Work Text:
- ᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀʀᴛ ʙʏ ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ ꜱᴍᴏʀᴛꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏʀᴅ.
Tom Riddle always began with patterns.
People were easiest to understand when reduced to repetition—the hour they left their homes, the routes they followed, and the habits they carried out without ever realizing they existed. Most lives could be mapped within a week.
Harry Potter took two.
The newly recruited police officer in training was Tom’s newest target for the month.
A man named Sirius Black, freshly released after serving time for a crime he had never committed, had come forward with a generous payment, asking Tom to locate his long-lost godson. It was laughable how easily people laid claim to sentimental titles like "godson" and tried to forge connections with strangers based on nothing but that fragile thread.
Tom would never go out of his way to search for a dead godson—not that he would ever be foolish enough to become anyone’s godfather in the first place; children were revolting enough as they were—he valued his freedom, and he found the way people clung to parenthood bonds deeply pathetic.
Still, Tom was being paid, and he did his work well. Regardless of the distaste he felt toward the subject, Tom Riddle was, above all, a consummate professional. He relished uncovering the hidden truths of others and enjoyed committing his research subjects to memory until he knew them intimately. It allowed him to understand people at their most fundamental level—and more importantly, if he learned enough of their secrets, those same secrets could someday serve as leverage. No one could betray him or catch him unprepared if he understood the danger—that were humans—well enough.
So Tom Riddle took his time deconstructing the man named Harry Potter.
Two weeks in, and Tom felt he knew everything worth knowing. Harry Potter was dull. Predictable. He lived a rigidly structured life. No—it was more accurate to say Harry was predictably inconsistent. Harry had a schedule, yet deviated from it quite often.
He ran at different times each evening but always looped back to the same flickering streetlight at the end of his route. He rotated between three coffee orders yet never once finished the last sip. He slept with one window open, regardless of the weather.
He was twenty-three, well-built, and dedicated to the gym—a fact made unmistakable by the unforgivably tight shirts he seemed determined to wear. Distracting, admittedly, but Tom could appreciate the aesthetically pleasing view it made.
Potter possessed the most unruly mass of curls Tom had ever seen, wild and untamed like a bird’s nest, and yet somehow that chaos only enhanced the striking contrast against his warm golden-brown skin.
And paired with those unruly curls was a set of the most vivid green eyes Tom had ever encountered. So striking, so unnervingly beautiful, that Tom knew several eccentric collectors within the black market who would pay an absurd sum to possess such a pair preserved as trophies.
Potter lived a simple life despite his wealth. His hobbies consisted of weekend basketball games and relentless training toward his future career in law enforcement. Following him was effortless. Tracking his coffee runs was even easier. Logging when and where Potter appeared for work or spent time with his girlfriend required minimal effort.
The only consistent inconvenience, as always for Tom, was himself.
With naturally wavy dark hair, rich brown eyes, and moles scattered across his skin like constellations, Tom Riddle was proudly aware of his own attractiveness. He was a god-blessed miracle for the eyes—but he was a sight people remembered too easily. His beauty, while useful, was often counterproductive in his profession; he was far too distinctive to ever truly blend into the background.
One might assume a man as intelligent and striking as Tom Riddle would pursue academia or modeling, capitalizing on either his mind or his appearance. But Tom found far greater satisfaction in the hunt—the quiet thrill of tracking his prey, cataloging their every movement while they remained blissfully unaware of his presence. There was something electrifying about knowing the most mundane details of a person’s life while they lived on, oblivious to the fact that he existed just beyond their window.
It was demanding work, but it was good work. And being the meticulous and relentless investigator he was, Tom wasted no time studying his newest fixation, learning every minute detail about Harry Potter.
Potter tied his shoelaces the exact same way every morning.
He ordered the same fruity drink every single time at bars without fail.
He didn’t shy away from experimenting with new foods, yet always gravitated back to familiar favorites.
He had a noticeable weakness for sweets—this was the fifth tarte tatin he had eaten that week alone.
He always left one light on when leaving the house, a simple precaution to discourage potential burglars from assuming the place was empty.
Not the sort of information his client would care about, but Tom was nothing if not thorough. For the sake of complete documentation, he recorded everything. Besides, Harry was—as Tom had already noted—a remarkably attractive man. Watching that bright, radiant smile directed at the world around him throughout the day was refreshingly pleasant. It was almost charming, the way Potter lived his life as though no one in the world could possibly be watching him.
But Tom Riddle was watching, and he would note everything.
No investigative report was complete without a thorough background check on the subject.
And Tom Riddle, above all else, was a meticulous investigator.
Which was why he sat at his desk at half past three in the morning, compiling every piece of documentation he had gathered regarding the past of one Harry James Potter.
