Chapter Text
His finger hovered over the new order notification before finally hitting 'accept'. He was supposed to finish the shift thirty minutes ago, but turning down extra cash wasn’t an option—these past few months had been financially tight.
Harry put on his helmet and turned the key, promising himself this would be the last one for today.
Working part-time at a delivery service wasn't so bad, he’d seen worse. For a student, the pay was fairly decent, mostly because of the tips. If generosity had a leaderboard, elderly ladies would be at the top for sure.
It was tougher at first, but Sirius's motorbike became a real lifesaver. For the past five years, Harry had been living in the old house on Grimmauld Place with his godfather. They had to save a lot—Sirius’s past and time in prison made it hard to reintegrate into society, and he didn’t stay at new jobs for long. Now that Harry was eighteen, they had enough for his first year of college, while his classmates were already a year or even two ahead. Not that it bothered him. Life with his godfather was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Harry glanced back at his phone, checking the restaurant’s address and the final destination. Client: Celeste M . Business Center “The Shard”, 68th floor. Note: “Hand deliver in-person”. Of course, he knew the place. A premium business center with white-collars, he had a good shot at making some nice tips by the end of the day. He closed the app, then sent Sirius a quick text with estimated arrival time and asked to put the chicken in the oven.
Forty minutes later, he slowed down, pulling up to the destination point. The towering skyscraper, shaped like a glass spire, resembled a giant shard of ice, with life buzzing inside. Most of the windows glowed with warm light, those people probably worked 24/7.
The barrier lifted, inviting Harry to drive into the underground parking; a layout so complex, it almost felt as if it were made for people to get lost in there. He tried to park as close to the entrance as possible, and after a moment’s hesitation, left the large delivery bag right there—the cold salad didn’t need to be kept warm, the building had security, and he honestly couldn’t bring himself to carry an empty thermal bag to the 68th floor. He shoved his keys into his jacket pocket, picked up the order, beautifully wrapped in matte black paper, and walked toward the elevators.
He managed to send the client a message about his arrival when the elevator came to a stop on the main floor. A pleasant female voice announced the stop, and the door slid open smoothly. Moments later, Harry saw the reason itself.
It was a tall man in his forties. Dark, neatly coiffed hair, striking features and sharp cheekbones—objectively, the man was handsome. Very much so. He was deep in his phone, his eyes partly covered by wavy strands that had fallen from his hair, but what Harry could see was more than enough. The look completed a classic three-piece suit and leather shoes that shone brighter than Sirius’s motorbike after its monthly polish.
The man never once looked his way, but Harry couldn’t help feeling out of place. His own clothes—simple black jeans, old sneakers, and an oversized hoodie, with his godfather's leather jacket thrown on top—looked pitiful next to his traveling companion's refined appearance. Harry felt a sudden urge to smooth down his hair, which he knew was even messier after taking off his helmet, but it was too late now, so he decided to let it be. He turned his attention to the small screen where the floors blinked one by one. The elevator was moving slowly, with people getting on and off at almost every floor, until, eventually, it was just the two of them again.
Harry glanced down to check if there were any new messages from the client. There were none.
Then, the sound of the screen lock clicking came from the left.
***
The Friday deal was a success with new potential clients secured. There were a few final emails left to send, and they were set to close the week with results exceeding expectations. He pressed the elevator call button and began waiting, meanwhile briefly skimming through the document Lucius had emailed him half an hour ago. It might come in handy at their next meeting.
The elevator stopped, and the door slid open. As always, the cabin wasn’t empty. He pressed the button for the 71st floor and returned to the document.
A minute later, something clinked to the right, followed by a rustling sound, and irritated, he turned his gaze to the only other person in the elevator. It was a young man, shorter than him, he stood with his shoulder against the elevator wall, watching the changing floor numbers with an expression of indifference.
Tom found himself looking at his clothes for a moment. Definitely not an employee.
Quite an attractive profile with a gentle curve to the lips, smooth skin, and a subtle flush. His unkempt hair seemed like an integral part of his questionable style. He didn’t have a model-level appearance, but there was something about him... something that made it hard to look away and forget moments later. He couldn’t figure out what it was.
