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Chapter Text

Harry gazed around at his solemn compatriots. The lights were off, and all the curtains had been pulled shut. Everyone had arrived before the sun had risen in order to avoid arousing suspicion, and now they were twenty minutes into what promised to be an utterly demotivating discussion.

“I’ll do it,” Harry said, willing his voice not to tremble.

“Harry,” Ron said, horror written on his face, “no!"

“Harry, yes,” Harry said, somber. “As the office’s unofficial Chaos Manager—”

“The only chaos you manage is jamming the paper copier whenever you come within a meter of it,” Draco muttered from across the table.

“—I assign myself the title of the Chosen One,” Harry finished. “Unless there are any other volunteers,” he added, staring at Draco.

A few people shifted uncomfortably. “We need to discuss this,” said Daphne. “Reconvene in five.”

And then the other half of the table—HR, marketing, and accounting—pulled away into a huddle, their whispers only vaguely audible from where Harry and his other coworkers sat.

“He’ll fire you!” Hermione said in a sharp tone. “Harry, what are you thinking?”

“Better me than anyone else,” Harry replied.

“No,” said Ron. “Better Malfoy than you.”

“Learn to whisper, Weasley!” Draco called out.

Ron crossed his arms, stubbornly rolling back in his chair, but his mouth snapped shut into a flat line.

“You know what I don’t get,” said Ginny, “is how accounting gets along with marketing. Aren’t those two departments slated to be enemies?”

“They’re all equally soul-sucking,” Ron said, sitting back up.

“We can still hear you,” said Pansy.

“Good!” Ron said. “You’re all soul-suckers!”

“Anyways,” said Hermione, looking at Harry. “Are you sure you want to do this? No one will judge you if you change your mind.”

“I can do this,” Harry said confidently. “How hard can it be?”

His coworkers exchanged a dubious look, which was rude, because Harry was right here, and they were all visibly doubting his sanity right in front of him.

The other half of the office adjourned their little meeting and turned back to face the rest of the room at large. It looked like they had elected Pansy, who was head of HR, as their spokesperson.

“We have come to the conclusion that Harry is the most acceptable tribute,” said Pansy. “You have the full support of our departments in this endeavour.”

“Great,” Ginny said. “What does that ‘support’ look like? ‘Cause if it’s anything like how long it takes you to respond to an email—”

Harry rubbed at his face as the table dissolved into bickering. Riddle was going to be here any moment now, and they were all going to get yelled at for wasting time even though the regular work day still didn’t start for another two hours.

“Listen!” Harry said, raising his voice so as to be heard above all the barbed insults that were flying back and forth. “I’m going to do this, and no one is going to get in any trouble. I can do this. Riddle’s not going to know what hit him.”

Chapter Text

Nothing happened for the rest of the week. Harry deflected his coworker’s pointed questions (”I am working on it, guys—”) and kept up business as usual.

Then, on Friday morning, Harry rose hours before dawn so he could beat everyone to the office. He was yawning as he stumbled in, arms occupied with his surprise, wishing that he’d thought to pick up some coffee or tea before he’d gotten here.

Riddle’s office was normally locked, but Harry was friends with the building staff, and so it had only been a matter of asking for a temporary loan of the key.

Harry deposited his gift onto the desk and wandered back out into the main office. Checking his watch revealed that he was still here too early. Trust Riddle to choose today as the one day to not come in early, leaving Harry with nothing but his boredom to occupy himself for the next hour or so.

Speaking of occupying himself… Harry debated whether he ought to be sticking around or not.

It would probably be safer if he left and came back when everyone else would be here. That way Riddle couldn’t single him out. Harry might be brave, but he wasn’t downright suicidal.

There was a shop down the street he could pop into for some tea and breakfast. Hopefully, by the time he got back, Riddle would be in a marginally better mood and they could all leave on time at the end of the day for once.

The hours slid by. Harry hadn’t seen Riddle come in to work, but he was informed by Ron that Riddle had shown up, gone directly to his office, and had not been seen since. Which was strange, because it was a habit for Riddle to summon someone to his office before lunch time to be interrogated for updates.

It was after lunch that Daphne came by Harry’s cubicle, eyes narrowed, sheer scarf draped loosely over her shoulder as she placed her hands on her hips.

“Did you finally do something?” Daphne asked. “People are asking why Riddle’s not left his office today.”

“Um,” Harry said.

“If you get fired today,” Ron said loyally, “we can still hang out on weekends.”

Ginny peered over the wall that separated their cubicles. “What’d you do, Harry? Set a rat trap?”

“No,” Harry said hastily. “I’m trying to be nice, is all.”

“Nice?” Daphne echoed. Then she snorted. “Riddle’s probably in there planning Harry’s funeral. All fancy, so the rest of us know not to try it again.”

A few other people had wandered over upon hearing the topic of conversation, and Harry felt put on the spot. He had already volunteered for this, he didn’t need people hanging about and judging him for it.

“I just left him some flowers,” Harry said defensively. “I didn’t even leave a card or anything, but I’m sure it’s all fine, how can someone get offended by flowers—?”

“Harry,” Hermione shrieked, bolting up from across the room, her voice rising just above the level of a whisper, “Riddle’s allergic to flowers!”

Everyone turned in silent horror to regard the door to Riddle’s office. Riddle’s silent, isolated office.

“Ah,” Harry said. “Fuck.”

Chapter Text

“It’s half past six,” Ginny said, staring so hard at the clock on the wall that she was nearly cross-eyed. “On a Friday.”

They were all too afraid to leave. Usually everyone stayed either until six pm, which was when Riddle tended to depart, or until however late Riddle decided to stay behind. Only with the current situation being what it was, no one was sure whether Riddle would be leaving his office or not.

“How bad did you say that allergy was, Hermione?” Ron asked.

It was then that Riddle’s office door slammed open, cutting off any reply Hermione might have had.

Harry jerked violently, knocking his stapler over, ready for Riddle to march over and fire him. Though Harry wasn’t sure how Riddle could have traced the flowers to him, given that Harry had left the entire bouquet there without a card—

Riddle strode by at his typical brisk pace. Only his face was flushed, his eyes puffy and rimmed with red like he’d been crying. But he was still walking normally, like there was absolutely nothing wrong. Perfect posture, dark hair swept into its usual style, clothing smooth and wrinkle-free. Riddle just didn’t have any sense of shame, Harry thought, dazed as he watched Riddle sweep past the rows of cubicles, head held high.

But as Riddle passed Harry, his pace slowed, his nostrils flaring, his gaze slanting over to where Harry was seated. Harry felt himself on the verge of heart failure. But Riddle didn’t stop, thankfully; he resumed walking at the same speed as before, leaving Harry to stare at his backside. Not that Harry was staring, but. Ahem.

They all watched as Riddle disappeared into the elevator, and it was only when the doors slid shut that Harry dared to breath.

“You live another day!” Ginny exclaimed cheerfully.

Hermione, meanwhile, made a beeline for the office. She came back out with her arms full of Harry’s flowers.

“What flowers are these?” Hermione demanded. “They look like asters.”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I just sort of… picked what looked nice. I think they’re asters?” He really should have sucked it up and asked the shop person for help.

“Hold on, I’m Googling,” Ron said. He wheeled his chair towards Harry, his eyes fixed on his phone screen. Then he grimaced. “Mate, you’re not gonna like this—”

“Let me see!” Hermione said, dropping the flowers onto Harry’s desk and stalking over. She came up behind Ron, looked down, and made a sound like a squeak.

“What does it say?” Draco asked. He had appeared out of nowhere and was now walking up to their little gathered group. Harry figured Draco was only surfacing now because news had spread that Riddle was gone.

Hermione had a hand clasped over her mouth, but she lowered it and said, “Asters are a symbol of love and patience.”

