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The good people of Grimmauld Street could tell you a great many things about Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Lucius Malfoy would say that Tom Riddle is an upstanding man of great intelligence and impeccable moral character. One would think that someone in the position of Lucius Malfoy—wealthy heir to the Malfoy legacy of being rich and doing nothing—would have little to do with a lowly office worker, but one would be wrong. Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle are the greatest of friends, and those who cross lines with either of them are quick to earn the dangerous attention of the other.
Hermione Granger would say that Tom Riddle is the most infuriating person she has ever met. This statement would be delivered in a semi-exasperated tone which implies no, she does not in fact hate this man, but rather she lives in a perpetual state of disbelief over his irritatingly perfect existence. For you see, Tom Riddle is her co-worker, and they are competing for the attention and praise of their boss, Horace Slughorn.
Bellatrix Black, despite being engaged, would tell you that Tom Riddle is a numerous number of truly flattering adjectives that would be impossible to list without the use of several dictionaries in several different languages. Truly, if one was to listen to the way Bellatrix spoke of Tom Marvolo Riddle, one would think he was a saint. Or a unicorn. Or both.
If one was to ask Harry Potter what he thought of Tom Riddle, Harry Potter would tell you—
“Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort, and I am going to fucking prove it.”
—Friday afternoon, 6:16 PM.
Ron shows up with two extra-large pepperoni pizzas while Harry is in the middle of watching the news. Harry has his notebook, his pad of sticky notes, and several sheets of loose-leaf paper spread out across his coffee table.
“I thought we were going to watch the game,” Ron says, heaving a resigned sigh as he sets the pizza box on the kitchen counter.
Harry makes a distracted noise that might be an attempt at regular human speech. Ron watches Harry scribble down a few bullet points that are probably impossible for anyone else to read. Five years since their high school graduation and Harry’s handwriting still looks like chicken shit.
Ron goes back into the kitchen for napkins. When he pops back out into the living room, it seems like Harry has moved onto a second news channel. “Game starts in thirty, yeah? You gonna be done soon?”
“Er, yeah. In a minute. There was a bank robbery on 31st.”
“I can see that,” Ron says placatingly. “I heard it during the first news broadcast you watched. Isn’t that the same one from last night? Did you even go to bed?”
“Crime doesn’t sleep,” Harry mutters in undertone.
“What was that?”
“I said,” Harry repeats, flustered, “crime doesn’t sleep.”
Ron stares for a moment. Then he pries open one of the pizza boxes and digs out two slices. A slice for himself and a slice for Harry, who would have starved to death long ago if he didn’t have friends willing to bring pizza over at regular intervals.
“Time to eat,” Ron declares, walking over and shoving a pizza slice into Harry’s field of vision. “Unless crime doesn’t eat, in which case crime can bugger the fuck off to somewhere else for the ten minutes it will take you to actually eat something that isn’t crisps and raspberry licorice.”
Harry mumbles out a distracted thanks, accepts the pizza, and stuffs half the slice into his mouth in one go. Ron witnesses Harry chew and swallow the entire absurd mouthful within seconds.
“Okay, I’ve eaten some food. Also, you’re blocking the screen,” Harry says patiently, bright green eyes far too wide to be truly innocent.
Ron gives up. If they spend the next hour watching news broadcasts and searching up blurry potato images to fuel Harry’s rabid obsession, so be it. Harry is his friend, and Ron was raised to support his friends through thick and thin, even if thick and thin is synonymous with being thoroughly convinced your next-door neighbour is secretly a supervillain.
“Alright, budge over,” Ron says as he flops down on the couch next to Harry. “Tell me what you’ve got going on lately with your weird mission.”
Harry perks up. “Okay, so I’ve been waking up at five every morning to watch Riddle leave his house—”
Ron groans inwardly as Harry brings out a timetable. This could take a while.
—Saturday morning, 4:54 AM.
When Harry had first started morning stakeouts, he had made the mistake of leaving the furniture in his room the way it was. He’d suffered a bad knee and back pains for two weeks before he’d been smart enough to move his goddamn dresser away from the window.
Nowadays, Harry will perch comfortably on a cushioned chair while he watches the pavement below. Any minute now, Riddle will exit his house dressed in one of his stupid suits. No one who works on an office clerk’s salary can afford Tom Ford suits. That’s just insanity. Plus, if what Hermione has to say about Tom is true, Riddle is a narcissist who buys suits because they share the same first name.
