightstand.

"Spend the night?" Tom asked, finally spelling the mess off of them and the sheets.

"It would be my pleasure," Harry smiled at him, while deep in the confines of his Occlumentic labyrinth, he was thinking: Shit.

This had taken a much different turn than he'd meant it to - and yet, having sampled what came of it, he didn't know if he could ever reveal the truth.

Chapter Text

Harry watched Tom rake his fingers through his dishevelled hair to settle it again, meeting his reflection's eyes where he sprawled across the freshly-made bed, half-dressed. They had gotten slightly distracted when Harry reached for Tom's cologne instead of his own, and turned to meet the older man's eyes with a glint of mischief-

"-late for once in my life," Tom was saying, rubbing an ointment into the teeth marks on the side of his neck left too high to be hidden by his shirt collar. "A taste of his own medicine if he ends up waiting, don't you think?"

After all, Tom Riddle was never late, even to the mutually-unpleasant meetings he held twice a year with his son. Hadrian, of course, was always late.

(Harry wasn't.)

"I have my doubts of him arriving any earlier than we do, sir," Harry smirked, letting his gaze roll down over the curve of Tom's clothed back, and linger where the deep red fabric tucked into his black trousers. Red was absolutely his father's color.

Tom chuckled, turning back to Harry to retrieve the jacket he'd left hanging on one of the bedposts. "I suppose even if he did notice, he would be too occupied with the fact that I've brought you along to think to complain about it."

And there lay an interesting problem, one which Harry had been puzzling over for more than four months, when he realized no amount of blatant hinting would convince his boss that 'Harry-as-Hadrian' was anything more than a role being played - with all the finesse and attention to detail that went into everything Harry Evans did. How exactly was Hadrian Riddle going to meet Harry Evans?

He'd considered many options: from a Time-Turner (soon discarded as unreliable) to a combination Polyjuice-Imperius arrangement (Harry didn't trust himself to keep up the Imperius if Tom decided a.. demonstration.. was in order). The most promising had been a ritual scrawled out in his father's hand on the splitting of the soul into a secondary vessel, by which means one's 'shade' could exist independently of the original; Harry had almost gone through with it, but a marginal note at the end caught his eye, in handwriting far shakier than he had ever seen it, and was that blood smudged at the corners of the page?

Samhain 1943: true vision - ritual deemed unwise - alternate means to be found. do not attempt.

Harry wondered what exactly Riddle had Seen. But he put the book of notes back on the shelf where he'd found it.

This had left him with only one solution to his problem, of course. Harry glanced at the clock on the far wall; Hadrian's letter had said the reservation was at six, but Harry had put it for seven on a hunch, and it was now quarter-till. "I'd best keep from distracting you any further, sir," he murmured, an expression crossing his face that Tom had lovingly described as sinful (oh, if only he knew).

"I must admit," Tom confided to Harry on their arrival, "this is a bit above Hadrian's usual standards."

It was indeed - Hadrian's choice of restaurant had been a less-than-subtle jab at Tom's lifestyle from the beginning. Now, Harry had rather different plans in mind, and it showed: The Garden of Eden was one of the few restaurants Tom hadn't visited in the past ten years, for all that he'd often insisted he would bring Hadrian there someday when his behavior was 'satisfactory'. Harry suspected the man had been purposefully avoiding the place since Hadrian's departure from Britain.

The gold Floo entrance opened onto a seven-sided anteroom frescoed from floor to ceiling to depict a vast, dense forest, light streaming eternally through the lush canopy. Unlike modern magical portraits, the frescoes retained incredible depth, the product of nearly a hundred years' work by a single artist: sponsored, Harry knew, by the Flamels themselves. Hadrian had learned that the Elixir of Life was quite literally painted into the scene, the source of the paradisiacal gleam of sunlight throughout the space.

But they were not about to miss their dinner reservation staring into the horizon. Harry let his fingers slide down Tom's arm, briefly twining their hands together in order to make their way into the next room. Dark wood, aglow with ages of wood polish, formed intricate branches and vines along the trim and across the ceiling, framing walls of deep green with gold and silver tracery that were still subdued in comparison to the previous room. When the maître d' informed them Hadrian Riddle had not yet arrived, Harry stroked his thumb over the back of Tom's hand to distract him and let them be led to a private room.

(One particularly remote from the rest of them, as it happened.)

"Hadrian had better show up soon," Tom sneered, practically throwing himself into the long sofa that Harry had requested instead of a dining table. It was carved with several dozen snakes of various sizes, which moved along the woodwork hissing pleasantries; Harry had secretly bought it for the occasion and had the staff bring it in. A neat side table held several wines and a rare bottle of gin which Hadrian had expended equal effort in acquiring.