For a long time, no one said anything. It was likely they were too horrified at the idea of their boss having any sort of love life to come up with a comment.

“Well,” Ginny said. “You said you didn’t put your name on it, right? So you’re safe.”

Harry, who rather felt that Riddle’s cursory glance might now have had a lot more meaning, was less sure.

Chapter Text

Harry had all weekend to stew. He told himself dozens of times that he had done nothing wrong, and so by the time Monday rolled around, he was ready to face the music.

If he was going to be fired, then it would happen. Losing his job wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to him. He just had to hope he could survive whatever verbal punishment Riddle was bound to unleash.

When Harry walked into the office on Monday morning, slow and wary, he was immediately assaulted by Hermione, who grabbed him by the shoulders and told him to go to Meeting Room C in five minutes.

Bewildered, Harry set his things down on his desk and followed her directive.

There were only a few people in the room: Harry, Hermione, Draco, and Theodore, who was from IT downstairs. The few people who came in extremely early to start the work day, in other words.

“Riddle’s been in a good mood,” Hermione said without preamble.

What?

“What?” asked Harry.

“Yes, your crackbrained plot seems to have worked,” Draco said, waving an airy hand. “Either that, or Riddle improved his mood by taking potshots at the elderly over the weekend. The intern got his coffee order wrong for the third time since he was hired and escaped unscathed. Riddle just kicked him out of his office and slammed the door.”

Now that was a miracle. Riddle burned through interns faster than Dudley went through chocolate cakes. Most people had already stopped trying to remember the names of the interns that cycled through the office like clockwork.

Harry thought back to Riddle’s allergy-plagued face and failed to make the connection as to how this could have led to an improved mood.

“Anyways,” Theodore said, “we were wondering what the next step was. Do you need any help?”

“Next step?” Harry repeated blankly.

“You do have a plan, don’t you?” Hermione said. “Being nice? That was what you said.”

“Um, yes, but—” Harry wasn’t sure how to explain that you couldn’t plan being nice to someone. You had to let the ideas come naturally. Harry had been struck by a whim Thursday night, and so he had bought the flowers for the next day. “I don’t plan these things. They just, erm, happen?”

Hermione frowned, sitting back in her chair. “You know, maybe we shouldn’t be meddling. Harry, do what you want, and let us know if you need any help.”

“Last time you said that,” Draco said, derisive, “we ended up with a pair of scissors embedded in the water cooler. He’s a disaster magnet, Granger. We call him the Chaos Manager as an insult. He’s the one who takes it as a badge of honour. Everyone in accounting is betting on him getting fired because of this!”

“It’s worked so far,” Hermione said confidently. “This may be the singular case in which Harry’s terrible luck does us all some good.”

“I don’t have terrible luck,” Harry protested. “I’ll just. Make sure to check that Riddle’s not allergic before I give him anything else.” Harry paused, then asked, “Is he allergic to anything else?”

Draco set his forehead down on the table with a thump. “I can’t believe we’re putting our faith into Potter. We’re all doomed.”

Chapter Text

Thanks to his coworkers, Harry was jumpy all morning long.

Then, just before lunch, Riddle called Ginny in for an operations report. Harry and a few others took their meals in their cubicles to wait for her.

When she emerged, Riddle was on her heels, his expression impassive.

Riddle did not look as though he’d spent the weekend at emergency being treated for severe allergies, which was a relief. Riddle did, however, pause to take in the employees that were all pretending to be occupied with their packed lunches.

Riddle’s gaze wandered over the room, desk by desk, and Harry swallowed, nervous, waiting—

As their eyes caught, Harry realized, with no small amount of horror, that he should have been pretending that he was occupied with his lunch. Because now he had been caught staring.

“Hi, Tom,” Harry squeaked out. “How’re you today?”

Silence ballooned in the room. Harry was fairly sure that even Ron had stopped chewing.

Riddle inclined his head, lip curling, sharp eyes discerning. “Harry,” he said in greeting.

And then Riddle spun away, departing.

Once Riddle was gone, Harry tried to inhale, choked on nothing, and started coughing.

“Ohmygod,” Ginny said immediately, rushing over to kneel in front of Harry’s chair. She took his hands in hers, a look of sympathy stealing over her features. “You called him Tom. He called you Harry. Are you alright? Are you breathing? Did he eviscerate you with his eyeballs?”

“Give the man some room, Ginny,” Ron said. “He’s been through a shock.”

“I’m fine,” Harry wheezed as Ron patted him on the back. “Not dead yet.”

By the time lunch hour ended, news of Harry’s interaction had spread throughout the entire building.

“The betting pool is out of control,” Pansy told him when she came by. “Odds are either you’ll get murdered in an untraceable way, or murdered outright in the middle of the office to serve as an example for the rest of us. Current numbers are skewing towards the latter.”

Harry tugged weakly at his shirt collar, wishing not for the first time that he had chosen almost any other company to work for.

“Riddle should be back soon,” Pansy added. “If I were you, I would…” She paused. “Honestly? I’m not sure what advice to give you. If you survive the week, I’ll buy you a drink, how’s that? And if you don’t survive… well, I’ll buy you a whole bottle.”

“Sure,” Harry said. The promise of pity alcohol was better than nothing.

Pansy left, and Harry checked the time on his phone. The official end of Riddle’s lunch hour was nigh, and Riddle was never late, so he would be returning soon.

When Riddle did step back into the office, his arms were laden with a large cardboard box, and on top of the box was a stack of folders. Where had he gone? Did the man even take a lunch hour, or did he simply spew paperwork wherever he went?

Harry busied himself with looking busy, though he kept close watch on Riddle out of the corner of his eye. As Riddle made his way across the room, a sheet of paper slipped out of one of his folders and onto the floor.

Possessed by the spirit of politeness that his mother had trained into him, Harry’s legs carried him over to the paper, which he picked up, and then he followed Riddle to his office door.

“You dropped this,” Harry’s mouth said.

Riddle peered at him, glaring. Ron had once described Riddle’s eyes as ‘sunless, soulless pits of despair’. But at this distance, they only looked to be a very dark brown.

The sheet of paper was snatched out of Harry’s hand, and then the door was shut in his face.

Well. That could have gone much worse.

Chapter Text

Riddle left at the end of the day at five sharp.

Ron and Ginny let out simultaneous whoops of joy, spinning around in their office chairs. And Hermione was smiling, her hair unleashed from its usual restrained ponytail.

“You’re a saviour, Harry, honestly.” Ron slipped an arm around Harry’s shoulder and gave him a shake. “It’s only Monday! We’re usually here till, what, seven? And now I can go home and have a nap before dinner!”

Harry still wasn’t sure exactly what it was that he’d done. “But all I did was say hello? And pick up that piece of paper?” Riddle hadn’t even said thank you.

“Don’t jinx it!” Ginny said. “Riddle’s somehow in a good mood, and I am not about to anger the gods by questioning their mysterious ways.”

“If you’re all free, then let’s go for dinner and drinks,” Hermione said, sounding more carefree and reckless than Harry had ever heard her. “Drinks are my treat.”

“It’s a Monday,” Ron said, scandalized. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?”

“Very funny,” Hermione said, but she was still smiling. “Are you coming or not?”

“We haven’t done drinks like this since Quirrell was our boss,” Ron added mournfully.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Quirrell never did anything around here, Ron.”

Ginny went to fetch their friends from the other departments, and then they headed down into the lot as a group. Only once they got there, Harry noticed that Riddle’s car was still parked. And Riddle was in his Lexus, in the driver’s seat, hand draped over the steering wheel as he gazed off into the distance, the strangest look on his face.