Harry takes a moment to imagine the thoughts that go through Riddle’s head every morning when he steps out of his house.
Why yes, my name is Tom. Why yes, I buy my stupid suits from Tom Ford because I am a narcissist. Why yes, these slacks hug my arse in an enticing manner—
Ahem. Anyways, Harry is waiting for Riddle to appear.
Riddle doesn’t leave the house every morning, but when he does leave, he leaves at five sharp. Harry goes to bed every night at nine like a pre-teen because of this. He needs to record the timestamps of Tom’s departures so he can match them up with appearances of the notorious supervillain Lord Voldemort.
The fact that this has been going on for upwards of two months and produced no concrete results is… a small fact. It’s a tiny baby fact that does not deter Harry from his ruthless desire to expose Riddle for who he truly is: a crook and a villain.
At five exactly, Tom Riddle exits his house. He locks his door with swift, familiar motions, then tucks his key into the inner pocket of his coat. Then he stops to smooth his hair back like he’s the male lead in a spy thriller and not a berk who wakes at five on a Saturday morning for no goddamn discernible reason. His hair isn’t even out of place! Harry wants to strangle Riddle, but the energy for that would require at least two cups of coffee, and he can’t leave his post to make coffee until Riddle is gone.
Riddle adjusts the non-existent wrinkles on his expensive clothes and strolls towards the street. Harry shrinks back from the window so he won’t be seen. From this shittier angle, it is harder to tell where Riddle is going. Some days, Riddle goes right, which is out of Harry’s line of sight. Other days, Riddle turns left, which means Harry gets a few more seconds of ogling watching as Riddle strides past his house.
Today, Riddle turns left. He walks for a few steps, then pauses. Harry waits to see if the man will do anything. He’s not even sure what to expect. Riddle’s not about to—to strip down and reveal his supervillain costume under his civilian clothes. That is not about to happen, and Harry has not dreamed about what it would look like while bored out of his mind during his delusional, early-morning sessions of Riddle-watching.
Lo and behold, Riddle adjusts his hair again, then resumes his leisurely stroll down the pavement. Ridiculous. Real life is not a Pantene commercial.
Harry sits there until Riddle disappears. Then he lets out a huge yawn, stretching his stiff limbs out. Maybe he can just go back to sleep like any other sane person would do. Wake up in a few hours and make some coffee. Yeah, that sounds like a really great idea.
With a great burst of motion, Harry tosses himself back onto his bed and buries his face into his pillow. Yep, still warm. This is a totally awesome idea. Time to pass out.
—Saturday afternoon, 10:23 AM.
Harry wakes up to fifteen notifications on his phone, all of them from RSS feeds he had set up to tell him if there was any news on Voldemort. After a few minutes of disoriented scrolling, Harry puts together a mental list of what has happened since he went back to sleep at five am.
Two more bank robberies, three instances of vandalism, and one spectacular case of inciting a riot in the middle of Main Street. What the bloody buggering fuck?
Harry checks the current time and lets out a loud noise of disbelief. “I slept for five hours! How the hell did he do all that in five hours? Fucking bastard!”
Now filled with rage and very strong feelings of righteousness, Harry rolls out of bed, brushes his teeth, washes his face, and takes a scaldingly-hot shower. Then he goes to his kitchen and makes an entire pot of coffee. Today is a three-cup day because Tom Riddle is an insufferable asshole.
Harry is halfway through his second cup when his phone rings. It’s Ron, so Harry picks up. He and Ron have an understanding about phone calls. If Harry doesn’t answer during normal daylight hours, then Ron reserves the right to come over and confiscate the key to Harry’s conspiracy evidence room. This is not a real threat because Harry has two spare copies of the key stashed in his house, one of them hidden under a floor tile in his basement, but it’s the thought that counts. He doesn’t want to cause Ron any unnecessary worry.
“I called you three damn times,” is the first thing Ron says when Harry picks up.
“I was sleeping!” Harry defends. Damn it. He should have looked at his other notifications and not just the Voldemort-related ones.
“Bullshit. You just told me yesterday that you wake at five every morning to try and catch Riddle in the act.”
“Well, yes, but I went back to sleep after! I’m not crazy!” Ron does not need to know that the whole ‘going back to sleep’ thing is a recent occurrence.
Ron makes a frustrated noise. “Okay, but have you seen the news—”
“Yes!” Harry says, offended. “What kind of idiot do you take me for? I’ve got like, three different RSS feeds depending on what kind of crime he commits.”