He looked at the display, lingering on the indicators with bright numbers. One of the floors was clearly his, with floor 68 glowing just below it.
Yaxley .
He looked at the guy again, but this time in a different way.
He knew of Yaxley's little weakness for Friday night entertainment with pleasant company. He himself had witnessed him ordering that very company to his office on several occasions.
That... explained something.
And yet, something didn’t quite add up. From what he’d seen before, it looked like Yaxley got bored with his usual type. He gave the guy a slow, deliberate once-over. Clearly, Yaxley had finally developed some taste.
Just then, the young man, feeling the unwavering attention, turned to meet his eyes and raised an eyebrow in a bold challenge.
My, he was right after all. Yaxley had indeed developed some good taste.
Bright green eyes framed by dark lashes were now boring into him. The blush on those pretty cheeks had taken on a deeper color, and he could even make out tiny freckles scattered across his skin. For all his boldness, there was an almost delicate appeal to his features.
Well, wasn’t that something?
A coincidence? It's been a long time since he let himself indulge. As for Yaxley, he can surely entertain himself with someone else tonight.
***
Harry was sure that if he turned his head again, that creep would still be staring. What was his problem anyway?
Time stretched like rubber, thick and endless. A place like this should have way faster elevators. He felt like a dirty stain on Aunt Petunia’s pristine white kitchen counter within these spotless, polished-to-perfection walls. Just as absurd and unwelcome, something that had no right to be here in the first place. The guy was probably thinking the same right now.
Sometimes, he ran into this kind of attitude in places like this. He’d lost count of how many times security had denied him entry to fancy residential complexes, shutting the door in his face.
He turned his head and raised his chin in defiance, meeting the intense gaze. The man was now standing sideways to him, his phone nowhere in sight.
“Have we met before?”
His voice was as pleasant as his appearance.
“I don’t think so,” Harry shrugged, turning away, his cheeks growing warmer.
“Hm...”
Despite his ego, Harry couldn’t deny the man was definitely his type. He didn’t have ‘daddy issues’, he just preferred older men. This one, on top of everything, was attractive, well-dressed, and the first thing his presence evoked was the urge to bury his nose in the collar of that shirt and inhale the scent of the rich cologne.
Definitely a jerk.
Harry considered the conversation over, but it seemed he considered wrong.
“Lovely evening, don’t you think?”
Apparently, working in corporations did something like that to people. When normal human interactions were so poor, even a food delivery guy would do as a conversation buddy. Or maybe this one just liked the sound of his own voice.
Harry offered a polite smile, though it felt a little bit strained.
“Uh, yeah, probably.”
What in his response had served as a green light to continue the conversation would forever remain a mystery to Harry.
The man extended his hand.
“My name is Tom Riddle. And you are..?”
Horrified, Harry looked down at the offered hand, his own feeling like they were made of stone. No matter what he did, he couldn’t bring himself to shake it. He raised his eyes to the man’s beautiful face.
“Harry.”
The man smiled politely and lowered his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Harry. I take it you're just visiting?”
“I'm working.”
The corner of those perfectly shaped lips twitched, and for a few moments the man was simply silent.
“I can’t blame you. Education is too expensive these days.”
In response, Harry muttered something unintelligible. Great. Was he supposed to feel better now that some random dude wasn't blaming him for working in delivery? Who did he think he was?
Meanwhile, oblivious to his inner monologue, Riddle didn't think to shut up.
“There’s nothing quite like a dinner with a glass of fine wine after a long day at work, wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”
Dinner. In that, Riddle wasn’t wrong. Harry’s eyes drifted to the black bag he was delivering to the client. The mere thought of a hot dinner almost made his stomach growl. The last decent meal he had was a slice of pizza at a campus diner. Sirius had probably already reheated the chicken. This one would likely be going to a restaurant right now where they'd serve him anything he wanted. Not that it bothered him, of course.
At some point, Harry realised the man was still expecting an answer. He shifted from one foot to the other.