Subject: Harry James Potter
Age: 23
Status: Police officer in training
Residence: Privately owned property, suburban district
Behavioral Summary:
The subject maintains a stable daily routine consisting of morning physical exercise, daytime professional training, and evening recreational activity. Social engagement appears consistent, primarily involving a long-term romantic partner and a small peer group.
Subject displays no indications of criminal history, substance abuse, or financial instability.
Risk profile: Low.
Parental History:
James Potter and Lily Potter (née Evans) — deceased.
Both parents were murdered on the night of October 31st when the subject was approximately one year old. The perpetrator was later identified as Peter Pettigrew, a former close associate of the Potter family. At the time of the incident, the blame was falsely assigned to Sirius Orion Black, who was subsequently imprisoned for over two decades for a crime he did not commit.
Black’s release was secured only after persistent investigative work conducted by an independent journalist, whose findings exposed inconsistencies in the original case and provided sufficient evidence to exonerate him.
Investigator’s Note:
A very unfortunate situation for Tom’s client. Not that it's Tom’s concern.
Guardianship History:
Following the death of his parents, the subject was placed under the guardianship of his maternal relatives, Vernon and Petunia Dursley.
At age fourteen, the subject left the Dursley residence. Though no official reports were filed, available accounts strongly suggest prolonged neglect and emotional abuse during his upbringing. Testimonies indicate the subject was treated as an unwelcome burden rather than a family member.
After leaving the household, the subject relocated to the residence of his close friend Ronald Bilius Weasley, where he resided alongside the Weasley family.
Investigator’s Note:
Tom noted, with considerable distaste, that the mother, Molly Weasley—already responsible for raising seven children of her own—had nonetheless seen fit to absorb yet another dependent into her already strained household. A decision that spoke more to reckless sentimentality than practicality. Pathetic.
Educational Background:
Graduate of Hogwarts Academy, Switzerland Division.
This detail had initially caught Tom’s interest. The institution specialized in overseas student enrollment, which explained how both he and the subject could have attended the same academy despite their eight-year age difference.
Extra Notes:
He never expected the subject and him to have anything in common, but to find out they did, the coincidence was... noteworthy. Tom filed it away in the back of his mind to think over at a later time.
Personal Relationships:
While residing with the Weasley family, the subject developed a close association with Ginevra Molly Weasley, the youngest daughter of the household.
The relationship formally began shortly after the subject’s graduation and had remained stable for approximately five years at the time of documentation.
Investigator’s Note:
The romantic partner presents no distinguishing features of particular interest. Physical appearance is unremarkable despite commonly perceived attractive traits (red hair, facial freckling). Comparative assessment indicates the subject is hotter than demonstrates significantly higher visual appeal than his girlfriend.
Financial Status:
Upon reaching legal adulthood, the subject successfully secured full inheritance rights to the Potter estate. Attempts by the Dursley relatives to contest the claim were rendered ineffective following multiple allegations of child abuse, which significantly weakened their legal standing.
The subject currently resides in a well-maintained private property located within a reputable neighborhood.
Investigator’s Note:
The subject’s relaxed domestic behavior greatly aids continued observation. Subject demonstrates a notable lack of caution within the privacy of his residence, frequently moving about in a state of partial undress. Photographic documentation would be effortless to obtain, should verification be requested by the client. Tom noted to take a camera with him from now on.
Tom was done with all the research.
Being the most efficient, time-saving perfectionist among mankind, Tom decided that now that it had been two weeks and he had finished digging into his target, he should collect his dues and hand the document to Sirius Black. He had other files waiting, and Black was obviously an impatient man, judging by the way he had stormed into the quiet, tucked-away coffee shop in the worst part of town, looking as disheveled and unkempt as ever.
Wearing an old, weather-worn coat, with his beard and hair still trapped in messy tangles, Tom found himself wondering how such a decrepit, worn-down man could be connected in any way to the sunshine boy he had kept tabs on for over two weeks.
Black made eye contact with him and immediately rushed over to take a seat. So much for sitting in the corner with subtlety when your client is a dog-like man charging forward at the scent of blood.
“You must be Lord Voldemort—yeah? I’m Sirius Black, the one who asked for the report,” the man introduced himself, even though Tom already knew.
He gave only a small nod in greeting.
Lord Voldemort was his online handle, the name he used to connect with all the shadowy figures of the web whenever he needed work handled on either side of the law. Keeping eyes on targets was an extensive hobby, and sometimes what he uncovered fetched an excellent price on the black market for blackmail. Thus, Lord Voldemort was well known within the wealthy inner circles as a man who knew everything, could find anything you needed, and often possessed secrets you would never want exposed, which meant you did not want to cross him.
Maintaining a social presence was a useful thing if it made dog-like men fidget uncomfortably over nothing more than sharing a cup of coffee with him.