“...Right. Forget I asked. The reason I called was because I was worried you were about to go do something stupid like confront him.”
“I wouldn’t,” Harry says. “I know I’m not a hero or anything. Why would you even think that?” He has thought about it, but that doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people have fantasies about being a superhero. Harry knows for a fact that Ron and Hermione have some weird kinky cosplay stuff in their closet specifically for that reason.
“Okay, good.” Ron genuinely sounds relieved. “You were really worked up last night, that’s all. You know how you get. Remember Malfoy? You followed him around for months—”
“Draco was up to no good and I proved it,” Harry says furiously. “Just like I’m going to prove that Riddle is up to no good.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t exactly sane behaviour, was it?” Ron asks. “We all would have been better off if you’d just asked Malfoy if he was—”
Harry coughs loudly, which shuts Ron up.
“Anyways,” Ron says hastily, “I’m sure you will uncover whatever it is that Riddle is up to. But Ginny is going to come check on you later today,” Ron warns. “So you better have eaten food and done people things or she’ll go nuts on you.”
“I’m not a little kid. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Never said you were or that you did.”
“Riddle’s got to be stopped!”
“Still not disagreeing, but I do hope you mean ‘stopped by the police’ and not ‘stopped by my barging into his house and accusing him’.”
“You suck. I’m going back to my research.”
“There’s leftover pizza in your fridge,” Ron reminds him. “Bye.”
“Good bye,” Harry says. He hangs up. Time to get down to business.
—Saturday evening, 7:23 PM.
“Sorry I’m late!” Ginny shouts as she enters Harry’s house. “Stupid amount of traffic today, but bet I don’t have to tell you that since all of it is Voldemort’s fault.”
Unfortunately, Harry’s living room is empty. Harry’s kitchen is also empty. Now, Ginny doesn’t think that Harry is in his bedroom or in his basement, but even if those options had been a possibility, there is only one place in this house where Harry would be at this point in time.
The Conspiracy Room.
This is what all of Harry’s friends call the room. Harry thinks of it as an evidence room or something similar, but it’s really just a normal office room with lots of cork boards and red string. Hence: Conspiracy Room.
“Harry? Are you red stringing again?”
There is no response to her shouting, which means Harry either didn’t hear her or is in the middle of some super-vital breakthrough regarding his solo mission to connect the two distant dots that are Lord Voldemort and Tom Riddle.
Ginny doesn’t think much of Riddle. To her, he is just another posh bloke who likely thinks women are there to be objectified for his personal pleasure.
What is funny is how seriously dedicated Harry is to proving that Riddle is actually an infamous supervillain. Harry is a sweetheart, an absolute darling, but when he makes up his mind about something, he will go to the ends of the earth to prove his point.
“Harry?” Ginny sets her bag of groceries on the kitchen floor on her way to Harry’s office. There’s nothing in the bag that won’t spoil if she leaves it out for a few more minutes.
The door to the Conspiracy Room is slightly ajar. Ginny pushes it open very slowly. She has learned her lesson about barging in. If she accidentally knocks down a pile of papers, it can set Harry back hours. If only Harry was as organized as he is determined, then he would truly be an unstoppable force.
Inside the room are piles of papers, an absurd amount of pixelated photographs, and at least two dozen push pins strewn all over the floor. But most importantly, there is no Harry.
There is no Harry, but there is a blonde-haired woman wearing radish-shaped earrings and a long floral dress. She is sitting cross-legged amongst the disaster zone of mess tossed about the room.
“Luna?” Ginny asks, bewildered.
Luna beams in the dazzling, dreamy way that only Luna can beam. “Hello, Ginny!”
Ginny casts a confused look at the empty room. “Where is Harry? Is he not home?”
“Oh,” Luna says, tapping her fingers on the floor. “I think he was kidnapped, but I’m not entirely sure.”
“WHAT?!”
—Saturday, 11:35 PM.
Harry has a blindfold over his eyes. His wrists are tied behind his back, and he is sitting on a wooden chair in an uncomfortable position that will make his shoulders ache for at least a week. Also, his head hurts a super fuckton amount. It hurts really bad, like someone had clubbed him over on the back of it and then tied him up in this chair.
Wait… wait did that happen? Has he been clubbed over in the head and tied up in this chair?
“I see you’re finally awake,” says a voice. “Have anything to say for yourself?”
