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The doors of the Great Hall swung open as students flooded in for lunch. After an excruciatingly dull lecture on the third Goblin War (surprise, surprise) with Professor Binns, food was a much-needed relief.
Ron, as always, was determined to get the best picks, pushing his way through the crowd in a beeline for the chicken wings. This, of course, left Harry and Hermione to apologize on his behalf to the irritated students he nearly trampled.
By the time they finally reached their usual seats, Ron’s plate was already stacked high.
"Merlin, you hungry, mate?" Harry asked, shaking his head as he sat down.
"When is he not?" Hermione chimed in, setting her book bag beside her.
"Wot?" Ron attempted, his mouth full.
Hermione grimaced at the sight before pointedly turning her attention to her own meal. Harry glanced down the table, spotting a plate of eggs just out of reach.
"Hey, Seamus, pass me the eggs?"
"Sure, mate," Seamus replied, sliding them over.
Hermione cleared her throat. "So, Harry, what did you think about the way we handle—"
She was cut off by the sudden screeching of owls overhead.
"Looks like the post is here," Harry remarked, relieved to dodge the question.
The hall filled with fluttering wings as letters and parcels rained down onto students. A Ravenclaw prefect let out a horrified gasp as her letter landed straight into a bowl of soup. Harry grimaced. Good luck spelling the soup away.
Just as he turned back to his meal, a familiar brown owl swooped down and dropped a small parcel in front of him.
Another gift.
Harry sighed. It wasn’t unusual for him to receive presents, but the sender always remained elusive, signing off with a simple ‘T’. The owl hooted expectantly, and he tore off a piece of bread, offering it up before it took flight.
Ron and Hermione watched him curiously.
"Still don’t know who it’s from?" Hermione asked.
Harry only shrugged. He shrank the package with a flick of his wand and tucked it into his bag. He’d open it later—preferably in private.
"So," Hermione continued, picking up where she left off, "as I was saying—what did you think about—"
---
Another month, another Slug Club party.
Harry was sick of these. Of being paraded around like some sort of trophy while wealthy, well-connected witches and wizards fawned over him, hanging onto his every word as if he were the most fascinating thing in the world.
It had been half an hour, and he was already planning his escape. If he left now, he might actually get a full night’s sleep for once—not that that ever stopped him from being late to breakfast.
And then he saw him.
The Minister of Magic.
Harry nearly did a double take. What was he doing here?
This was a fairly low-profile event—nothing that would interest someone of his status. Sure, there were a few Quidditch players, a couple of renowned potion-makers, but politicians? Never. Minister Gaunt had never struck Harry as the type to waste his time at school functions, especially not in the dungeons.
Harry’s eyes followed the man from across the room. Minister Thomas Gaunt stood beside a well-known Seer, listening as she spoke animatedly. He held a drink in one hand, nodding along with a polite, but unreadable, expression.
He looks like he belongs in a bloody ballroom, Harry’s eyes trailed over the minister, taking in his appearance with an almost grudging sort of admiration.
Even in traditional wizarding robes, Gaunt exuded an effortless elegance, the dark fabric fitting perfectly against his tall, lean frame. But Harry couldn’t help but imagine how he’d look in something more Muggle—something sharp and tailored.
A black suit, perhaps. Something sleek, expensive, with a crisp white dress shirt underneath. A silk tie, deep emerald, the color of darkened serpent scales, knotted neatly at his throat. The jacket would fit like it was made for him, the fine material hugging the lines of his shoulders before tapering down to his waist, accentuating his broad yet refined frame.
Harry imagined how the sleeves would end just at his wrists, revealing a glimpse of silver cufflinks—perhaps something understated, but no less luxurious. And the trousers, perfectly fitted, would follow the long lines of his legs, polished black shoes completing the image of a man who commanded attention without even trying.
It was ridiculous, really, how someone could look both untouchable and entirely too enticing at the same time.
Then, mid-sip, Gaunt looked up.
Their eyes met.
Harry immediately dropped his gaze to his drink. Shit. He’d been staring. And he definitely saw me staring.
Panic set in. He quickly scanned the room, searching for Hermione—where was she when he actually needed her? But before he could make his escape, he failed to notice the conversation between Gaunt and the Seer coming to an end.
And he definitely didn’t notice the minister making his way toward him.
A throat cleared.
Harry’s stomach dropped. Shitshitshit, what do I say?
He looked up, scrambling for words.
"Minister! What a—uh—nice tie!"
The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to evaporate on the spot.
Gaunt wasn’t wearing a tie.