Tom wore a half-covering face mask, a skull drawn across its surface, paired with red contact lenses and a hood pulled low to conceal his impeccably Greek-like features. He would never allow clients to grow familiar enough to think they could climb into his personal life.
He was far too perfect to be mistaken for a man who entertained workplace romance.
“So do you have it?” Sirius Black asked, voice tight with eager anticipation.
Tom raised an eyebrow in silent confirmation. The man must be stunted in brain cells — why else would Tom waste a perfectly fine evening meeting him if the report were not ready?
He slid the file across the table.
Black did not even wait to get the file fully into his hands before he had already cracked it open, devouring the contents.
Tom felt a quiet sense of pride as he watched the man consume the neatly labeled, meticulously organized information he had compiled. It was a good thing he had a habit of color-coding his notes — it would help a man as pathetic as Black navigate them without getting lost.
Although he had kept his extra notes to himself.
Black stopped reading as his hand reached out to pick up one of the many photographs Tom had taken while tailing Potter.
It was a picture of him playing basketball. The shot had been captured mid-motion: Harry suspended in the air at the peak of his jump, one arm fully extended as he released the ball in a clean jump shot, wrist snapping forward in a perfect follow-through. His body was angled with effortless balance, and his legs were tucked slightly beneath him.
His hair flew wildly around his face, and — Tom would admit this much — he looked striking in that moment. The usual sunny, careless expression he wore was gone, replaced with a sharp, focused intensity, brows drawn together in concentration, mouth set in confident determination.
Really, Tom had been visually well fed during the two weeks he had kept his eyes on his subject.
“…James.”
Tom tore his gaze away from the photograph, looking instead — mildly flabbergasted — at the ex-prisoner, who was now openly sobbing into it. How irritating. Sentimental behavior like this should be done elsewhere. Tom had spent considerable time documenting those materials, and that photograph had been taken with a brand-new camera; it would be infuriating if it were ruined by tears and snot.
Ugh.
Sirius Black proceeded to have a full meltdown, much to Tom’s dismay. He rambled endlessly about how James and Harry looked exactly alike, except for Harry’s eyes, which came from his mother. How even James had loved basketball, how Harry was just like him — tall, fit and bright.
Honestly, did Tom ask? He was not interested, so could Black simply pay and move on with his life?
Tom had absolutely no desire to hear about the reproductive history that led to the birth of his subject.
By the time Black finally calmed from his emotional spiral, Tom had already ordered and was calmly sipping a cup of tea to pass the time. He was not leaving until he was paid, even if it meant enduring this disgraceful display.
“I’m sorry, mate… that wasn’t pretty,” Black said with a weak laugh after blowing his nose.
Tom chose not to comment.
“It’s just… Harry grew up so well. Even without any of us in his life, he still became so much like James and Lily. It’s amazing. See… he was so small the last time I saw him.”
With that, Black pulled out a small photo album filled with pictures.
Tom didn’t plan to look at whatever the man had plopped out. He was a man of patience, not some curious teenager.
The album was none of his concern.
But he had to look when his client all but shoved it into his face, right?
Black’s fingers trembled as he flipped the cover open, revealing a photograph protected beneath a thin plastic sleeve.
A baby stared back at him.
Round cheeks. Soft, dark curls that stuck out in all directions as if they refused to obey gravity even at the tender age of one. A tiny fist clutched a blanket while bright green eyes — impossibly vivid even then — stared directly at the camera with unfocused curiosity. What a chubby babe.
Tom felt something strange tighten in his chest.
This was somewhat jarring to look at.
It''s those same eyes.
There was no mistaking them. Even dulled by infant softness, they were the exact same shade — that sharp, unnatural green that caught light like polished glass. The same eyes that now crinkled whenever Potter laughed out loud. The same eyes that narrowed when he focused on a basketball shot. The same eyes that stared absentmindedly out his open window at night, unaware someone was staring back.
He had watched those eyes for two weeks.
But seeing them here — so small, unguarded, belonging to something as helpless as a baby — felt different. It was strange. Tom could not explain what exactly it was that unsettled him.
Maybe it was his professionalism scolding him. Yes, that must be it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel this odd discomfort from seeing his subject’s baby photos. It had to be irritation at his own oversight — the fact that he had not included childhood images in his documentation.
It meant he hadn’t researched thoroughly enough.
He told himself it was merely professional interest. A comparison of the developmental changes taken over time. Yes. That was all.
Still, his gaze lingered longer than necessary.
The baby’s mouth was slightly open, caught mid-babble. One chubby hand reached forward as if trying to grab the camera itself.
Grasping the air adorably.
Tom’s mind supplied the following image unbidden:
That same reaching motion years later — except now it was Harry’s adult hand reaching for a coffee cup, for a basketball, for a door handle.