Harry’s head rolls around a bit as he tries to focus. This voice is a sexy voice. It would be a shame not to listen to it. “Okay, uh, where do I start?”
Harry licks his lips and tries to shift into a more upright position, but the ropes that are holding him in place are pretty sturdy ropes. There is a second in which Harry battles against the urge to slip back into sleepyland. He wants to answer the sexy voice before he passes out again.
“I’m not sure what kind of bondage you’re into, but I have to tell you that I’m very much a ‘consent-first’ type of man.” Harry winks, then remembers he’s wearing a blindfold. Rats. “Also, I don’t put out on the first date, so you’ve already failed step one.”
“Who do you work for?” the voice demands. Actually, this voice sounds vaguely familiar, but Harry is too disoriented to place it.
The owner of the sexy voice comes closer and violently shoves Harry’s chair back onto its hind legs. Harry decides he does not like this new angle. It feels like he is going to be dropped onto the floor, where he will definitely crack his head open and get a bad concussion. Concussions suck.
“Uh, I work as a sports journalist at that office building on Peverell Crescent. Can you untie me now? My arms are kind of sore.”
There is a long pause. Harry strains to listen for sounds, to make sure that his captor hasn’t up and left him. That would be awful. Harry has no idea where he is, and if he isn’t home when Ginny shows up, Ron will confiscate the third copy of his evidence room key. It is terribly inconvenient to have to go to the basement every time he wants to add more evidence to his main Voldemort corkboard.
“If the answer is no, you can just say so,” Harry says affably. “I won’t like it, but it’s generally considered rude to leave people hanging.”
“...No, I will not untie you. Did Dumbledore send you?”
“Who? Send me where? Is Dumbledore the guy who tied me up and left me here? Because if he is, I want to have words. Very, very irate words, many of them inappropriate for children thirteen and under.”
“I am the one who kidnapped you,” the voice snaps. “Please do keep up.”
“Sorry,” Harry deadpans. “I think my head’s knackered from being, you know, knocked out or chloroformed or whatever the hell and left tied up in a chair for god knows how long.”
“If you don’t work for Dumbledore, then who do you work for?”
“What is this even about?” Harry’s beginning to feel cranky. All these questions are not helping him get his head on straight. “Corporate espionage?”
His captor makes a very frustrated noise that reminds Harry inexplicably of Ron. “Do you honestly have no idea what this is about?”
“Maybe… if you untie me… I might figure it out?” Harry asks hopefully. He almost winks again, then remembers that he can’t do that. Stupid blindfold is ruining his charm. “Or at least take the blindfold off. Come on. I’m literally blind without my glasses.”
Surprisingly, this argument works. The blindfold comes off. Harry groans at the sudden light burning his retinas and blinks his eyes repeatedly. “Where do you live? The sun?! Why is it so bright?”
“Shut up and listen,” says his captor. He snaps his fingers in front of Harry’s face to get his attention. “I want to know why you’ve been so interested in Lord Voldemort’s activities.”
Harry catches a glimpse of a blurry face before he shuts his eyes to block out all the annoying light. God, his head feels like it’s been tossed into a bullet blender. “Who the hell wants to know?”
“Do you ever answer a question when you’re asked?” the voice asks, irritated. “You are trying my patience. If you do not give me the answers I require, I will be forced to harm you.”
“You must really like the sound of your own voice,” Harry mutters. “I mean, it’s a sexy voice, sure, but normal people don’t think that about themselves…”
A hand grips Harry’s jaw in a way that is not quite painful. “Why are you tracking Lord Voldemort?”
“Your hand’s really big,” Harry slurs. He forces his eyes open so he can look at his captor, just to see if the man’s as handsome as his voice sounds.
His captor is wearing a mask. It is a really familiar mask that looks kind of like a skull, but a skull made of porcelain that really sells the whole dramatic Phantom of the Opera edgelord vibe. Come to think of it, isn’t this guy’s voice also really familiar?
Harry stares for what feels like several years, thinking harder than he ever has in his entire life, then croaks out, “Riddle? What the fuck? Are you trying to seduce me?”
—Saturday, 11:42 PM.
Several hours of trying to decipher and dismantle Harry’s decimated Conspiracy Room to find clues prove to be utterly useless. Ron is the only one who can remotely read Harry’s handwriting, and even that skill has not produced any helpful evidence. They have no idea where Harry has gone or why he’s been taken.
