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English
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Published:
2023-01-31
Completed:
2023-08-11
Words:
2,191
Chapters:
2/2
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and dance you suddenly (forever is now)

Summary:

Tom Marvolo Riddle, High Lord Slytherin, reminds himself that he cannot publicly cast the Killing Curse solely because an upstart wizard is flirting with Lady Harriet, his future lady-wife.

Notes:

The title comes from a poem by e.e. cummings.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Tom Marvolo Riddle, High Lord Slytherin, generally maintains an unshakable grip on his composure. Despite how irritated or murderous he might feel at any given moment, it rarely shows in a way that is noticeable to anyone but his closest of Vassals. Right now, it’s taking a monumental amount of self-control to keep himself from casting the Killing Curse at the upstart wizard who’s shamelessly flirting with Lady Harriet, Heir Charlus Potter’s younger twin sister.

“Who is that?” Tom asks his circle of friends, who also serve as his Vassals.

“Mister Alvin Avery,” Heir Abraxas Malfoy promptly replies, his gray eyes narrowed.

“He’s my eighth cousin,” Heir Atticus Avery clarifies with a vicious frown on his face. “He’s—”

Harriet Potter throws her head back and laughs, delight sparkling in her green eyes as her mirth fills the room. Tom watches countless purebloods in the ballroom at Lestrange Manor turn to watch her with grins on their faces.

Tom grinds his teeth together. 

“—amiable and well-liked by the ladies,” Atticus finishes with a huff, eyeing Tom as if he’s a time-delayed explosive curse that’s about to explode.

I cannot murder someone for making Harriet laugh, Tom reminds himself. As tempting as it is to do so, he literally cannot. Such behavior isn’t just. And as the High Lord of the Just and Most Olde House of Slytherin, the family magic will not allow it. 

There’s a yawning pit of madness and jealousy inside of him that twists tighter and tighter when Harriet beams at Alvin, leaning closer to him, almost intruding on his personal space, implying a certain level of comfort and intimacy between them that sends Tom’s magic writhing like a wild beast inside of him.

He hasn’t taken her on a Courtship Date yet, but there’s no question in his mind that Lady Harriet will be his lady-wife by the end of the year. If Charlus weren’t so abominably particular about what’s worthy of her—the Potter Heir has smugly refused four separate courtship gifts on her behalf, each more rare and expensive than the last—Harriet would already be his bride.

To see her gaily amused by a charismatic wizard from a distant branch bloodline is … intolerable.

Harriet will be High Lady Slytherin once Charlus stops being a spiteful git. It was amusing, at first, how protective his old potions partner is of his sister. Now, Charlus is coming dangerously close to ending up on the other side of Tom’s wand.

“I—” Tom’s mouth snaps shut as Harriet places her glove-covered hand on Alvin’s forearm and leans closer to him with a conspiratorial smile.

Jealousy and rage flare so sharply through his magic that it travels down his bonds to his Vassals, who flinch beside him.

“My lord, perhaps—”

Charlus rounds a column in the ballroom and sweeps his gaze down Tom’s body with something that’s one part amusement, one part disappointment, and one part derisive contempt. He glances from Tom over to where Alvin and Harriet are conversing. “For a wizard who claims to want my sister as his treasured lady-wife, I’ve yet to see any evidence of your sincerity.”

“How dare you, Potter?” 

“He—!”

Tom holds up a hand, commanding silence from his Vassals as something clicks into place in his mind. Of course. He can’t believe he overlooked something so valued to a Potter. No wonder Charlus kept returning his courtship gifts.

All this time, Tom has contained his possessiveness and protectiveness, determined to comport himself in a manner that Charlus will find faultless. He’s shown admirable self-restraint and kept his distance out of respect for Charlus’s refusal of the gifts.

He thought that would win Charlus’s favor.

Tom was wrong. He has never been more wrong about anything in his life.