Harry didn’t realize that he’d stopped moving until Pansy walked into him with a yelp.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Riddle’s still here!” Ginny said in a whisper, jerking her head in the direction of Riddle’s car. “Everyone scatter! We’ll meet at the Hog’s Head.”

Harry followed Ron and Ginny to Ginny’s car so they could carpool like they usually did, only he couldn’t help but feel bad that they were all going for drinks while Riddle sat there by himself, oblivious to the fact that his staff were overjoyed by his absence.

Or maybe not so oblivious, Harry thought sympathetically. Because surely Riddle knew the kind of feelings his behaviour inspired.

This thought stuck in Harry’s brain all evening, leaving him spaced out while his coworkers socialized. They tried to include him in their conversations, but once it became clear that he couldn’t string more than three coherent words together, they let him be.

At the end of the evening, everyone filed out in good cheer except for Harry, who was still lost in his own head. Ron and Ginny gave him a lift home, depositing Harry on the doorstep of his building, and waved an enthusiastic goodbye.

Harry ran through the motions of trudging up to his flat, changing into comfortable clothes, and plopping down onto his bed to regard his ceiling fan with heavy contemplation.

Had the kindness really worked? Harry’s parents had raised him on solid foundations—you never knew what someone else was going through, and kindness was goodness. Even the meanest, grumpiest person could be going through a hard time.

Only Riddle seemed to be going through a hard time, well, all the time.

Harry had been hopeful that being nice would invoke some level of change, but today’s results had left him flummoxed.

Although, since a small amount of kindness had gone such a long way, Harry was confident that after continued effort, Riddle might even lighten up completely. That was a nice thought. And then, maybe someday in the future, he could even join them all for drinks.

Chapter Text

“Hi, Tom!”

Riddle stared at him. Stopped dead in his tracks, turned and angled his entire body, stared at Harry.

“Good morning,” Riddle said slowly, stringing the syllables along as though the order had never occurred to him before.

Harry nodded his head, smiling, then resumed looking at his computer, willing his hands to not shake. Why did Riddle have to be so scary? Where were his normal facial expressions? It was like trying to talk to a brick wall covered in pointy metal spikes.

If only Harry hadn’t set the terrible precedent of calling Riddle by his first name. Then Harry might have felt more secure in addressing him. But to use Riddle’s first name—Tom—was infinitely more… intimate.

Riddle stood there another second, his eyes burning large holes into the side of Harry’s head, and then Harry heard footsteps padding away and the office door clicking shut.

Ron made a quiet, strangled sound. “I think I just about died listening to that conversation. I don’t know how you do it, Harry. Small talk with Riddle?”

“Who’s getting called in to his office today?” Ginny interrupted. “We need to test the theory.”

Harry hadn’t been aware there was a theory, let alone a test for one.

“It’s Tuesday, so it’ll probably be Daphne or Malfoy. No, wait,” Ron said, “Malfoy went last Tuesday, so it’s not going to be him.”

Hermione stood and headed in the direction of the marketing department, walking like a woman on a very serious mission. When she returned, Daphne was with her, looking disgruntled. Both women approached Harry’s desk, and Daphne loomed over it, eyeing Harry with skepticism.

“Hermione tells me you worked some insane ‘kindness’ magic on Riddle today?” she asked.

“Erm. I guess so?”

“He said ‘hi’ again,” Ron supplied helpfully. “And this time Riddle said ‘good morning’.”

Daphne muttered something inaudible under her breath. “Just let it be known that I actually like my job.” She jabbed a finger at Harry, adding, “So if this backfires on me, I will be holding you responsible.”

“Sorry,” Harry said. Then his brain caught up with what she’d said, and he added, “I mean, I understand if you do. But what, exactly, are you doing?”

Daphne’s mouth twisted, then she said, “I’m putting in a vacation request. My cousin is getting married in June. It’s a destination wedding.”

“Yikes,” Ginny said. “Good luck.”

The door to Riddle’s office opened. Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up; nearly a year of conditioning had taught him to fear the sound.

“Greengrass. Excellent, you’re already here. I need to see you for a moment.”

Then Riddle turned to face the rest of them, both brows raised in dangerous invitation.

“And what,” Riddle said, pausing for emphasis, the tenor of his voice sliding quickly into a tone that promised mortal peril, “do the rest of you think you’re doing?”

Chapter Text

Daphne shot Harry a quick glance filled with trepidation, but then her features smoothed over as she proceeded to enter Riddle’s lair—erm, office. At least there she would enjoy a brief period of safety.

“Um,” said Harry, willing an idea to occur to him, knowing that he was the only one in the entire building who stood a chance of distracting Riddle from unleashing his wrath.

Not a second after Harry had spoken, Riddle’s attention slammed into him, forceful enough to make Harry flinch, icy enough to save all of Antarctica from global warming.

“Yes?” Riddle prompted. “Did you have something to share, Harry?” Dark eyes that bode nothing good for Harry’s continued employment, dark hair that looked… shorter than usual? Styled differently, perhaps?

Dangerous, warbled Harry’s brain. We are in danger! Please focus!

“I—” Harry said, mind racing, desperate for something, anything to say. “Your hair looks different today, did you get a haircut? It looks nice on you.”

Somewhere behind Harry, someone gasped.

Riddle said nothing at first, only continued to glare like Harry was a particularly irksome piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

Harry noted that Riddle’s shirt collar was buttoned up all the way, his tie knotted perfectly underneath—the tie itself was a dark stripe that led down his chest, and this glance indicated that, yes, Riddle was rather lean and probably very fit.

And with that thought, Harry’s brain put in its own vacation request, demanding to be allowed to reside in someone else’s skull.

“Yes,” said Riddle eventually. The intensity of his gaze had subsided somewhat. “I did.”

When Daphne emerged from Riddle’s office ten minutes later, she was possessed of none of her usual composure.

Ron and Ginny ran up to her and guided her into a chair.

“He said yes,” Daphne said, once she had recovered enough to speak. “I was so nervous, trying not to show it, and I was going over the fourth quarter campaign with him, only he wasn’t really engaging. Then he said we were done, but I wasn’t even done talking! So I decided to hell with it, and I asked, and he said yes.”

“Harry,” Ron said. “I’m only asking you this because you’re my nearest and dearest friend, but d’you think you could maybe collapse or fall down in front of Riddle so I can ask him for a raise?”

“Yeah… no,” Harry said. “Definitely not doing that. I don’t actually want Riddle to murder me.”

“But you are going to do something else, right? Something like the—” Ron lowered his voice, then whispered, “—flowers? So whenever you do that, I’ll go and ask him after.”

“Tomorrow is Wednesday,” Ginny said. “Which is Ron or Hermione. And then Thursday ought to be Harry—that’s usually him or Theodore, and Theodore went last week.”

There was something to be said about knowing exactly when and where your reckoning was going to be.

“I guess I should plan something for Thursday, then,” Harry said. “Although the flowers were supposed to be anonymous…”

“You’re a regular Romeo,” Ron said gravely. “Far be it for us to woo the boss from hell.”

“But I’m not trying to woo him?”

Ron and Ginny glanced at each other in a way that entirely failed to be subtle.

“I’m not?” Harry repeated, just to make sure they’d heard him correctly.

Hermione took pity on him. “Harry, you got him flowers that have ‘love’ as one of the meanings,” she explained. “Then you started calling him by his first name, and then you complimented his haircut. There aren’t a lot of ways to interpret that.”

Harry balked. “That’s just being friendly! And the flowers were an accident? I just thought they would be a nice thing to send, not that it would have a meaning or anything!”

When no one said anything, Harry added in a whisper, “And he’s our boss!”

Still nothing.

“Wait,” Harry said. “Did you all think that my plan was to try and—and seduce him?”

“Seduce is a strong word,” Ginny advised. “Let’s just stick to ‘wooing’.”

