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Aunt Marge was meant to visit today, despite the fact that her last visit had gone… badly.
So when Harry was called down from his room to welcome her in, it was safe to say he entered a state of shock to see Tom Riddle at the door. Tom Riddle, in a muggle suit and carrying a bottle of wine and calling himself ‘Uncle Tom’.
“Ah, here we are,” Vernon said, his red face beaming over at Tom Riddle and welcoming him in as if he weren’t a wizard, “It’s wonderful to see you again, Tom.”
“And you, Vernon,” Tom replied, seeming utterly amused at Harry’s stricken face, before following the Dursleys into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table.
Harry stood at the door, unable to fathom what was happening. For a split second he wondered whether he was dreaming, but the thought disappeared as quickly as it arrived.
“Aren’t you going to sit down, Harry?”
He blinked, his head snapping to the table at Riddle’s words. There didn’t seem to be an undercurrent of threat in them, though it was hard to tell. He was likely speaking in some Slytherin code, one that promised death and torture. Maybe he was treating Harry to one last meal, before murdering him.
Harry sat down opposite him, eyes darting about and looking for Riddle’s wand. He couldn’t see it, but flinched when Riddle waved his hand over the table. The Dursley’s stopped their chatter immediately, falling silent.
Tom Riddle picked up his fork, and began to eat Aunt Petunia’s Cottage Pie.
Harry gripped his knife and fork tightly, staring across the table at the man in front of him. The Dursleys had a glazed look about them, mechanically eating and drinking as if neither Harry or Tom were there.
“I'm not here to harm you, really,” Tom drawled, bringing his thumb to his mouth and licking the smudged sauce off of it.
Harry simply stared, “How are you here? How did you get past the—“
“The front door?” Tom interrupted lightly, “Well, you see, I knocked and then you opened it for me. ”
“The wards,” Harry deadpanned, his food still untouched but his hand ready to throw the blunt knife at a moment's notice. Maybe it would give him a bruise, or even draw some blood.
Tom tilted his head, piercing Harry with dark brown eyes, “As I said… I walked through.”
“Right,” Harry muttered to himself, “Of course you did. And now you’re eating my aunt's cottage pie and sitting at our dining room table.”
“And what a delicious cottage pie it is,” Tom praised, taking another mouthful and chewing slowly. He seemed to enjoy it far too much, letting out a quiet, content moan.
“Is it such a crime to want to have dinner with you?” Tom continued, when Harry seemed to show no sign of adding to the conversation.
Truth be told, Harry was far too distracted by Tom’s mouth and the noises it was making. Not to mention the way his tongue darted over his lips, dampening it lightly. It was sinful, to think of Lord Voldemort this way, but Harry thought that there were far worse things in the world to think about.
“Yes,” Harry stated calmly, “You’re a wanted criminal, technically.”
“A presumed dead criminal,” Tom corrected, “which has nothing to do with dinner. Are you not going to eat? It is quite delicious.”
It did seem delicious. But maybe it was Tom Riddle that looked and sounded delicious, and not the food itself. It was hard to say, when Tom was looking at him in such a way, and all Harry wanted to bite on was the man’s collarbone— not, as the conversation allowed, the cottage pie.
“No,” Harry replied, too late to feel appropriate, “I don’t think so. The last time I saw you, you tried to kill me. Forgive me if I’m not enjoying your company… I see you got your nose back, though.”
He added the last part without thinking, his instinct taking over his mind. It was a very nice nose, and deserved to be talked about.
Tom dragged a hand gently over his face, “I missed it sorely, I was always partial to my facial features. Though my reptilian body does have some… how do I put it? Interesting characteristics.”
Harry was glad he hadn’t taken a drink, for he would have spat the liquid out immediately. He raised his eyebrows, feeling heat rush to his face. Tom hadn’t said anything explicit, and yet all Harry could think about was—
“Like what?”
Tom's face morphed into a pleased smirk, “I am glad you asked, Harry. While I had no nose, I was happy to find that my other senses were amplified a great deal. I had better taste, for instance, thanks to my forked tongue.”
Harry's eyes darted down to his mouth, once again, and wondered what his tongue looked like now.
“And I could see and hear better,” Tom continued, but those two were far less interesting.
“There were the scales, too,” He added offhandedly, “And parseltongue came much easier. My hypothesis is that the body is part snake.”
Harry leaned forward, finding himself placing the knife and fork back on the table. His hands hurt slightly from his tight grip, so he flexed them slowly. It was intriguing, watching the man talk. He was smooth and eloquent, not to mention the topic of conversation itself was fascinating. Harry briefly wondered whether this was how Hermione felt while reading.