Because Charlus is the same wizard who hexed and cursed every single wizard who came within two feet of his lady-wife, Heiress Dorea Potter née Black, when he pursued her. To Charlus, who protects his lady-wife so vigorously, who keeps close to her in crowded rooms, whose eyes trail after her with love and passion and a fierce determination to please her in all things, Tom’s interest must seem shallow and frigid and fleeting. In light of that, it’s no wonder he’s so readily dismissed Tom’s attempts to court his sister.

The smile that carves its way across Tom’s face has several people in the vicinity abruptly turning away from him as if they fear his attention.

Charlus has no idea what he’s unleash—

“Finally!” Charlus says, something darkly delighted in his eyes and voice. “Harriet hates Avery. If she has to keep pretending he’s fascinating to make you jealous enough to intervene, she’s liable to hold a grudge against you for your thick-headedness for months.”

Tom’s brain stalls.

Harriet is intentionally—? Well, that changes things.

He stalks across the ballroom with a dangerous roll to his gait and wraps his arms around Harriet’s waist from behind, gently guiding her backward so that the ribbons on the corset of her beautiful crimson gown are firmly snuggled against the front of his emerald robes.

“Darling, philanthropy is a lauded trait, especially for the soon-to-be Materfamilias of an Oligarchy House, but I do believe you’ve charitably bestowed enough of your attention on this poor boy. You wouldn’t want him to get ideas above his station,” Tom states, his chin nestled atop her gorgeous dark hair, glaring at Alvin with an unmistakable threat.

Alvin takes two swift steps backward and bows deeply. “My apologies, High Lord Slytherin, I didn’t realize—”

“That is obvious,” Tom says with a sneer.

“The gala started nearly forty minutes ago and you had yet to ask me to dance, my lord,” Harriet says as she smirks up at him over her shoulder, arching her long, elegant neck in a blatant taunt.

If Harriet wants to play games, Tom is more than willing to indulge her. He kisses her neck, scraping his teeth gently against her fair skin, smugly pleased when a soft gasp spills from her lips. She shivers in his arms.

“An error I intend to correct immediately,” Tom says before spinning her away from Alvin and out onto the dance floor.

“Follow my lead, my lord,” Harriet teases with a challenge in her eyes, her velvet-covered thumb brushing against the bare skin of his neck.

“Very well, darling,” he purrs before following her subtle cues as to where to step and turn on the dance floor as the musicians transition to a quickstep.

Harriet laughs, her smile as bright as the sun. It fills his veins with fire and need.

Tom can’t wait to burn in her arms.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

“I confess, my lord,” Harriet says, glancing up at him through her eyelashes, “I was beginning to wonder at your sincerity.”

The words strike right at the heart of Tom. He tightens his grip on her and says, “I erred. Pray, forgive me, Lady Harriet.”

It is galling to have to admit such to her. Tom is not perfect, despite what pureblood society might believe. However, he prides himself on being as near to perfect as it’s possible for a mere mortal to be. He’s furious with himself that he wasted so much time sending gifts and politely keeping his distance and, in so doing, led Harriet to believe his feelings were insincere.

If Charlus hadn’t taken pity on him tonight—and that’s what he did, even as snide and biting and derisive as it was—would Harriet have surrendered all interest in Tom and turned her attention and affections elsewhere?

The thought alone is agony on par with the Cruciatus Curse.

Harriet raises an eyebrow. “If rumor is correct, I do believe that is the first time that you’ve ever offered an apology, Your Esteemed Grace. I’m honored.”

It isn’t. Not quite. Tom grievously erred on four separate occasions when he first came to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, unaccustomed to Avalon and the customs and protocols, having been abandoned to the Muggle World and raised in a wretched orphanage as he was.

He cannot, will not, forgive his mother for that, or the crimes she committed against his father, which is why he declined to change his surname to ‘Slytherin’ upon the assumption of his elevation to the title. 

“I shall graciously accept your apology,” Harriet states, her green eyes piercing and forgiving all at once.

“You’re too kind,” Tom replies with an edge of facetiousness to his voice.

“Only to those who warrant it,” Harriet corrects.