A long, painful silence followed.
The older man’s lips curled into a smirk, eyes gleaming with amusement. If he was judging Harry for his catastrophic attempt at small talk, he hid it well.
"Why, I think all those Quidditch accidents have rattled your brain, Mr. Potter," Gaunt mused, his deep voice carrying an air of amusement. He extended a hand. "We’ve yet to be properly introduced. I’m Thomas Gaunt."
He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I've been following your progress for quite some time."
Harry forced a smile as he reached out to shake the man's hand, but the moment their palms touched, a strange sensation ran up his arm—like static electricity prickling beneath his skin. Minister Gaunt’s grip was firm, lingering just a second too long before he finally released him.
"Quite the talent you have," the minister continued, swirling his drink as his dark eyes studied Harry, sharp and assessing. "Your performance in Defense Against the Dark Arts is remarkable. Professor Snape speaks highly of your… instincts."
Harry blinked. Snape? Speaking highly of him? That alone was enough to raise alarms in his head. But before he could dwell on that, Minister Gaunt leaned in slightly, just enough that their conversation felt more private, more intimate, despite the noise of the room.
"Tell me, Mr. Potter," Gaunt mused, his voice a smooth drawl. "Have you given any thought to your future?"
Harry frowned. His future? He hadn't even given much thought to next week, let alone his career. Between quidditch, the title of being The Boy Who Lived and his ever-growing pile of coursework, the idea of planning beyond next year seemed almost laughable.
"Er—haven’t really thought about it," he admitted honestly.
Gaunt hummed, tilting his head slightly. "A shame," he said, a touch too smoothly. "Someone of your… potential could go far. With the right guidance, of course."
There was something in the way he said it—something almost possessive, like he wasn’t just offering guidance but staking a claim.
Harry swallowed. He should excuse himself, find Hermione, escape this conversation before he said something embarrassing again, but for some reason, he couldn’t quite move. It was the way Gaunt looked at him, the way his presence filled the space around them, like a force of gravity Harry wasn’t sure he could pull away from.
"Perhaps we should discuss it another time," Gaunt continued, setting down his empty glass. "In a more private setting."
Harry’s breath caught. He had to be imagining the implication there.
Before he could formulate a response, Gaunt reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a small, familiar-looking package-
The parcel.
The one he’d shoved into his bag at breakfast.
His eyes snapped up to Gaunt’s, sharp with accusation.
"How did you—"
"You’ve been careless," Gaunt interrupted smoothly, holding the package between two fingers.
“Leaving it unattended. I would’ve thought you'd be more curious about your benefactor by now."
Harry’s pulse quickened.
"So it is you," he said, voice quieter than he intended.
Gaunt’s lips curved into something just shy of a smirk.
"Did you ever doubt it?"
It was a feeling.
That strange pull in the back of his mind whenever he saw Gaunt in the papers, whenever the man spoke in public, controlled and charismatic. The way their eyes would meet—fleetingly, across a crowded room, in passing glances—and Harry would feel the weight of it linger.
Harry's fingers curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t know what was worse—the revelation itself or the fact that, deep down, he hadn’t doubted it. Not really.
Gaunt held it out to him with a knowing smirk. Leaning into Harry’s side. A bit too close for comfort, Harry felt his side burn with heat.
A pause. A breath.
"Next time, I may not be so subtle."
Then, as if nothing had happened, he pressed the parcel back into Harry’s palm, fingers grazing his just long enough to leave behind a ghost of warmth.
And then he was gone, disappearing back into the room as though the conversation had never happened.
-
The halls of Hogwarts were quiet this late at night, the distant hum of the party muffled by thick stone walls. Harry had slipped away as soon as he could, hoping for the solace of his dorm, hoping to shake off whatever that had been.
But as he rounded a corner near the staircases, he felt it before he saw it—that subtle shift in the air, the weight of someone’s gaze settling on him like a touch.
He barely had time to react before a firm hand caught his wrist.
"Leaving so soon?"
The voice was smooth, low, unmistakable.
Harry tensed, his pulse kicking up as he turned, finding himself face to face with Gaunt. The dim torchlight flickered against the sharp planes of his face, casting long shadows beneath those piercing dark eyes.
Sigh. Because of course he was here.
"Minister," Harry said, more breath than word, willing himself to sound indifferent.
Gaunt hummed, his grip loose but unmoving. "You do have a habit of running."
Harry exhaled sharply, ignoring the way his skin burned beneath the contact. "I wasn’t—" He stopped himself. There was no point arguing.