The infant smiling innocently in the picture overlapped with the Potter Tom knew — beaming at a passerby, his owlishly large glasses highlighting his boyish, disarming charm.
He’s so cute.
The thought slipped into his mind quietly, settling like a seed sinking into soil.
Black’s voice droned somewhere nearby, thick with emotion.
“He was so tiny… barely bigger than a loaf of bread… used to grab my finger and wouldn’t let go…”
Tom did not hear the rest. He was too busy staring at the photograph.
Studying it.
Memorizing it.
Mapping it against the man he now knew in obsessive detail from two weeks of surveillance.
The transformation fascinated him. How did Potter turn from something soft and fragile that needed help just sitting upright into the bright, warm sunshine of a man who stopped to help elderly women cross the street?
Tom’s fingers twitched faintly on the table.
He did not touch the photograph.
But he wanted to.
He wanted a copy to place in his files. It would make his documentation more complete, more thorough. Tom liked his logs to be clean, precise, and comprehensive.
So this is what he used to be.
Tom blinked once, slowly, and leaned back in his chair, his expression smoothing into polite indifference.
“You must be happy to finally be able to see him. Will you make contact with your godson?”
“I don’t know. I want to, but—but… he grew up so well. I can’t possibly barge into his life now, can I?” Black laughed weakly.
What a pathetic man. If you didn’t plan to speak to him, why look for him at all?
“Why not? I’m sure you can do it. Maybe if change up your appearance, it will be easier to talk to him,” Tom suggested politely.
Black laughed harder at that, as if it were a joke. It wasn’t. Tom genuinely meant the man should fix his disheveled appearance, but Black seemed too thick-skulled to understand.
They talked into the night. Tom kept him company while Black spilled everything he remembered about baby Potter’s childhood. By the end of it, Black was thoroughly drunk, which only made the already talkative man even chattier.
“James used to love steak and kidney pie,” he said suddenly, voice rough but hopeful. “Absolutely inhaled it. Reckon Harry would like it too? Might remind him of his dad.”
No.
Tom gave a polite, neutral hum. “I’m sure he would appreciate the gesture.”
Because that was the correct answer. The expected answer. You didn’t contradict someone who already wanted to believe something else. Funny how the godfather didn’t know his godson at all.
Harry Potter did not like heavy, greasy foods late in the evening. Tom had observed him push aside anything too rich after training days. He preferred lighter meals then—something warm, simple, often homemade. Potter seemed to be a decent cook himself; he frequently prepared his own meals or bought small, plain snacks to nibble on.
But most of all, it was sweets.
What Harry liked best was undoubtedly sugary delicacy.
Tom thought of the way Harry always lingered in front of the pastry display at the café. How his eyes softened when choosing desserts. How he always finished anything sugary, even when he left half his coffee untouched.
He’d choose treacle tart over that meat pie without hesitation, Tom thought coolly.
Tom’s fingers tapped once against his teacup.
Sirius Black thought he knew the boy because he remembered the father.
But Tom knew him better because he watched the man.
And there was a very large difference.
Tom had to call a cab for Black.
The man was unsteady on his feet, swaying badly, and leaning most of his weight against Tom—much to his profound disgust.
“You are a good man… soo goood. I—hic—am glad to have hi—hic—hired you…”
“Yes, yes, thank you. Now, where did you live again, Mr. Black?”
The man mumbled something slurred and barely coherent. Tom repeated the fragments to the driver, then guided—or rather deposited—the stumbling man into the back seat.
Black did not leave quietly.
He leaned halfway out the taxi door, waving with sloppy enthusiasm as if they were old friends.
“We should—hic—keep in touch! Be friends! You’re a good lad!”
Tom did not bother responding.
He simply slammed the door shut.
What friendship nonsense—that was weak, sentimental human behavior for the masses. Tom did not do sentimental. How disgusting.
The taxi pulled away, headlights shrinking into the darkness of the street.
And as Tom watched it disappear, he smiled. It was a cold smile hidden under the confines of his mask.
Black wouldn’t mind if he dropped by sometime this week to retrieve his own copy of those adorable baby photos, would he?
After all, they were relevant documentation.
Essential for a complete record.
Not like the man ever had to know about it.
This is bad.
Harry Potter was getting endlessly cuter.
Was there even a limit to his cuteness?
Tom watched the man walk down the street wearing a new jacket — one his ugly girlfriend had gifted him after a successful basketball match. The jacket itself was painfully mediocre, but it still somehow made the young man shine, accentuating that annoyingly youthful charm.
Tom felt a slow, dark satisfaction curl in his chest when Harry glanced over his shoulder twice, visibly uneasy, yet continued toward his destination.
Harry Potter had sharp instincts.