Chapter Text

Just before Thursday’s lunch hour, Theodore was called into Tom Riddle’s office.

“What does it all mean?” Hermione asked, looking distraught. “He’s not adhering to the schedule!”

Riddle failing to adhere to his schedule was akin to the second coming of the apocalypse. The second month after Riddle had taken over the office, people had begun to plan their sick days and vacation days around Riddle’s summons in the hopes that they could escape without reprimand.

This had worked up until what you were doing became obvious, after which you ended up worse off than you’d begun. It was also well known that Riddle assigned Friday summons to the employees he liked the least; a Friday summons meant you were likely to get yelled at.

“Harry, I thought you left Riddle another gift today?” Ginny asked curiously. “You told me you didn’t want a lift this morning.”

“Um, I did,” Harry said. He could feel his cheeks starting to flood with warmth, and so he tried to refocus on his computer screen, only the Excel spreadsheet he had open did not make for suitably distracting content.

“Well?” Ron said. “What did you leave him this time? Not more flowers?”

Harry blanched.

“Oh no, Harry,” Hermione moaned. “I told you he was allergic—”

“I didn’t leave real flowers,” Harry protested. “I just thought that, since the first batch went over so well, I could just do plastic ones. And,” he added pointedly, “I made sure to look up the meaning properly this time.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “So what did you pick?”

“Yellow roses,” Harry declared. “Google said they mean friendship, joy, and caring. Which are all very neutral, very friendly emotions.”

Hermione made a noise of despair that Harry felt was uncalled for.

“Well, alright,” Ron said, sounding unconvinced. “We’ll see what Nott says at lunch. I guess it can’t be too bad. Usually Riddle likes him.”

Things had not gone well for Theodore.

“He was really mad,” Theodore said. They were gathered at the Leaky for lunch together, and Theodore had ordered a drink despite the fact that the work day wasn’t even over yet. “Riddle was picking on everything. I thought he was going to tear me to bits in the middle of his office!”

“You made it out alive, though,” Pansy said sympathetically. “So that’s something, yes? And Harry is going to fix his horrible mistake—” 

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Harry said, feeling the need to interject.

“—and go back to seducing Riddle the way he was originally,” Pansy finished, patting Theodore on the back. “Yellow roses, honestly.” She shot them all a glare. “What did you lot think was going to happen?”

Harry resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands. “So he’s mad that I sent him flowers that mean friendship?”

“It is the most sensible explanation,” Hermione said in a gentle tone.

“Am I hearing this right?” Draco interjected, leaning in. “Up until today, you have been unintentionally courting our boss. Completely, one-hundred percent by accident.”

“No,” Harry said, miserable. “No? I really don’t know.”

“This is worse than Cho,” Ginny said. “We at least understood that you liked her, even if all your attempts went wild.”

“I think,” Ron said, “if we all pitch in, we can buy Harry a new identity and send him off to another continent where Riddle can’t find him.”

“That’s a bit hasty,” Daphne said. “It was working before today, after all.”

“We’ll see how tomorrow goes,” Ginny declared. “If Riddle goes back to normal or if he’s still in a terrible mood. Then we can reassess if it’s worth sending Harry back into battle.”

“Do I get a say?” Harry asked, plaintive.

“You volunteered,” Pansy pointed out. “Besides, Riddle’s not a bad-looking bloke. I bet he’s good enough in the sack—”

Many people began to complain all at once, loudly and vocally, drowning out the end of her sentence.

Chapter Text

No sooner had Harry stepped into the office on Friday morning, than was he greeted by a wide-eyed Hermione, whose vice-like grip on his arms was squeezing hard enough to hurt.

“Harry,” she hissed. “You’re today.”

The meaning of this did not sink in right away. “I’m today?” Harry asked.

“It’s Friday,” she said, giving him a shake, “Harry, he’s picked you for Friday.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Ah,” Harry said weakly. “Friday.”

Ron and Ginny were uncharacteristically silent behind him. Friday summons were no joke.

“Well,” Harry said, trying to sound cheerful, “I’ll just have to be nice, won’t I?”

“I told you we shouldn’t have said anything to him about the wooing,” Ginny muttered to Ron. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“How was I supposed to know he wasn’t actually trying to—” Ron retorted, only to be cut off as Ginny poked her elbow into his side. “Ow! Ginny!”

“Potter. My office, now.”

A quick look at the clock revealed—bloody hell. It wasn’t even eleven yet, and Riddle was already calling him in? And calling him Potter?

Harry rose slowly, swallowing. He tried to think if there was any benefit to his current situation. Being fired in private rather than out in the open?

“I don’t have all day,” Riddle snapped out. He had a hand braced on the door frame, and he did not look as though Harry would be the recipient of any friendliness or kindness on his part.

“Sorry.” Harry hastily made his way over. What would they be talking about? Harry hadn’t finished any of his current assignments yet, and the work he had planned to show Riddle yesterday had already gone on ahead to Ginny.

Riddle vacated the doorway before Harry got there, leaving Harry to avoid tripping on the ground where the carpet of the main office met the newer carpet of Riddle’s office.

Not a second after Harry had shut the door behind him did he find himself being crowded against said door, Riddle’s body imposing a rude lack of personal space, caging him in.

“What game have you been playing?”

Harry’s head knocked back into the door, and his glasses slid a bit down his nose, leaving Riddle’s face blurry and distorted.

“What are you after?” Riddle demanded, and his breath fanned a waft of mint and cinnamon in Harry’s direction. “A raise? A promotion?”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. Then, mindful of the fact he could likely be heard through the door, he dropped his volume and continued with a hiss, “No! Why would you ask me that?”

Riddle fell silent, but he was fuming, jaw twitching from the effort of keeping his mouth closed while he ground his teeth together, still staring Harry down. Harry fidgeted under the scrutiny, hoping the torment would end soon. Was Riddle upset that Harry’s second batch of flowers weren’t romantic? Did he think it had been some kind of dirty trick?

Then Riddle exhaled, blinking, and pulled back, all the tension expunged from his body. “How long have you been with this company, Harry?”

The sudden change of tone was disorienting. Harry adjusted his glasses and took advantage of the pause to move away from the door. “Um. Five years, I think,” he said, after a beat.

Riddle sat down at his desk, now composed, and he gestured to the seat across from him. “And you enjoy your job?”

“I do,” Harry said, not sure what Riddle was getting at. He went to sit down, glancing at the seat before he did so. Why was he even looking at the seat? What did he expect, retribution in the form of a fart cushion?

“Any hobbies? Baking? Knitting?”

“Um.” Harry tried to think. “I draw sometimes? But I’m not very good at it. And I play rugby on the weekends with some friends.”

“I see. Ambitions for the future?”

Harry grimaced. What was this, a job interview? He already worked here! There was no reason for Riddle to be interrogating him about his personal life like this.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Harry said testily.

Riddle frowned, leaning back in his chair.

Harry waited to see if he would be asked anything else, but then Riddle stood up and gestured for Harry to do the same.

“Very well,” said Riddle, moving closer. Harry took a step back out of reflex, ready to spit out a jibe about personal space, only Riddle continued to speak, saying, “That’s all for today, Harry. You are dismissed.”

And that was how Harry found himself rapidly ushered out of Riddle’s office. Riddle’s hand was on his back, shoving him out the door.

Harry managed not to trip on the carpet, and the door swung shut behind Harry without further fanfare, leaving him alone to fend off his coworkers’ inevitable barrage of questions.

Chapter Text

On Saturday, Harry woke up with a sore throat. The first thing he did, after discerning the time, was pick up his mobile and call Ron.

“I’m sick,” Harry said, voice thick with sleep, throat throbbing with the symptoms of his impending illness. He knew it deep in his bones, knew that this time he would not be spared the suffering of clogged sinuses and inability to speak without irritation.