“Did Nagini notice?” He found himself asking, too interested to be scared.
“Yes,” Tom replied, after finishing his final mouthful of cottage pie. He used his napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth, before turning his focus back onto Harry.
“She was intrigued for a brief period, though the rats in my manor soon took her attention away from me,” His tone was almost fond, as if this were a common occurrence.
Harry hummed in acknowledgment, “And then you decided to pose as… Uncle Tom? To do what, exactly? Have dinner with me?”
“I found myself, admittedly, intrigued with you after our last meeting. Let us call this… reconnaissance.”
“Reconnaissance?”
“I'm wooing the enemy,” Tom clarified.
Harry sank back in his seat, swallowing loudly and speaking quietly in response, “You’re trying to woo me?”
“Trying?” Tom chuckled, “Oh, darling, I am wooing you. Look, you’re blushing.”
Harry blanched, running the sweaty palms of his hands over his jeans.
“I’m not—“
“Quiet,” Tom said, his voice deep and authoritative, “And listen to my proposition. You may ask as many questions as you like, see as much as you wish, learn as much as you can. But only if you stop this nonsense of a war, and give up fighting me.”
Harry frowned slightly, feeling the knot between his eyebrows draw together, “I can't stop the war, I have nothing to do with that.”
“That is true. Though if you stop fighting, draw away your support from Dumbledore… Then I can give you all you desire.”
He tilted his head to the side, considering the man carefully, “But I don’t support you.”
The offer was very similar to the one made during his first year, though much more enticing. There was a lot that Harry wanted to know, and only Lord Voldemort could answer his… questions.
Tom Riddle stood abruptly, the chair scraping out behind him as he stalked around the table.
Harry stood from his seat immediately, hand grabbing for the knife and eyes tracking his movement carefully. If only his wand wasn’t upstairs—
“Shhh,” Tom said, rounding the table and coming to stand in front of him, “I said that I mean you no harm, I’m not going to go back on my promise.”
Tom raised a hand, his fingers brushing the very tips of Harry’s hair, and watching him in a rather thoughtful manner.
“Would you like to have a closer look at my… snakelike form?” He asked, dropping his hand.
Harry locked eyes with him, feeling his heartbeat increase and his ears begin to ring, “I– I guess so.”
Tom laughed lightly, “You don’t seem too excited, I’d have thought this would illicit a more entertaining reaction from you.”
“I just don’t understand,” Harry replied, feeling his cheeks flush in embarrassment. He thought he sounded too much like an petulant teenager, compared to Voldemort.
“Don’t you,” Tom replied, the corner of his mouth tilting back up into the infuriating smirk, “This is what I like to call an exchange. A deal.”
“I remove my support from Dumbledore…” Harry said, “And you answer my questions?”
Tom inclined his head, a single nod.
It was tempting… very tempting.
“And you wouldn’t kill me?” Harry clarified, realising that there was a dimple on Tom’s left cheek. Voldemort had a dimple. A dimple. (It made him almost cute, and Harry could not believe he was thinking this).
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Tom replied, and the sincerity in his eyes was the only security that Harry needed.
“Fine, deal,” He said, and Voldemort’s mouth twisted into a self satisfied smile.
“Excellent,” Voldemort said, and Harry found himself breathless at the way his body morphed from the attractive nature of Tom Riddle, into the snake-like Lord Voldemort.
At a blink, his eyes were red instead of brown, his skin was a shade of white that seemed almost purple, and his head was smooth and bald. The slits that seemed to be his nose flared almost imperceptibly at the attention Harry was paying to the body.
He let out a quiet noise from the back of his throat as Voldemort’s tongue, forked and thin, darted from his mouth to moisten his lips.
Harry glanced up and down his body, noting the slight skin at the ankles, before stating, “You got taller.”
Voldemort sighed, “I did. That’s the first point you notice?”
His breath caught at the sight of pointed, white teeth and flashing, red eyes. He looked brighter, bolder, more animated when Voldemort spoke or moved. It was hard to believe that this was even a man, as opposed to a sculpture or still art.
There was something so unreal about Voldemort, that at each movement it felt like Harry was going to crumble to the floor. It could have been the waves of magic pooling off of him, or the sharp jawline that flexed every other second, or the… Or the clearly lean muscles underneath the muggle suit. Tom Riddle had been shorter, had been bulkier. Voldemort was lean and tall, the blue veins in his neck pulsing as he loosened the tie and undid the top button of his shirt.
Even that clearly human mannerism felt so alien to Harry, and he wanted to capture every movement and record it for future referral.
“Are you done inspecting me?” Voldemort drawled, raising a hairless eyebrow.
Harry shook his head slightly, his answer coming out almost breathless, “No.”