After three months of being tailed, he had clearly begun to sense that someone was following him. But Tom was an expert — a professional. If he truly did not want to be detected, the younger man would never have noticed a thing.
That did not mean Tom wanted to remain entirely invisible.
All those small reactions — the tension in his shoulders, the cautious glances, the quickened steps — they were profoundly adorable. It was almost disappointing that Tom had not provoked such responses during the first two weeks of observation.
Yes, he was still tailing Harry.
He wanted to know more about him.
He wanted to understand what made this boy shine so brightly, smile so easily, despite the miserable circumstances of his childhood. Even though Harry was an orphan just like Tom, he carried none of that cold, bleak darkness that Tom himself possessed.
That difference fascinated him.
Tom wanted to know why.
And it was not as though the surveillance had stopped yielding results. It had been foolishly arrogant of him to think he had already learned everything there was to know about Potter. There was still so much left to uncover.
Like how he was physically strong, yet still flinched at sudden loud noises.
How he never raised his voice at children, no matter how irritating they became.
How he smiled so easily, yet never spoke about his childhood — not even with his closest friends.
How that bright, beaming smile vanished the moment he thought no one was looking.
How he would sometimes stare blankly into space for long stretches, as if trapped somewhere far away from the present.
How, despite spending his entire day surrounded by people, he never brought anyone back to his house — not even his own girlfriend.
Harry Potter liked being alone at home.
Why?
None of his friends asked.
No one commented on it.
No one pried into his private life.
Only Tom knew.
Only he saw how Harry sometimes sobbed quietly into his pillows late at night. How the younger man was afraid to sleep in complete darkness, leaving lights on even when he was not home. How he kept his windows open because closed spaces seemed to suffocate him.
There was still so much to learn.
So much to document.
Tom was deeply intrigued.
Why is he like this?
Tom should be moving on to his next client.
He had many people lined up waiting for him to do their bidding—a queue of desperate voices, each convinced their problem was the most urgent thing in the world.
Yet Tom found himself… busy.
Harry still was not fully deconstructed to his liking.
He required more observation. More data. More time.
Tom wanted to know every tick. Every habit. Every preference that's so small no one else would think to notice. He wanted to capture every moment, every scene, in that man’s day-to-day life.
He wanted to know everything about Harry James Potter. Stripping him layer by layer until nothing unpredictable about the raven-haired man remained.
Every time Tom forced himself to accept another case, within three or four days a restless irritation would begin to crawl beneath his skin. He would find his focus drifting, his thoughts circling back to the same subject.
To Harry.
A rare specimen like that required continuous observation. Missing even a small stage of development in its natural habitat would compromise the integrity of the documentation.
Proper research demanded thorough evidence collection.
Screenshots of Harry smiling, carefully sorted in a hidden folder. Short recordings of his voice were replayed through Tom’s headphones while he worked on other clients. Photographs taken from a distance—Harry mid-run, breathless and face flushed—his movements quick and light in a way that stirred something sharp and electric in Tom’s chest.
Oh, how much the boy resembled prey—like a baby fawn wanting to be devoured.
Sometimes Tom even kept the small, meaningless objects Harry discarded— like a coffee receipt, a crumpled napkin, or a ticket stub.
Things no one else would ever notice.
But Tom noticed everything.
They were not trash.
These were all little trophies for Tom to keep.
Small moments of Harry, collected to catalog and preserve.
There was only so much watching Tom could do before he grew bored.
It was not enjoyable if he could not interact with the subject he was observing. Harry always smiled and responded so joyfully to other people, always reacting to everyone around him. It made Tom itch to know how the man would react to things he did for him.
What kind of expression would Harry pull if he spoke to him? How would Harry react if he realized he was being observed? Would Harry be good at fighting? He should be — he was an officer in training. What did Harry talk about with people he met for the first time? What would Harry even tell Tom if they met for the first time?
Tom realized he wanted to do more than observe his current fixation on the day Harry had leaned down and kissed his redheaded girlfriend giddily when she gave him a small gift — just some basketball poster.
Something so pathetically ordinary as a gift had delighted the man enough that he was practically twirling the girl in his excitement.
It made Tom wonder what his reactions would be to gifts Tom sent him. Tom was far richer than some ugly girl belonging to a loud brood of redheads. He could afford things of far superior quality—more refined, more classy—to offer the young man.
Now that he thought about it, there was this jacket he had seen on display the other day that would suit Harry exceptionally well. It would create a beautiful contrast against Harry’s warm skin.
Before Tom knew it, he was already walking out the door.
He had some gifts to purchase.
“Just who sent that to you?” the worried female voice echoed from the camera. Must be the Ginny girl. She sounded entirely unremarkable; Tom did not understand what about this woman appealed to Harry.