“I know we all treated this as an obsessive side hobby of his,” Hermione says wearily, “but perhaps we didn’t give Harry enough credit. We dismissed his efforts because they were aimed towards Riddle, but this is…” She gestures around the room. “This is a great deal of information he’s put together.”
“Harry’s brilliant when he puts his mind to something,” Luna says loyally. “I am sure he won’t blame you all for not believing him.”
“Of course Harry is brilliant!” Hermione says loudly. She looks distraught as she rubs her hand over her face. “He is very brilliant, he’s just eccentric! And perhaps a bit misguided, but that’s not the point. We have to find him! Maybe we ought to go to the police… but he hasn’t been missing long enough for us to file a missing person’s report.”
“What do you mean for not believing him?” Ginny asks Luna. “You don’t think Riddle kidnapped him, do you?”
“It makes the most sense,” Luna says, in a tone that implies reasonableness when by all means there should be none whatsoever.
“It makes zero sense,” Ron retorts. “But I don’t suppose it hurts to knock on the bloke’s door and ask if he’s seen anything. Hermione, I think you should do it.”
“Me?” Hermione demands. “Why me?”
“You’re bloody scary when you want to be. Riddle’ll have a hard time saying no if it’s you. If it’s one of us, he might just slam the door.”
Hermione scrunches her face up. “Fine. I’ll do it. But only because it’s for Harry.”
“Eh,” Ginny says, unbothered. “It’s nearly midnight on a Saturday. Riddle might be about to go to bed. If he knows anything, I’m sure he’ll tell you right away so you’ll leave him be.”
—Saturday, 11:49 PM.
“Of course I know you’re Voldemort,” Harry says angrily. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”
“I—” Riddle is cut off by the sound of his doorbell chiming.
“Great,” Harry says. “I bet that’s Ginny. She’s going to yell at me for forgetting to have dinner. This is all your fucking fault.”
—Saturday, 11:53 PM.
“Hello, Granger,” says Riddle. He’s smiling politely, but it looks tense, strained. “Is there a particular reason you’ve seen fit to disturb me at this late hour?”
Hermione grimaces. She is aware, at this moment, that she looks awful. She has not changed out of her office clothes, she has not cleaned off any of her makeup, and she is the most stressed she’s been since at least last Thursday, which means her hair is frizzing. Riddle is probably mocking her in his head for showing up at his doorstep looking like a mess.
“I was just wondering if you’ve seen Harry lately? He’s not at home and his place looks a mess, like someone’s been rifling through it. We—myself and Harry’s friends—are worried something has happened to him. There has been a lot of crime today,” Hermione adds as an afterthought. “So best to be safe.”
“Haven’t seen him,” Riddle says. He’s already got the door half closed. “If there’s nothing else…?”
“You didn’t see him leave the house or anything?” she presses.
“I have not seen him,” Riddle repeats flatly. “No idea where he is or where he might have gone. We are neighbours, not friends. Good evening, Granger.” Then he slams the door unceremoniously in her face.
“Prick,” Hermione mutters. Now she has to go back and report that she has learned nothing. Perhaps they should canvas the entire neighbourhood for clues.
—Sunday, 12:02 AM.
“She left?” Harry asks. “Ha! I bet she saw right through you and is going to the police. Your reign as Voldemort is over, Riddle. Your legions of Twitter followers will have to find another sexy villain to simp for.”
Riddle shoots him an incredulous look. “How hard did I hit your head?”
“Okay, listen.” Harry loses his track of thought after finishing that sentence. It takes him a few seconds to remember what he planned to say. “Listen,” he repeats. “Just because you wear expensive clothes and have a nice arse does not mean that robbing banks is okay.”
“...Right.” Riddle sounds amused. Amused is alright, but it’s not the same as sounding turned on outraged that Harry has outsmarted him.
“Yep,” Harry says. “I said what I said.”
“Tell me more,” Riddle purrs. He pulls up another uncomfortable-looking wooden chair and sits down in it. “What other... aspects... of my person are not good enough to permit me to rob banks?”
“Um, that’s a very hard question. I need a moment to think about that.”
“Take all the time you need, darling.” Riddle leans forward to place Harry’s glasses back on his face. The world is once again visible to Harry. Huh. Riddle has removed his Voldemort mask.
“I like your face more without the mask,” Harry says immediately.
Riddle snorts, but he’s smiling as he shifts back in his chair and crosses his legs. Nice legs.