Ron took a moment to swear colourfully. “Will you be good by Monday?” Ron asked nervously. “What are you going to tell Riddle?”

Following Friday’s confusing disaster, the general consensus was that Harry and Riddle had ‘made up’, or something like that. Harry wasn’t sure what constituted them getting together to begin with, let alone breaking up, however temporarily, but the choice of address—Harry or Potter—had now been labelled as a key performance indicator in regards to measuring Riddle’s mood.

“I’ll tell him I’m sick?” Harry said. “It’s not like I’ve used up many of my sick days…”

“Not to make this about the rest of us, because it is rotten that you’re sick and all,” Ron said, “but this is the worst thing that could have happened to us! You and Riddle had just made up and now he’s going to be in an awful mood all over again.”

“It’s only a cold,” Harry said, doubtful. “I can’t see why he’d get upset. And, I dunno, maybe I will be better by Monday?” This was unlikely. Harry didn’t get sick often, but when he did, it was always terrible and lasted for at least a few days.

“Just go back to bed,” Ron advised. “I’ll come by with some soup and things in a bit. Take care of yourself.”

Ron came by with fresh, homemade soup and a large thermos of chamomile tea, which helped.

But by Sunday night, Harry was still coughing and mopping at his nose with Kleenex, and prospects for going in on Monday were not looking very good.

Harry set an alarm for early Monday morning, when Riddle would be in his office, so Harry could call in sick.

And then on Monday he woke up at noon. He had slept clean through his alarm.

Checking his phone revealed dozens of different text messages in varying degrees of emotional disarray. Seeing as Harry had failed to call in, Ron had volunteered to be the bearer of the unfortunate bad news. Riddle had then exercised an unheard of level of tyranny all morning long, and the staff were in shambles, desperately trying to avoid being singled out.

Distressed, Harry decided he would have to go in tomorrow no matter what because this was getting ridiculous.

After taking a hot shower and heating a bowl of leftover soup for lunch, Harry took another long nap. He woke up in time for some dinner, and after that he felt well enough to attempt some laundry. Harry had been so preoccupied with Riddle over the past week that he’d sweated through all his work shirts.

So Harry dumped all his whites into the washer and let the machine do its business while he dozed on his sofa, trying vainly to clear his sinuses.

When Harry woke from his second nap of the day, he felt much better. It was now close to ten pm, and so he went to move his things from the washer into the dryer.

But his dryer wasn’t working.

Harry, with his basket full of soggy dress shirts—all the work shirts he owned—sat down carefully on the floor and tried not to think too hard about what he was going to pick to wear to work tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“Oh, thank god.” Ginny waved Harry over to her car. Ron was in the backseat, head stuck out through the window, gaping.

“Hey,” Harry said. Then he coughed a little. His throat was a bit tetchy still, but he was mostly symptom-free, and just that morning Pansy had texted him to say that if he did not show up for work, she would drive over and break down his door.

“Looking good,” Ron said approvingly.

Harry looked down at himself, then said, “My dryer broke.”

Ginny snorted. “Get in, Romeo.”

Harry slid into the passenger seat. “No, really,” Harry said. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing? I thought the blazer would make it alright…”

“You look great,” Ron repeated, smacking his hand lightly on the back of Harry’s seat as the car began to move. “Don’t worry about it.”

Harry was now worrying about it.

“Good start,” said Pansy, once she’d appraised him. “I’m going to go get Draco. Don’t go anywhere. Weasley, go get him a glass of water. He still looks peaky.”

Ron grumbled and walked off.

Harry tugged at his blazer, still self-conscious. After an hour or so of trying to get his dryer to work, he had hung all the shirts up to dry on their own.

And so in the morning he had stumbled over to his makeshift clothesline only to see that everything was all wrinkly. He could now imagine his mother scolding him for saying that an iron was unnecessary and too bulky for his tiny flat.

“Is this okay, then? I just pulled on this one and put the jacket on top.” He had thought that a two-piece suit with a t-shirt on underneath would pass muster, but if everyone was commenting on it, maybe it didn't?

“Listen,” Pansy said, leaning closer. Her hands reached for his lapels, straightening them out. “You look like a bloody male model, but even better. Riddle’s going to eat you alive with his dark, brooding eyes.”

“Er, right.”

It was then that Ron returned, mug of water in hand. He set the mug upon Harry’s desk. “How’re you feeling, by the way? Not too bad, I hope.”

Pansy smoothed a hand down Harry’s chest, her nails piercing lightly. “Don’t leave,” she repeated. “I’ll be right back.”

“Physically? Feeling better,” Harry said as Pansy left. “Mentally? Still confused.” His palms were starting to sweat, actually. Harry wiped them hastily on his slacks. “Is wearing a t-shirt that big of a deal?” To ease his nerves, Harry reached for the water, lifting it to his mouth.

“The slacks hug your arse,” Ginny said conversationally, peeking over the cubicle wall.

Harry did a spit take and spilled the mug of water all over himself in the process.

“What?” Harry began to ask, only then his ears perked to the sound of that dreaded door opening—

Ginny ducked out of sight, and Ron vanished around the cubical wall. Traitors, the lot of them. Harry reached for the box of tissues he’d brought with him and tried to dab at his shirt, which was now soaked. It was good that it was only water, Harry thought blearily. But at least once he was home, he could try steaming his shirts in the shower to flatten then out.

“Did you buy this yesterday?”

Harry gave himself whiplash as he snapped his head up to meet Riddle’s eyes.

Riddle was… eyeing him. Harry tried not to think of the phrase ‘eat you alive’ and utterly failed to do so.

His shirt was still wet. Harry was keenly aware of this fact. What was Riddle talking about? His… wet shirt?

“Um, no,” Harry said. “I was sick yesterday.”

Riddle stared a while longer, and so Harry tried to mop up more of the water with the tissue he was still holding. Only, Harry didn’t want to take his eyes off Riddle while he was doing this, just in case Riddle did something else weird, and so the resulting motion was awkward, uncomfortable, and mildly mortifying.

Then Riddle cleared his throat. “Don’t use tissue,” Riddle said, his hand slipping into the breast pocket of his own jacket. “It will leave residue behind.” And then his hand withdrew a handkerchief—forest green with silver threads woven into a faint, striped pattern—and held it out for Harry to take.

Chapter Text

Riddle walked away, leaving Harry with a handkerchief and a wild flush rising to his face that had nothing to do with his cold.

Pansy was the first to run over to him. “That was downright swoon-worthy,” she gushed. There was a jar in her hands. “I guess you don’t need this anymore. Riddle’s gone on you, Harry.”

Harry looked at the jar. It was hair gel.

“Does Malfoy just keep that in his desk drawer at all times?” Ginny asked. She had slid over on her office chair to peer around the wall, and now sounded as though she was holding back laughter.

“I told him if he didn’t fork it over, we might see a repeat of Monday,” Pansy said, smirking. “He was very agreeable after that.”

The two women exchanged a high five. Harry clutched Riddle’s handkerchief, noting it smelled faintly of cologne, and tried to melt into the wall.

“Anyways,” Pansy continued, “you’re doing great. Keep up the good work.” Then she gave him a pat on the head and left.

Harry dried up his shirt as best he could, then folded the handkerchief into a neat square. Should he go and give it back? Craning his neck, he could see that Riddle had yet to return to his office—the door was still open.

Leaving the handkerchief out in the open seemed like the best bet. When Riddle came back, he would see that it was waiting for him.

Next, Harry pulled open his desk drawer to retrieve his notepad. He liked to jot down notes while he worked. Quick scribbles of numbers, names, or facts; sometimes little doodles, if the mood struck him.

Stuck to the top of his notepad was a sticky note.