“I—don’t know?” Harry replied. His voice sounded so conflicted it made Tom giddy. Purchasing the expensive miniature camera had truly been the correct decision.
Tom watched from his computer as Harry struggled with the box on the counter, hands trembling slightly as he fumbled with the ribbon. His forehead creased, lips pressing together as mixed emotions danced upon his features. Stress. Fear. Anticipation. Curiosity.
A dark, slow smile crept across Tom’s face.
Good.
It was fortunate that Harry had such a soft spot for cute things. Sending the teddy while disguising it as a surprise birthday gift from one of his many friends had been an excellent choice.
The dog-themed teddy inside looked innocuous enough, with soft black fur, stitched eyes. Looking completely and harmlessly adorable.
But Tom knew the truth: a small camera was sewn into the back, a lens barely visible to anyone not actively searching for it. And now that lovely dog sat in the living room, angled toward the fireplace, giving Tom a perfect view of Harry opening his newest gift.
Harry hesitated before lifting it from the box, scanning the tag and wrapping. Tom watched with reptilian focus as those green eyes filled with unease at the expensive watch inside.
Harry's lips parted slightly, eyes widening, cheeks flushing with anger as he nearly hurled the thing across the room.
Tom felt thrilled.
He watched every reaction: the way Harry’s voice broke as he slumped onto the couch, the way he dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration and despair, the way his tired gaze shifted between the gift and his girlfriend. Every flicker of surprise, uncertainty, every small ripple of fear across his face — it was intoxicating.
This was the nth gift, Tom reminded himself, taking quiet satisfaction in the progression.
Among Harry's presents were expensive clothes he had sent before. Groceries carefully selected to Harry’s tastes. Jewelry chosen to complement the boy’s skin. High-end basketball equipment. All for him. Everything devoted to Harry.
Aside from the first gift — the dog plush, which Harry believed an anonymous friend had sent and treasured dearly — every other package Tom had deliberately left at his doorstep. He had felt a faint irritation that Harry credited someone else for that first gift, that Harry had remained unaware of him then.
Tom knew so much about Harry; he wanted Harry to notice him, too.
So now, with every gift, he made sure to leave an intricate snake design — subtly distinct from the skull-entwined serpent he used for his Voldemort persona.
After all, he wanted Harry to understand just how great an admirer he was becoming.
How Harry was such an endlessly fascinating subject to watch — every day, every hour, every minute.
Even if the young man felt repulsed, perhaps terrified of these gifts now, one day he would come to appreciate their true value.
Because they were unlike anything anyone had ever given him. No one had ever offered Harry gifts more thoughtful, more tailored, more intimately attuned to him than Tom had.
They were one of a kind. Only for him.
After all, no one except Tom knew everything about Harry.
Harry would surely come to realize how much better Tom was for him.
Harry’s girlfriend was an annoyance.
She kept pulling Harry out of his carefully maintained routine lifestyle, disrupting the quiet order of his life for her own impulsive whims.
Ginny Weasley laughed too loudly, like a hyena. Yet Harry always looked at her with open adoration whenever she did, his attention shifting toward her effortlessly, as though drawn by gravity. His shoulders relaxed around her in a way they never did with anyone else.
Tom could not comprehend what made the woman so appealing.
For some reason, Harry laughed more in her presence. He texted her constantly. Even when she intruded upon conversations Harry was already having with others, she immediately became the center of his focus without effort. Just the mere presence of her brightened him up.
Her face was freckled — something Harry seemed to cherish — though Tom was certain he would appreciate beauty marks far more than those scattered specks.
Her hair was an alarming shade of red, like a fire hazard. Surely Harry would find wavy dark brown hair far more pleasing.
She was small and slender, lacking the full, well-rounded presence of a proper woman. Her arms were thin as twigs. Tom was convinced Harry could not possibly find comfort in embracing someone so slight. He would surely prefer someone taller — someone capable of wrapping their hands around his waist and pressing him firmly against a wall.
As Tom watched Harry sleep peacefully in his bed, his loose shirt riding up just enough to reveal that narrow waist — perfectly suited for grasping — and the firm lines of muscle earned from disciplined training, Tom felt a slow certainty settle within him.
Harry would look far more fitting pinned beneath someone stronger.
Harry should not be the one leading in a relationship. He was meant to be cherished, indulged and protected — not wasting his energy doting on someone like Ginny.
From Tom’s records, he knew Harry was bisexual, or at least bicurious. In his school years, Harry had briefly dated a wealthy blond boy. Tom occasionally wondered about that dynamic — whether Harry had been the one in control, or the one yielding.
Either way, Harry would look far better draped over the arm of a brunette than beside a redhead.
The more Tom considered it, the more convinced he became that this girlfriend was a liability.