“Mhm, good luck.”
This conversation was turning very weird. But the weirdest part was this weird man. There were only a few floors left before the elevator reached its destination when the man’s next words knocked the air out of Harry’s chest, and he had to blink several times to make sure he hadn’t just imagined it.
“I'd love for you to join me, Harry. I know just a place, I promise it’ll be worth your time.”
What the fuck?
To say Harry was shocked by the turn of events would be a massive understatement. He was absolutely freaked out . His lips parted, and he tried to respond, but no sound came out.
Well, never before had a hot businessman tried to hit on him in an elevator of a high-end business center. He stared at the man, who was waiting for his response with a patronizing smile, and realised he was beginning to panic. Did he want to agree? Hell yes. Was it a good idea? Going God knows where with some stranger in the middle of the night? A thousand times no. What if he's some psycho, and then they find his cold body in black bags in different parts of the city? What would Sirius say to that?
“Uh, thanks, but I'll pass,” Harry said after a short silence, feeling the need to clarify. “I, uh, already have plans.”
By the look on Riddle's face, it was clear his answer hadn’t been what he expected. He tilted his head to the side.
“Whatever your plans are, I’m sure I can get you to reconsider.”
Now his voice was not just insistent, but it carried a strange undertone too. Did this guy honestly not know what “no” meant? Definitely a red flag. The only thing he’d managed to convince Harry of was that his initial decision was the right one.
“Like I said, I’m not interested,” this time Harry didn't bother to sugarcoat his reply. He was, of course, being a little dishonest, he was actually very interested, but this asshole didn’t need to know that. “And I’m not changing my plans.”
His response didn't get a favorable reaction this time. The man’s lips curled slightly, and his beautiful eyes narrowed just a touch. His voice, however, remained calm.
“I don’t know what Corban offered you, but I’m willing to double the price.”
And just like that, the formalities were forgotten as quickly as the politeness itself. The tone of his voice was the last thing Harry noticed. He sank into a complete stupor. No Corban had offered him anything, and he didn’t have the slightest idea what price this creep was talking about. The guy was clearly losing it.
The next words Harry tried to speak slowly, as if talking to a wild animal.
“Listen, sir. Fuck off. I don’t know what your problem is, but leave me out of it.”
Riddle scoffed. It was obvious now he was genuinely pissed off. He took a step forward.
“What's wrong? I made a generous offer and I don’t waste my words. Yaxley can't offer you anything that I can't.”
With a swift motion, he pulled a wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. Then he began flipping through the hundred-pound notes. If someone asked Harry to write an autobiography with a detailed description of how he looked at that moment, he would compare his eyes to bowling balls that had just rolled a perfect strike. His mouth dropped fully open, and he stood there, watching as Riddle paused at the eighth bill before handing them over to him.
“Here’s for the first half of the night,” he said firmly, his tone suggesting he was doing something beyond his comprehension. “The rest you’ll get in the morning.”
Harry inhaled sharply. Tripping over nothing, he stumbled a few steps to the side, nearly dropping the long-suffering order. Stunned, he shifted his gaze from Riddle’s face to the bills and back, the hum in his ears growing louder, while the corners of the elevator cabin began to glow red. With deliberate precision, he slowly lowered the order bag to the floor at his feet and straightened up. Then, he swung his fist and landed a solid punch to the perfect nose, squarely on target. Anger boiling over, he saw a momentary flicker of surprise in the dark eyes before they widened, and the head snapped backward from the force of the blow. Riddle was practically slammed into the elevator wall. He yelped, clutching his nose and bending over; a flurry of bills scattered across the cabin, and a thin stream of blood dripped down his delicate lips, quickly staining part of the collar of his expensive shirt a deep red. A few drops fell to the floor.
At that moment, the elevator doors slid open.
Dazed and furious—still on adrenaline from the whole situation—Harry instinctively grabbed the bag and stumbled out.
He had just punched the face of some influential prick. Well deserved.
The very influential prick followed him right behind, wincing and pressing his hand to his nose, muttering what sounded like threats.