I know it was you.

The handwriting was Riddle’s. Harry had seen Riddle’s writing enough times to recognize it—the elegant slant of the ‘k’ and the ‘y’, the sloping roundness of the vowels.

Was this note meant to be threatening? Harry couldn’t tell. Riddle had left his handkerchief here, here with Harry. That had been an act of—dare he say it—kindness.

Harry peeled the note off of his notepad and held it up to the light in the hopes that it would make more sense.

“What’ve you got there?” Ron asked, suddenly standing a meter away.

“Nothing,” Harry said, snatching the note back close to his chest. “Just a stupid note I wrote for myself.”

“Right,” Ron said, squinting. “Did you need some more water? I can go get you some. And maybe you ought to take your jacket off, too, so it doesn’t get wet.”

Harry was unimpressed with Ron’s lack of subtlety. “Should I flex my arms while I’m at it?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I’m not opposed to arm-flexing,” Ginny said through the wall. “And I’m not above ogling or objectifying the male form.”

“Don’t you two have work to do?” Harry asked them in a derisive tone. “Before Riddle gets back and sees you both bothering me?”

Ron coughed, the tips of his ears going red, and wandered off. Ginny, shockingly, stayed quiet.

Satisfied he had obtained at least a few minutes of blessed silence, Harry stuck Riddle’s note back into his drawer. This note was a brazen move on Riddle’s part. It made Harry feel like he was starring in a horror film. Like the next day he was going to open his desk drawer and find a severed finger in it.

Was this just a continuation of their bizarre courtship, in Riddle’s eyes? Did Harry want it to be a courtship?

Harry tapped his fingers on his desk and thought about their latest interaction. He thought about Riddle’s strange behaviour—the curt greetings, the weird interrogation, the sour mood when Harry had gotten sick.

Was Riddle… interested?

That gave Harry pause. If Riddle had taken Harry’s initial flowers as romantic interest, did that make everything else make sense?

Ugh. Harry rubbed at his temples. He wasn’t well enough to try and puzzle out all this confusing behaviour. He would just have to assume the note was not a threat, and that meant it was a friendly note. A flirty note?

Harry sat up. Was it a flirty note? A way to let Harry know that the flowers had been noted and accepted? Riddle did strike him as an aggressive type of person...

Well, fine, two could play at this game. To hell with it. Why not. Harry had his own sticky notes, and Riddle’s office door was wide open. He’d just have to be quick about this.

Clicking a pen, Harry jotted down his own message. There. Now to sneak it in and await the results.

Chapter Text

By noon, neither Daphne nor Draco had been called into Riddle’s office. No one had been called in at all—not a single person.

Harry had removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, and was humming under his breath while he worked. He had deflected any and all questions about what he had done, choosing instead to imply that, should anyone continue to bother him today, he wouldn’t bother to save them if they got into trouble.

Harry had, however, asked Draco to buy him lunch as a thank you for being saved from Riddle’s summons.

And so Harry spent his lunch hour enjoying the meal he hadn’t paid for and playing Solitaire on his computer.

Hermione, however, was having a hard time living in ignorance. She really wanted to know what was going on, and Harry could feel the vibrations in the floor as she tapped her heels impatiently. He heard her stand a few times only to sit back down almost right after. And then he heard her pacing her cubicle. And then he heard Ginny tell her to calm the hell down so the rest of them could enjoy their lunch hour in peace.

So it came as no surprise when Hermione showed up in front of Harry’s desk after lunch, eyes pleading, lips curled into a pout.

“Harry,” she said, her hands clasped together in a contrite manner, “please, pretty please, tell me what you left in Riddle’s office?”

Well aware that everyone within hearing distance was listening in, Harry shook his head.

Hermione’s gaze grew pained. “Please? Harry? I’m dying.”

“Nope,” said Harry. He was actually having a nice time now that he felt he had a handle on the situation.

“You’re evil,” Hermione said accusingly, pointing a finger at him. “You’ve just absorbed all of the evilness you sucked out of him.”

Harry just shrugged, turning away, and Hermione made a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

As the clock ticked towards five pm, the tension in the air was thicker than Draco’s hair gel.

Harry had already shut everything down and packed his bag. He had an idea of what was coming. At the very least, someone was going to be leaving early today.

At the end of the hour, the door to Riddle’s office opened up.

Riddle stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, jacket folded neatly on his arm. A few strands of hair had escaped their usual slick style, curling over his forehead. His gaze swept the room and settled on Harry. Then his mouth twisted into what might have been a smile.

Harry held still as Riddle drew closer.

“Did you drive today?” Riddle asked, looking down at Harry. Harry was still wearing his white t-shirt, and he was definitely not flexing his arms.

“No,” said Harry.

Riddle scanned Harry’s desk—took in the surface of it, which was clear save for his handkerchief—and eyed the black screen of the silent computer. “Are you finished here?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

Riddle paused. “This isn’t really allowed, you know.”

“I know,” said Harry. “Does it matter?”

Riddle reached into his pocket with two slender fingers and withdrew a yellow square of paper. “Trade?” Riddle asked, brow raised.

Harry picked up the handkerchief and held it out, and then they switched objects, hands brushing.

Then Harry stuck his note to his monitor while Riddle watched him.

“Put the jacket on,” Riddle said, voice pitched low. “And we’ll depart.”

Harry hurried to do so, standing up as he worked his arms through the sleeves. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“There’s a restaurant two blocks down that I prefer,” Riddle said smoothly, and then he went to adjust the collar of Harry’s blazer, folding it neatly, his hands trailing down afterwards.

It felt very different from when Pansy had done it, Harry noted, and he was suddenly rather glad that his dryer had randomly died.

Then Riddle’s hand slid to touch upon the small of Harry’s back. “Shall we?”

They made for the lift, and Harry spared a glance over his shoulder to where the rest of his friends were standing, gaping over the tops of their cubicle walls. They’d figure it out eventually. Harry had left behind the evidence, after all.

Plastered to Harry’s monitor was a yellow sticky note in Harry’s handwriting that read:

And what are you going to do about it?

Chapter Text

A few weeks later, the first fiscal year-end meeting led by Tom Riddle came to order in Meeting Room A.

Harry was bouncing on the balls of his feet as he settled into a chair, beaming at everyone who looked his way. This meant that most everyone was looking at him like he was crazy, which he supposed was fair. The last time they had gathered here like this, nearly a year ago, had been known as the start of ‘Riddle’s Reign of Terror’. But now, times had changed.

Tom was at the front of the room next to the projector screen. He had a few note cards in his hand, but Harry knew that he didn’t actually need them or plan to use them.

“As you all may know,” Tom began, once everyone had quieted and found their seats, “I was brought into this company following the abysmal failures of my predecessor. Over the past year, I have dedicated myself wholly to the task of dragging this branch out of the negatives. However, it has been brought to my attention that in the process of doing so, I have been… less than fair to some of you. For that, you have my apologies.”

Here the audience began to murmur, and Tom frowned, pausing. So Harry gave him a double thumbs up, urging him on. 

Tom renewed his genial smile and cleared his throat, effectively silencing the room.

“But today,” Tom continued, and his smug smirk threatened to split his face in half, “I have fantastic news to report. Due to the monumental effort put forth this year from all departments, our last three quarters have reported substantial improvements across the board, with similar results expected for our fourth quarter at the end of the week.”

Harry was practically vibrating now, the urge to just spill the news building and building because Tom had yet to get to the point.

“As such, everyone in this office will be receiving a 5% bonus at the end of the fiscal year.”

Harry cheered and clapped. He was the only person to do so at first, but then the rest of the room joined in, clapping and whooping with joy.

“Tell them about the party!” Harry said.

Tom glared at him, then gestured for the room to settle.