He took a salted rose from the arrangement on the coffee table and sat down beside Tom, plucking a petal free to lay on the man's tongue in lieu of shushing him. "I find it quite likely, sir, that he will be here any moment."

Red eyes darkened, the man's gaze turning to him. "My dear Harry," Tom breathed, licking salt crystals from the corner of his mouth, "I have utmost confidence in your predictions, but Hadrian-" and how did Harry ever not notice the way that name formed on his father's mouth "-is the most unpredictable man I have ever known."

Harry crushed a rose petal between his teeth, just to watch Tom watch his mouth. He leaned in closer. "For all that you have cultivated him, sir?" he teased with a secret smile.

A candied butterfly fluttered from the table to land on one of Tom's fingers, and he sighed, glancing at its delicate wings. "I whispered through the chrysalis, yes," came the murmur, as he took one glasslike wing between the finger and thumb of each hand, "but what hatched-" the figurine tore in half down the middle, a fine piping of red jam revealed within "-followed its own nature." He held out one half to Harry, who found his mouth suddenly dry, his cheeks warm.

Harry opened his mouth and let Tom lay the morsel on his tongue. It was not only sweet, but carried a faint heat to match that under his skin, with a hint of salt from the briefest brush of his tongue on Tom's fingertips as he accepted it.

He let the silence build, chewed and swallowed, watching Tom watch the motion of his Adam's apple. His hand inched closer to Tom's thigh, not quite touching.

"Would it surprise you, then," Harry began, looking up at Riddle through his lashes, "to find my nature not so far from yours after all?"

"Harry," Tom chided softly, cupping Harry's cheek in his palm, "this is no time or place." The slightest quirk of his lips betrayed his interest, a tell Harry had come to recognize over the last six months of increasingly-risky activities in the office.

Harry leaned back on the chair, unfastening the top button of his shirt. He did not withdraw from the touch as he shifted his features once again, the hollow of his throat growing more pronounced with Hadrian's leaner form. "What must I do," another button, "to convince you this is no game?"

Tom went very still against him, his wide-blown pupils shrinking. "..Hadrian?" he hissed.

Hadrian rose from the sofa to stand in front of him, astride Tom's knees, and rested a hand on the back of the sofa. "So you are surprised, then," he observed, undoing button after button until his shirt hung open, the waistcoat equally discarded, to bare his chest. "I should have spoken Parseltongue earlier, if that was what it took."

Tom was biting his lip, staring at him. "Since when-" he started, interrupted by a small gasp as Hadrian's hand came to rest on his neck, where the bite mark had been not long before. Where he could now feel the man's pulse racing under his palm.

"Since always," Hadrian answered, seating himself in Tom's lap. "And before you think otherwise," he slid the hand to Tom's jaw, thumb pressing on his lips, "I did not play you for a fool. It was not spite. It was desire."

He had seen the other emotions flash through red eyes just then - shock, anger, dismay - that now returned to the expression with which they had begun. Tom's eyes were growing so dark as to be nearly black, and Hadrian knew himself to be the same way. "'For I know that in my flesh dwelleth no good thing,'" he quoted, dragging down Tom's plush bottom lip with his nail; "'for to will is present with me.'"

Tom inhaled sharply through his nose, his tongue darting out to catch the end of Hadrian's thumb as it drew away.

"To want is present," Hadrian amended, rolling his hips where he sat, his eyelids fluttering. "I have grown as greedy with you as you always were with me."

They got kicked out of The Garden of Eden.

Harry didn't exactly.. mind. It had been his idea to take down the privacy ward and let the adjacent rooms hear them. And the staff had been as polite as they could about the matter, averting their eyes while they cleaned themselves up.

The sofa, reupholstered with a less-staining material, took up a new place in the manor's master bedroom where it could face the bed, and none of the alcohol went to waste.

And after two weeks' holiday, a very refreshed and sated Tom Riddle informed his board of directors that his son, Hadrian, had completed his probationary period as his personal assistant, and would be taking his seat as president effective immediately.

"I have been pleased to work with you so far," Hadrian smiled, eyeing every one of the pale-faced Inner Circle, "and expect further improvement in accordance with our expectations."

"High as they may seem," Tom mused, "my Harry has proven they can be met."

With that, Hadrian allowed himself to be enveloped in Tom's arms, and they Disapparated before the shellshocked executives could say another word.