A performance fit for a larger audience than the single secretary standing by the elevator, waiting for the delivery, who, by fate, became the sole observer of the free show.
A confused, gurgling sound escaped her mouth, her frantic gaze darting between Riddle and Harry as though someone had broken her. After a pause that could have seemed like an eternity, she weakly squeaked.
“My order, please.”
She was clearly trying to hold back the hysterical notes, but she wasn't doing a very good job.
On autopilot, Harry handed her the bag, and she accepted it carefully, making sure not to touch his bloodied knuckles. She gave him a nervous smile, shot one last glance at Riddle, then fumbled in her purse and handed Harry a few bills for a tip. After a hasty goodbye, she disappeared through the reception door.
Only now Harry realised Riddle had stopped his string of curses as he caught the man observing their brief exchange with open confusion.
“So you’re a delivery guy?!”
It was less of a question and more of an accusation.
Harry panicked even more. His eyes darted to the elevator door behind Riddle, but with that route cut off, he needed to find another way out—fast.
“It's your fault,” he waved his hand ambiguously. “Try reporting me, and you'll regret it. I’ve got ties, I'll say you harassed me.”
He was bluffing, but Riddle didn’t need to know that. Playing dirty wasn’t new to Harry.
Riddle winced and cautiously touched his nose, the bleeding had stopped, but his face now looked dirty and swollen. He reached out his hand and made a careful step toward Harry.
“There was a misunderstanding.”
“Yeah, right.”
Before he could grab him and hold him accountable, Harry made the only right decision in this situation—he bolted for the emergency exit stairs. Clearly, the cops would be here any minute now, and instead of going to Grimmauld Place, he'd be cooling his heels in a holding cell.
Whether from pain or confusion, Riddle didn't try to chase him down or stop him.
***
Celeste's Monday started off as disgusting as usual, right up until the door opened and her boss’s boss, Tom Riddle, walked in to make it even more dreadful. He looked just as flawless as any other day, but now she couldn't unsee the image of him with a broken nose. Lord help her, she had long dreamed of doing it herself. Instead of heading to Yaxley’s office, he stopped in front of her desk.
Her throat went dry as she swallowed. Had she been too obvious? Did he know what she was thinking? Would she get fired?
Riddle greeted her with a soft smile, and her face turned almost ashen. This was much, much worse— Riddle never smiled at her. In a desperate attempt not to anger him any further, she managed a greeting and mumbled that she would inform Mr. Yaxley of his arrival, to which she received a brief wave of his hand.
“There's no need for that, Celeste. I’ve come to see you.”
Could her morning get any worse?
Meanwhile, Riddle, unburdened by her inner turmoil, continued. “I'm sure you recall the misunderstanding on Friday. I assume there's no need to clarify that this information should remain our little secret?”
“Y-yes, s-sir…” she stammered, her lips trembling. Riddle smiled, clearly pleased.
“Very good, I’ve always known you were a smart woman. Now, if you would kindly provide me with the phone number of the man who delivered your order on Friday.”
“T-the phone number, sir?” she asked again, blinking several times.
Riddle’s face remained expressionless.
“The phone number,” he repeated patiently, as if speaking to a five-year-old. “It’s in your app, isn’t it?”
Did this mean he wasn’t planning to fire her just yet? Desperately trying to organize her racing thoughts, she forced a nervous smile.
“Yes, yes, of course,” she grabbed her phone and rushed to open the delivery app, managing to access the order history on her third attempt. “Would you like me to file a complaint? They usually respond quickly, especially in such ca—”
“The number is enough,” he interrupted her sharply, then immediately flashed a charming smile. “Thank you, Celeste.”
After she dictated the number, he thanked her once more, turned, and left through the door.
If anyone asked Celeste, she wouldn’t have been able to say how much longer she sat there, staring blankly at the spot where Riddle had stood. Of course, the delivery guy had crossed the line, he’d probably be in big trouble now. It was terrifying to imagine what that tyrant would do to him. On the other hand, you really have to think twice before crossing the wrong person.
She sat there for a while longer, then shook her head and returned to work.