Gaunt tilted his head, as though considering something. "You looked uncomfortable back there," he mused. "I wonder why that is."
Harry clenched his jaw. "Maybe because the Minister of Magic is acting—" He swallowed. Too close, too familiar, too- "Strange."
"Strange?" Gaunt repeated, a glimmer of amusement dancing behind his eyes. "Is that what you call it?"
He took a slow step forward, and instinctively, Harry stepped back—only to realize that there was nowhere left to go. The wall was cool against his back, an anchor against the slow-building heat curling in his stomach.
Gaunt leaned in just slightly, close enough that Harry could make out the faintest scent of something dark and expensive—ink, parchment, something richer beneath it.
Gaunt’s eyes never left Harry’s, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.
There was a quiet, dangerous pull, a promise of something just on the edge of breaking. Harry’s breath came shallow, his mind racing, trying to think of an escape, but everything he had prepared to say felt too distant, too small against the weight of the moment.
"You’re not running now," Gaunt observed, his voice low and almost amused, but there was something else beneath it, something darker.
Harry opened his mouth, but no words came out. The words he wanted to say—about how this wasn’t right, about how this wasn’t him—stuck in his throat. Instead, he just stared at Gaunt, feeling something stir in him that was entirely out of his control.
"Do you ever wonder," Gaunt began, his voice now barely a whisper, "how easy it would be to cross that line?"
Harry swallowed, heart thumping in his chest as he took a hesitant step back—though there was nowhere to go. The wall behind him kept him trapped, and Gaunt was still so close, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
"Minister," Harry breathed, his voice quieter now, but it was enough. It was enough for Gaunt to lean in closer, his gaze never breaking from Harry’s lips.
"Call me Tom," Gaunt murmured.
It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them, the noise of the party, the hallways, everything else vanishing until there was only the weight of Gaunt’s presence. Tom’s hand lifted, brushing a stray lock of hair from Harry’s forehead, fingers trailing down his face like he had every right to do so.
Harry felt the electric pulse of something he shouldn’t have been feeling, something he couldn’t explain, and before he could stop himself, his breath hitched.
Tom’s gaze dropped to his lips, his voice a mere exhale. “It’s just a kiss, Harry. A simple, uncomplicated thing.”
And before Harry could answer, before he could even think of pulling away, Tom’s lips were on his.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t a slow, thoughtful press. It was urgent, hungry, demanding, as though Tom had been waiting for this moment for far too long.
Harry’s mind whirled, hands pressing into the stone wall behind him for balance as he felt himself melt against the force of the kiss. His body betrayed him, responding even as his brain screamed at him to stop. But it felt too good, too right in a way that made no sense.
For a moment, just a moment, Harry let himself fall into it, let himself be swept up in the heat of Tom’s lips, the softness of his touch, the way everything else faded away.
And then, just as quickly as it began, Tom pulled back, his eyes dark with something Harry couldn’t quite place.
Tom’s breath was ragged, his lips barely an inch from Harry’s, and the smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth spoke volumes.
"That wasn’t so bad, was it?" Tom’s voice was a low murmur, but there was a dangerous edge to it, a promise of more.
Harry, still reeling, could barely think, his mind a blur of feelings he couldn’t explain. All he could manage was a single word, barely a whisper but full of need.
"More.”
Before he knew it, his hands were on Tom, pulling him closer, the distance between them gone in an instant. He kissed Tom hard, fervently, with an intensity that startled him. This was no longer a question of right or wrong, of should or shouldn't. It was raw, all-consuming, an answer to something he hadn't realized he'd been craving.
Tom responded instantly, his hands finding Harry's waist, tugging him closer, deepening the kiss. His lips were soft yet commanding, moving with a skill that left Harry breathless, wanting more of everything. The intensity of it sent a shiver through him, as if the heat of their kiss had ignited something inside him that he couldn’t control.
His heart pounded in his chest, and Harry could feel the rush of blood in his ears. The world around them seemed to vanish, leaving only the two of them, caught in the spiral of desire. Tom’s hands roamed, a touch like fire as he gripped Harry’s hips, pulling him flush against his body.
Harry’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he met Tom’s kiss with equal fervor, hands sliding up to Tom’s neck, pulling him even closer. Everything was fast, overwhelming, but he didn’t care. For once, he wasn’t thinking. He didn’t want to.
Tom’s lips broke away for a fraction of a second, breath warm against Harry’s face as he spoke, voice a low rasp. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”
Harry’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he met his eyes, dazed but hungry. "I think I do."