Especially when —
Tom’s gaze drifted toward the drawer he knew contained the newly purchased ring.
He could not allow Harry to sabotage his future for someone so undeserving. Harry had immense potential ahead of him, and this woman clearly did not value him the way Tom did.
When Harry spent nights at her place, his sleep suffered. Tom had noticed the subtle exhaustion in his posture the following mornings. Sometimes she called him at inconvenient hours, causing him to miss training sessions. Her cooking was likely inadequate as well — hardly conducive to maintaining Harry’s physical condition.
She was a disruption.
And Tom despised disruptions to his order.
Tom wanted to meet Harry.
He wanted to establish himself in the other’s life. Gifts only brought so much reaction, and while Harry constantly being on edge was so fucking cute, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to be the one comforting the man every time Potter freaked out over another present from his admirer, instead of watching Ginny sit beside the raven-haired boy and soothe him.
It should be Tom doing that. Not her.
Did she even know Harry the way Tom did?
She probably never memorized Harry’s breathing patterns while he slept the way Tom did. Tom knew Harry’s heartbeat rhythm from recordings by heart. He could predict when Harry would blink during conversations — he had watched enough footage to track it precisely.
Ginny probably never even noticed when Harry changed his shampoo from mint to caramel scent the other week.
There was so much she didn’t know about Harry; it was almost disappointing that she was called his girlfriend.
Unlike her, who always pulled Harry along at her own pace, Tom would gladly adjust to him. He wanted to meet Harry naturally — in a coincidence that felt like fate. For that, Tom had already begun making careful preparations, rearranging pieces of his life to the best of his abilities.
He scheduled his cases near Harry’s neighborhood. More chances for the young man to see him.
He changed gym memberships to match Harry’s running hours. More chances of crossing paths that way.
He learned Harry’s basketball routes and took walks during those same times.
And most of all, of course, he moved residences to be closer to Harry.
After all, what if later down the line they needed to see each other every day, but he lived too far away? It was better to make this investment now for greater benefit in the future.
Although he had liked his previous place.
But sometimes sacrifices were necessary for the greater good.
Tom chose to make his move on a completely plain Thursday morning.
Ordinary normalcy was important. It wouldn’t do to present an image that was too startling.
Which was why the location also had to be a normal, ordinary setting.
Harry always stopped at the same small café after his morning run—not at a fixed time, but within a predictable window. Tom had mapped it down to a margin of eight minutes. Today, he arrived fourteen minutes early. Enough time to settle and become part of the background.
He sat at a corner table, posture relaxed, a laptop open in front of him. A plain black mask rested beneath his chin, not hiding his face—just enough to suggest it was a personal preference rather than an attempt to hide his features. His hair was styled softer than usual, parted loosely to fall across his forehead. He looked charming. His clothes were deliberately chosen: expensive enough to look put-together, simple enough to avoid drawing attention.
He didn't need to wear too much; his looks alone would do most of the job.
Thankfully he looked like a person who had come down for a casual breakfast.
He ordered tea. Not coffee. Harry noticed coffee drinkers more—tracking them unconsciously, as if cataloging who drank the beverage his girlfriend seemed obsessed with. A completely delectable habit: Harry noticed people who had similar tastes as his significant other, if only the other party weren’t that Ginny pig.
Tom kept up his act of nonchalance. If anyone was watching, he couldn’t seem too eager to look at the door, even if he really was.
At precisely nine minutes into the window, the café door opened.
Tom didn’t look up immediately. He already knew his prey had arrived.
He counted.
One… two… three…
Then he lifted his eyes.
Harry Potter stepped inside, slightly flushed from running, curls damp at the temples, a loose hoodie clinging faintly to his shoulders. He paused just inside the doorway, the way he always did—scanning the room, instinctively checking exits to make sure no one had followed him in.
Tom’s pulse quickened.
There you are.
Harry moved toward the counter, relaxed but not careless. Tom noticed the micro-tension in his shoulders—the subtle stiffness that had developed over the past weeks. The result of gifts. Of being watched. Of knowing he might be watched.
Good.
Very good.
It was delightful to see how much Tom’s actions had affected Harry’s life.
He waited until the exact moment Harry turned with his newly gotten drink—until his path naturally intersected with Tom’s table.
Then Tom stood up.
Not abruptly. No, that would have given the game away.
Just enough.
Just at the wrong second.
Then at just the right moment, Harry Potter lightly collided with him.
Perfect.
“Oh—sorry!”
Harry stepped back immediately, apologetic, one hand lifting as if to steady Tom without actually touching him. Tom let his cup tilt—just slightly—so a small splash of tea hit the floor instead of either of them.
Just enough to make Harry feel bad, not enough to spill onto his clothes and sour his mood.
“No harm done,” Tom said feign surprise.