And isn’t that a fascinating distinction? Tom has never once heard even an echo of a whisper anywhere in Avalon that would attribute any type of unkindness to Lady Harriet Potter, who many speak of with unrelenting approbation.

So what, precisely, has his darling done to—?

The musicians switch from a quickstep to a tango with a talented trill of a violinist’s fingers.

Tom pulls Harriet fully against him and smirks when she audibly gasps as her chest is crushed against his. “Will Charlus kill me for tangoing with you?”

“I’ll protect you from his wrath,” Harriet promises breathily as he slides his hand over her hip, under her thigh, and then drags her leg up and over his.

Tom has, obviously, never once had cause to be inside of an active volcano, has never felt lava unshielded against his bare skin, scorching him to the bone. But he is suddenly and ardently certain that it must feel exactly how he does at this moment with Harriet draped over him.

“Gryffindor,” he accuses playfully, his magic roiling with hunger inside him.

“Guilty as charged,” Harriet replies, her hands rising from where they’re meant to be to grasp his hair.

If Tom were anyone other than High Lord Slytherin, he’s certain that one of the assigned Lestrange chaperones would have already attempted to separate them, whispering sharply of the importance of remembering propriety. Since Tom fully intends on having Harriet as his bonded lady-wife as soon as he can possibly arrange it, he doesn’t consider any part of their current closeness improper. If anyone tries to remove her from his arms, when he’s waited an obscenely long time already to hold her in them, he knows himself well enough to admit he’ll hex the person who does so with as strong and vicious of a hex as the Slytherin family magic will allow.

It’s entirely possible, likely, even, that Heir Reginald Lestrange has conveyed the particulars of the situation to his father to prevent just such an eventuality.

The musicians trade the tango for a Viennese waltz.

Tom despises the few inches of distance the dance requires but can’t help but grin when she tauntingly says, “It’s my turn to lead again, my lord,” before taking control and guiding him across the dancefloor.

Charlus glares at Tom as they pass him and Dorea, but his twitching lips belie his old potion partner’s amusement at the predicament Tom has found himself in—not that Tom considers it a predicament, even though the furor in the ballroom has risen to a fever pitch.

One dance between purebloods is common.

Two dances in an evening is a sign of closeness or favor.

But three? It’s a blatant declaration that Tom has chosen Lady Harriet Potter as his lady-wife, as High Lady Slytherin. In the eyes of pureblood society, they’re as good as engaged.

Tom’s magic purrs inside him as snippets of conversation reach his ears as Harriet leads him through the waltz.

“They make a striking pair, don’t they?”

“I do believe Lady Harriet has taken His Esteemed Grace firmly off the bonding market.”

“Perhaps, there will soon be a High Heir or High Heiress of Slytherin!”

Harriet, who has shamelessly ignored all the speculation without once blushing, promptly turns a brilliant shade of crimson, so deep as to almost match her Potter-Crimson gown. Delighted, Tom laughs. It’s deep, dark, and throaty. She glares at him for it, which only makes Tom laugh harder.

“Well, darling,” Tom taunts, his magic avaricious as he imagines her swollen with his babe, “will you generously provide the Just and Most Olde House of Slytherin with an heir or heiress?”

He wants that. He wants it with a fervent desperation that almost frightens him.

Tom wants Harriet as his bride, wants a babe from her womb—many, many children, if she’s willing—wants familial magical bonds weaving through his soul that he will protect with brutal, savage ferocity.

He will erase anyone who ever dares to even contemplate harming his family from existence.

Harriet’s eyes flash with emotion, her ebony hair sparks with crimson magic, and her words ring with an echo of fate when she says, “I will.”

Then, with a wicked smirk, Harriet dips Tom on the dancefloor and kisses him soundly in front of the elite of pureblood society. Tom’s magic lunges for hers, twining together in a betrothal bond as her magic reaches eagerly for his in return.

The lava in his veins is back, more searing than before, and Tom rejoices as it burns him clean of every thought except for Harriet.

His soon-to-be bride.

Notes:

I chat and do ask games on Tumblr.