“You really are blind, aren’t you?” Riddle says.
Nevermind about the legs. They are unfairly long legs attached to a tall git. “Your villain name is stupid,” Harry says instead. “You are not sexy enough to use a name like that without ridicule occurring. I will ridicule you. Voldemort is a stupid name.”
“I’ve decided you likely have a concussion,” Riddle says suddenly, standing up. “You will go to sleep, and I will wake you in a few hours to see if your condition has worsened.”
Harry’s already slept half the day away. It feels horribly unproductive. Then again, he has proof for his theory sitting right in front of him, so maybe it’s not so terrible.
“Okay,” Harry agrees. “But only if you stay in the room with me.”
“That is generally the point of my observing you for signs of a concussion.”
—Sunday morning, 5:17 AM.
Harry wakes up to his face buried in a pillow. His first thought is that he needs to get up to go watch Riddle leave his house, but then he remembers.
He remembers.
Harry sits up, alarmed. His head is sort of dizzy but it’s not entirely out of sorts. Not like it had been yesterday. Yesterday, when he had finally gotten confirmation that Tom Riddle is in fact Lord Voldemort.
“I see you’re finally awake,” Riddle says calmly. “Did you sleep well? How are you feeling?”
Did he sleep well? Harry looks around. He is in a bed that is not his bed, in a strange room with a man who has a nice arse.
“Harry?”
Harry is experiencing panic that might be a gay panic but is probably just regular panic mixed in with lots of other panics. None of this is good news.
“Did we sleep together?!” Harry demands in horror. “Fuck, I bet we did. Don’t tell me if we did. Let me keep my dignity.” He pauses. “Unless it was really fantastic, then I do want you to tell me.”
Riddle stares at him. “We did not sleep together. What makes you think that?”
Harry isn’t sure if he’s disappointed by that answer. “My limbs are all sore from you tying me up. It’s hard to tell the difference.”
Riddle rubs at his face. “What am I going to do with you?”
“If that’s a question for me to answer,” Harry says, “which I am hoping it is, the answer I would like to provide is: I let Harry go and we never talk about this embarrassing moment ever again unless it’s to have a nice friendly laugh about it.”
“Embarrassing?”
“For you, obviously. Because I figured you out and everything. No one believed my theory! Absolutely ridiculous, if you ask me. They didn’t believe me about Draco either… but I showed them! I showed all of them! Cheating bastard. Glad I broke up with him.”
Riddle looks at him for a moment, then sighs. “I don’t suppose threats of murder are enough to keep your mouth shut? Or if I pay you an absurd amount of money?”
“Why would you want to kill me?” Harry asks, offended. “I haven’t done anything wrong. You can’t just kill people because they’re smarter than you.”
“No one can find out that I am Lord Voldemort,” Riddle says slowly. “Do you understand?”
“I mean, yeah? I know how the whole secret identity thing works. If it gets out, then you have to fake your death and make a whole new identity in another city, which is understandably a huge hassle that you probably don’t want to have to go through. God knows the setup costs alone are astronomical. Damn economic downturn.”
“Correct. You are… correct.” Riddle stands up and looks Harry over for longer than is really necessary to look at anyone who you haven’t slept with before. “So we have an agreement? You will not tell anyone what you have uncovered, and in return, I will let you live.”
“Wait, is this a bargaining thing? Was the money thing serious? Can I ask for stuff?”
“No.”
“Not even a hundred quid to buy pizza?”
“What—who needs that much money for pizza?”
“Ron eats a lot. You don’t get it. We buy two pizzas, and I eat maybe three of those slices. He eats the rest of it all on his own.”
Riddle pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll buy you some pizza. Happy?”
Harry scrunches up the edge of Riddle’s bedsheets with his hands. “These are some nice sheets,” he adds. He gives them a pat. “Very comfortable.”
“You cannot have my bedsheets.”
“Um.” Harry shifts on the bed, tries to arrange himself a little better. “The pillows are nice, too. Very soft. Sexy, some might say.” This is when Harry remembers that he can wink now, so he does. He winks.
“I see.” Riddle clears his throat. “Why don’t I take you to breakfast? Will that satisfy your… demands?”
“Breakfast in bed works, too,” Harry says cheerfully. He folds the bedsheets back over his lap. “I’m not picky. Someone should probably tell Ron and everyone that I’m okay, though. Ron’s probably really worried, poor bloke.”
END.