“We will be having a party,” Tom said. Then his nose wrinkled in distaste, and Harry had to stop himself from giggling. “There will be alcohol,” Tom added as an afterthought. “And everyone is expected to attend.” This last line delivered with a hint of menace.

But there was only more cheering, and Harry whistled loudly, drawing yet another glare from Tom. Harry was going to pay for this later, and it was still totally going to have been worth it.

After the boring review part of the meeting had concluded, everyone went back to work. Harry lingered in the room and helped Tom straighten out the chairs. 

This involved a lot of lifting and moving around, as they had set up a lot of foldable chairs in order to fit everyone inside the room. Harry caught Tom staring at his ass no less than three separate times. Whether getting caught was deliberate or not, Harry had no idea.

But today Harry had worn those slacks that hugged his ass, so. Tom probably knew he’d done that on purpose to be distracting.

“So there’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Harry said.

“Mmmm?”

“On that very first day, with the flowers, did you know it was me?”

Tom put down the chair he’d been holding and walked over. “Let me see,” he mused. “My burning eyes and clogged sinuses aside, when I walked by your cubicle, I was still immediately, intensely assaulted by a primal urge to toss you bodily out the window. So yes, I knew it was you.”

“Aw,” Harry said. Placing his hands atop Tom’s shoulders, he leant in to smack a kiss on Tom’s cheekbone. “I had no idea you were such a sensitive guy.”

“Feeling that urge again,” Tom said, pretending to frown. “To toss you out the window. Wonder where it’s coming from.” His hands came round to hold Harry by the waist, as though to demonstrate the severity of the threat.

“I just bring it out in people,” Harry said sweetly. “It comes with the territory of knowing me. You know what they call me in the office—”

“Yes,” Tom said. He rolled his eyes, releasing Harry and heading for the door. “You mention it every other week. You do know they don’t intend it as a badge of honour?”

“But it is!” Harry insisted, following behind. “It helped me woo you and everything.”

From this position, he could ogle Tom’s back. Namely, those broad shoulders, but also: ass. Harry resisted the urge to smack it, but only because there’d be hell to pay for doing it in a public setting. But someday... someday he would try it. He wasn’t called the Chaos Manager for nothing.

Tom’s tone took on a placating edge. “Of course, Harry. You were very persuasive, what with nearly murdering me with my allergies. Stunning first impression.”

“And then I said hello to you, and asked you how you were, and all you said back was my name! I was only doing my best with what I had to work with!”

Tom was now making a beeline for his office, but Harry only continued to follow him.

“And,” Harry added, jogging along to keep up with Tom’s rapid strides, “and! You scared poor Theodore to death because I sent you flowers! And then you interrogated me in your office about my hobbies! And then you blatantly stared at my wet shirt!”

Tom stepped through the doorway and grasped the door, whirling around to face Harry. “You’re being very unprofessional at the moment,” Tom said, now full of false cheer. “I’ll see you at the end of the work day, Potter.” And then he shut the door in Harry’s face.

“Git,” Harry said, banging a fist on the door. “I’m getting you chocolates with peanut butter in them for Valentine’s Day!”

Chapter Text

Tom’s nose noticed the presence of allergens before his eyes did. But by the time he spotted them it was too late, because he had to slam the door shut with a loud crack in order to mask his violent sneeze.

Flowers? Who the hell had left him flowers?

Tom’s eyes were starting to water. Goddamn genetics. Tom cursed his father under his breath and stalked over to his desk, picking up the bright purple bouquet and examining it for a tag or a card. Once he found the card, he would know who he needed to murder.

There had been no card. Tom had now set the flowers in the corner of the room farthest from his desk. He couldn’t leave his office, not without knowing who had done this; he wasn’t about to give whoever it was the satisfaction of seeing his bloodshot eyes and snot-smeared nose.

So Tom sustained himself on the coffee and scone he’d picked up on his way to the office and focused on his work, trusting in his inner strength to power him through the rest of the day.

By the time six pm arrived, Tom was getting desperate.

He was hungry, drained, his left eye had developed a twitch, and he was still no closer to figuring out who had done this to him.

No matter. He wasn’t about to let something as mundane as allergies defeat him. He’d just have to leave the office with his head held high. If he ignored everyone and acted as though nothing was amiss, then no one would notice anything. Confidence was key.

People were staring at him. Tom was not looking directly at any of them, but he knew they were staring at him. But Tom had his breath held, and so he kept his eyes fixed upon the door that led out to the lifts. Soon he would be free.

But as Tom continued on, something made his nose twitch in irritation, and so he slowed his steps so he could look to his right.

Harry Potter. Atrocious hair, bespectacled green eyes. Smelled like flowers.

There was even a trace of pollen on his shirt, for God’s sake. Did the man have no shame?

But there was no time to pause. Tom was running out of oxygen, and he needed to make it out of the office before he passed out. He would deal with Potter after the weekend, once he had double or triple the recommended dose of antihistamines running through his system.

A weekend for Tom to recover, for Potter to think he had gotten away with his little prank, and then Potter would die.

“You’re an idiot,” said Lucius, looking down at the photo Tom had pulled up on his phone. “Not everyone knows you’re allergic to flowers, you maniac. These are asters. They’re flowers of romantic inclination.”

Tom was not so easily convinced. “My employee is trying to court me with flowers? You do realize what this sounds like.” He knew what some of his employees thought of him. It was more likely that they were plotting his downfall.

Although, Potter wasn’t the type to plan such a nefarious scheme. According to the staff, it was always his fault when the paper copier jammed. That didn’t speak highly of the man’s capabilities.

“You do come across as… very proper,” Lucius allowed. “It may be that he’s simply too shy to be forward. Hence the lack of a card.”

“I spent an hour on Friday with an ice pack on my face,” Tom deadpanned.

“It’s the thought that counts, Tom! Lighten up a little.”

Chapter Text

When Tom arrived at his office, he immediately spotted the new bouquet of flowers. His initial impression was one of pleasure—another gift from his admirer, from Harry. While Tom had yet to decide how he felt about the whole thing, it was nice to be appreciated.

Then Tom stepped closer, and the shape of the flowers registered. Roses. Yellow roses. Tom had no need to look up the meaning of these flowers because anyone with half a brain knew they meant friendship.

Tom stomped over and drew the bouquet up to eye level. These were plastic! Did Harry think he couldn’t handle real flowers?

Frustrated, Tom sat down at his desk, tossing the flowers onto the floor. Then he felt stupid because someone might come in and see he’d tossed them on the floor, and so he went to go pick them up.

He set the flowers on the desk, sending a withering glare their way, and then snatched up his phone, dialing the extension for the IT department.

He did not wait for the greeting to finish before he snapped out, “Theodore Nott. My office today, eleven thirty sharp. Do not be late,” and slammed the phone back down on the receiver.

Then he resumed attempting to melt the plastic roses with his eyes.

Had he done something wrong? What had changed? Had he not been… receptive enough?

Tom scowled. Then he pulled out his personal phone and took a photo of the flowers, which he sent to Lucius along with a question mark. He set his phone down on the desk, only the response was instant; his phone buzzed right away. Seriously? Lucius needed to get a life.

Tom looked down at the message preview.

YOU'VE BEEN FRIENDZONED? LMAO

Nevermind. Tom was going to kill him.

“Obviously you scared him off.”

Tom stabbed at his chicken steak. “I fail to see what I could have done to incite such a response.”

“Slamming a door in someone’s face after they help you is generally considered rude behaviour,” said Lucius.

Tom jabbed his fork in Lucius’ direction. “How was I supposed to know he was seriously interested? For all I know, he could be attempting to weasel his way into a promotion. Your cousin tried that once with me, you know,” Tom said pointedly. “You really ought to teach him to be more cunning.”