With that, their lips collided again, more desperate this time, more frantic. Tom’s grip tightened around him, and Harry couldn’t tell where he ended and Tom began. He was lost in the feeling of Tom’s mouth against his, the overwhelming sensation of being kissed with such passion, such purpose.
As Tom’s hands slid beneath his robes, Harry’s mind spiraled. Every part of him screamed that this was reckless, dangerous, forbidden. But in that moment, all he could feel was Tom, the way his touch set fire to every nerve in his body.
There would be consequences for this. He knew it. But as Tom’s lips moved down his neck, Harry couldn’t find it in himself to care. All that mattered was the heat, the closeness, the promise of more.
His pulse quickened as Tom’s lips brushed lightly against his neck, sending a wave of heat down his spine.
Tom’s mouth traveled higher, finding the sensitive spot just beneath Harry’s ear. Harry gasped, his fingers gripping Tom’s robes instinctively, pulling him closer. The sensation was electric, like every nerve in his body was alive in a way he’d never felt before. He tilted his head to give Tom more access, his breath coming quicker.
Tom took advantage of it, pressing his lips firmly against the skin of Harry’s neck, his teeth grazing lightly, teasing, then sucking gently as if marking him. The heat of it was overwhelming, and Harry’s head fell back against the cool stone wall, his throat exposed, vulnerable to Tom’s touch.
“God, Tom,” Harry murmured, his voice strained, his body arching toward him involuntarily. This gave the man the chance to slide a knee between Harry’s leg.
Harry could feel the hard lines of Tom’s body beneath his robes, and it only intensified the fire building in him. He wanted more—needed it. He put more weight on the leg between his legs. The sharp sting of pleasure that went up his spine made him gasp.
Tom’s hands sliding beneath the fabric of Harry’s shirt gave him goosebumps. The cool air of the hallway hit Harry’s exposed skin, but it only made him crave more of Tom’s warmth, more of his touch. He gasped again as Tom’s mouth traveled further down, kissing along his collarbone, his hands now pressing Harry’s body closer, guiding his hips into the rhythm of their silent, desperate dance.
It wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.
"Touch me," Harry breathed, his voice hoarse, his hands sliding up to Tom’s chest, tugging at his robes, desperate to feel more, to feel everything.
Tom’s eyes darkened, “Careful now, once I start I won’t be able to stop”
The words were spoken low, a warning, and yet Harry could feel something stirring deep within him, something dangerous and thrilling at the same time. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to back out. Not now. Not when the world had narrowed to just the two of them, caught in a web of desire neither of them seemed ready to escape.
Without thinking, Harry increased the pressure of his grinding, and pulled Tom into a harsh kiss. Tom groaned into the kiss, hands sliding down to Harry’s waist again, tugging him forward, helping him, their bodies pressed together with an intensity that made Harry dizzy.
When they finally broke apart, both were panting, their faces mere inches from each other, breath mingling in the space between them. Tom’s lips were swollen, his eyes dark with a mixture of desire and something far more dangerous.
“That’s right, Harry,” Tom whispered, his voice a soft rasp against Harry’s ear as the younger man was beginning to shake from the pleasure. “What do you want?”
Harry’s heart was hammering in his chest, his mind racing with the weight of Tom’s question. But all he could do was continue rocking and look up at Tom, his eyes wide, his lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. He wanted—he needed —more.
“I-“ was about to answer but Tom flexed his thigh, before he could finish. The soft whine Harry let out echoed through the halway, but neither cared, too engrossed in each other.
“I want to- I need to-“ Harry could not continue with his sntance, instead he let out a dry sob. his face burned with embarrassment.
“Sshh, it’s okay, I know what you need.” Tom whispered in his ear. Harry was so close to the edge that even hearing his voice could make him cum.
When Tom guided Harry’s hips in a deeper grind, he swears he could see the stars dancing around him, then he picked up the pace. When Harry thought that it could not get better, a mind-blowing pleasure wave washed over him. It seemed like the whole world stopped for a moment.
When he came to,- When did he pass out?! - There was still ringing in his ear from how intense the orgasm hit him.
Still out of breath, he glanced up at the smug looking man.
“I now understand why the French call it ‘la petite mort’. I think I died for a moment there.” Tom let out a small laugh at that, “Oh, believe me, you have yet to see la petite mort, darling.”
Harry did not get what was so funny, so he pulled Tom back to him, kissing him fiercely, reclaiming the heat they had created a moment ago. There was no going back now. And Harry wasn’t sure he ever wanted to.