“Draco thinks he knows best about everything until he realizes that he doesn’t,” Lucius said. “Just don’t pay him any attention, and eventually he’ll get the message.”

Tom was no longer listening. “Do you think Harry was after a promotion? Or a raise. And now he’s afraid he’s been caught out so he’s attempting a retraction.”

“I think,” said Lucius, “that no matter what I say, you’re only going to find a way to interpret the behaviour to mean what you want it to mean.”

“I’ll call him in on Friday,” Tom muttered. “And find out once and for all.”

“God, Tom. You make it sound so dramatic.”

Chapter Text

“You’re dramatic,” said Lucius.

“Shut up.”

“Dramatic,” Lucius insisted. “Who leaves love notes anymore? Not that what you’re leaving even constitutes as a love note, but seriously, Tom, just go and ask him—”

“I said shut up,” Tom snapped.

“Fine. If you scare him off again, don’t come crying to me.”

“I won’t.”

Tom arrived early on Monday morning and placed his note in Harry’s desk, then went to wait in his office.

And wait.

And wait.

And still, Harry did not turn up.

Where was he? Tom checked the clock on his desk. Five minutes to nine. Harry was not the type of employee to be late. This was officially abnormal behaviour.

Should he call? Harry’s number was listed under his employee contact information, which Tom had access to. And Tom would be perfectly valid with his concern if Harry did not show up for work.

Tom eyed the clock again. He could wait. He could wait until Harry was officially late, and then he could make the phone call.

At 9 am exactly, Ron Weasley knocked on the door to Tom’s office.

“Er,” Weasley said, sticking his head in. “Harry wasn’t feeling well this weekend. He’s got this really bad cold. I know he was going to call in this morning, but I think he must have slept through his alarm—? Okay, um, nevermind, sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll just leave—”

Weasley backed off at the increasingly ominous look on Tom’s face and gently shut the door.

On Tuesday, Tom left the door to his office wide open so he could see if Harry came in.

Employees liked to call in sick to avoid meetings with him, so it stood to reason that Harry might have been ‘sick’ yesterday to avoid a confrontation. But Tom had thought their meeting last Friday had gone reasonably well. Sort of well. Harry had at least answered some of his questions.

Ten minutes before nine, Harry arrived. The Weasley entourage was blocking him from view. Only as Parkinson approached them, the redheads moved aside, falling behind, revealing—Harry was wearing—

Tom hastily stood and shut the door before they could see him. His face felt warmer than usual.

What the hell.

What had Harry been doing yesterday? Had he really been sick?

Tom had never seen Harry wear anything like this before, and he found himself worked up over the idea that Harry had gone out and bought new clothes just to drive him insane.

This was uncalled for. Tom was going to go out there and turn the tables, and then Harry would be the one who was left flustered and wanting.

Following the incident with the handkerchief, Tom was prepared to plot in his office on how to further his advances with Harry. Harry, with his pink, flushed cheeks, his sopping wet shirt. Well. If Tom had ever possessed any moral qualms over dating a subordinate, they were now long forgotten.

As Tom opened his drawer to retrieve a pen, he was greeted with the sight of a yellow sticky note.

And what are you going to do about it?

Now this was a surprise. Tom hadn’t expected a response in kind. This rejoinder was… a challenge. It was definitely a challenge, and it was definitely flirtatious. Tom nodded to himself. Maybe Harry had taken a while to come around— bloody plastic friendship flowers —but he’d gotten there in the end, and that was what mattered.

All of the back and forth had been genuine, then. Harry was interested, only he hadn’t been able to tell if Tom was interested, and the fact that Tom was his superior had led to a lot of stalling. But now everything was sorted.

Tom slipped the note into his pocket, smoothed his tie, adjusted the clock on his desk, and counted down the hours until the work day would end.

Chapter Text

“I’d like to call this meeting to order,” Hermione said primly.

For once, they were holding a meeting after working hours rather than before. The atmosphere was also much more relaxed; the last time they’d held a similar meeting, it had been under rather dire circumstances.

“Cut to the chase, Granger,” Daphne said. “Riddle and Harry are disgustingly in love, and we’re not going to be getting any work done as long as they’re constantly going back and forth between making eyes at each other and driving each other insane.”

“Yesterday Riddle asked me if Harry had any food allergies,” Ron said mournfully. “I was too afraid to lie to him.”

“Personally, I think they’re cute,” Pansy said. “You all got what you asked for: Tom is nice to everyone now, and he’s really, really nice to Harry.”

“Ew,” Ron said, making a face. “Ew! Don’t say it like that.”

“Anyways!” Hermione interjected. “We are looking for a volunteer to help… calm them down, so to speak. Since HR—” Hermione paused to glare at Pansy, who smirked and wiggled her fingers. “—won’t do anything about it.”

Daphne scoffed. “If you want to be the one to tell Riddle to keep it in his pants, then I’ll pay you to do it.”

Draco, who had been uncharacteristically silent throughout all of this, shuffled in his seat.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

Everyone turned to look at him with astonishment.

“You?” Ginny asked, dubious. “Did someone hit you on the head on your way to the meeting room, Malfoy? Or did you forget your entire personality at home this morning?”

“Why’s it so hard to believe that I want to help?” Draco demanded. “I can be just as noble as Potter is.”

“You never lift a finger if you can avoid it,” Pansy said accusingly. “Come on, spit it out. What’s your angle?”

Draco squirmed underneath the weight of everyone’s attention. After a second, he coughed, then said in a rush, “My cousin asked me to. Riddle’s been driving him mad, and he said he’d get me an interview at his firm if I helped him.”

“Your cousin?” Daphne said, disdainful. “Lucius? Isn’t he a stock broker?”

“The point is: I volunteer to do it,” Draco said, ignoring her. “Which means I get all of you to help me, correct?”

“Knew he had an angle,” Pansy muttered.

“I can do this,” Draco said tightly. “How hard can it be?”

“Heard that one before,” Ron said, snorting.

“Five pounds says he doesn’t last a week,” Daphne said promptly, smacking her hand down on the table.

“Hold on,” Ginny interjected. She was scribbling something on a pad of loose-leaf paper. “I’m working out a table for the betting pool.”

“Put me down for ten,” Theodore said, speaking for the first time since the meeting had begun.

“How long?” Ginny asked.

“Two days. And that’s being generous. No one except for me actually saw how worked up Riddle got about Harry.”

“Fair enough,” Ginny said, writing it down.

A few more bets were made while Draco watched.

“You lot didn’t pull this in front of Harry,” complained Draco. “This seems unfair.”

“That’s because we all like Harry,” Pansy said, patting Draco on the arm in a consolatory way. “Harry’s a very selfless person, and he goes out of his way to be helpful. He was virtuous enough that he even won our boss over.”

“I can be selfless!”

“Uh huh. We’ll be sure to let your cousin know you died fighting,” Pansy said in a sympathetic tone. “Fighting in vain, but fighting nonetheless.”

“Put me down for two weeks,” Pansy said. “Fifteen pounds.”

Ginny swung around in her chair to shoot Pansy a calculating look. The two of them were now alone in the meeting room. “You seem very certain about that.”

“Because I am.”

The silence held a moment longer, and then Ginny snorted. “You already went and told on us to them, didn’t you? Ron was right when he called you a soul sucker.”

Pansy only smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure Tom and Harry can be persuaded to extend my immunity to you as well, so long as you aid me with the betting pool.”

Ginny crossed her arms. “Fifty/fifty split.”

“In your dreams, Weaslette. Twenty/eighty.”

“Forty/sixty, or else I tell Hermione what you’ve gone and done, and you know she won’t leave it alone until her moral crusade is satisfied.”

“Diabolical,” said Pansy, approving. “I like it. You have yourself a deal.”