Seeing the dripping tea on the floor made Harry even more sorry. The raven-haired man quickly looked up to apologize once more.
Harry froze for a fraction of a second the moment their eyes made contact.
It was subtle—barely perceptible—but Tom saw it. He noticed the way Harry’s eyes lingered on his face longer than polite strangers usually allowed. It wasn't out of instant attraction, nor was it out of recognition.
It was instinct.
Instinct to be wary of a danger he could not name. Instinct likely drilled deep into officers. For a fleeting second, Harry saw Tom as a threat, and wasn’t that just arousing?
A faint crease formed between his brows.
Tom watched the precise moment Harry’s body language shifted: shoulders drawing taut, fingers readjusting their hold on the cup, weight subtly shifting backward as if preparing to create distance.
He doesn’t know why he’s uneasy. But he can feel that Tom isn’t normal. That's so cute so cute so cute so cute—
Tom gave a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling, shoulders loosening, head tilting just a fraction as he flashed that billion-dollar smile he knew made ladies weak in the knees.
Out of habit, Harry gave a polite smile right back, the same sunshine expression he offered everyone—but it didn’t fully reach his eyes.
“Still… I should’ve been watching where I was going,” he said.
His voice was warm. So warm, so sweet, so real.
Tom had heard recordings of it for months.
But hearing it live—vibrating in the same air—sent something sharp and electric racing down his spine. Fuck, he should have carried a tape recorder to capture this historic moment of Harry speaking directly to him.
“So should I have, please, no harm done.”
It was taking everything in him not to lean down and inhale the scent of the younger man before him. Tom prayed his voice wasn’t sounding too harsh on the ears. He was so excited he had to hold himself back. He couldn’t let Harry run away now.
Harry hesitated again before adding, almost reflexively, "Are you sure you’re not burned?”
Was that concern? Was Harry concerned for Tom?
Even though his instincts from being stalked by an unknown admirer should be taking a heavy physical and mental toll on him, he still prioritized the other person. The other person here being Tom.
Tom felt a deep, dark satisfaction coil in his chest.
Yes.
God really does reward those with patience.
Up close, Harry was overwhelming. Just looking at him made Tom’s nether regions tighten. Tom had studied every angle of his face through lenses and screens, memorized his expressions frame by frame—but reality was different. Nothing could rival the real thing.
For one, his eyes were brighter than any photograph could capture—that vivid green catching light with every small movement. There were faint shadows beneath them today. He hadn’t slept well.
Because of me.
The thought landed with intoxicating weight.
Then the way those clothes clung to his body—Tom itched to strip them away immediately. He wanted to run his hands over that warm, creamy-toned skin. Feel those abs, bite those lips.
Tom realized he was staring. He forced himself to blink once, slowly, then gave a faint, reassuring smile—the kind he knew people trusted. And oh, he was rewarded for it: Harry’s face flushed just a little, blooming into a delectable red tint, and the man looked away.
Tom was grateful to have been born handsome. Thank Heavens his useless parents had created him. His superior genes were serving him immensely right now.
“I’m fine,” he replied softly.
Harry relaxed at his words, his fingers visibly loosening around his cup. So freaking cute. The younger man was calming down after hearing the other party was fine.
He was calming down.
Because of me.
The realization sent another rush of possessive satisfaction through Tom’s veins.
This was different from watching.
This was so much more satisfying, so much more exhilarating—watching in real time Harry’s every delectable reaction.
Harry gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Good… that would’ve been a terrible start to your morning.”
Tom tilted his head slightly, voice mild. “It’s alright. Accidents happen. I wouldn’t have run into such a handsome fellow otherwise.”
And the praise earned him another reward, Harry’s cheeks reddening further—oh yes, how his subject seemed uncomfortable with open compliments, unsure what to do with them.
“Thank you… you’re very good-looking too.”
Tom beamed. "Why, thank you.” Thank fuck his face looked like it had been sculpted by Jesus himself. Otherwise, his fascinating prey wouldn’t be standing here talking to him longer than politeness required.
And then it happened—Harry said it. He said those words; that made Tom feel dangerously close to marching into the nearest church and converting to Christianity because God fucking existed.
“How about I buy you another cup as an apology? Ah, I didn’t yet introduce myself—I’m Harry Potter.”
Baby, I know.
It was at this moment that Tom Riddle felt something dangerously close to triumph.
Because the prey had just walked into the predator’s open hands…
and introduced himself.
“Oh, that would be really kind of you. I’m Tom—Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
The coffee date, as Tom liked to call it, went perfectly.
By the end of it, Harry had willingly exchanged contact information with him, and in Tom’s books that was basically a sign from the heavens that he was on the right track.
Since they had exchanged numbers and learned of each other’s occupations—with Tom being an investigator and Harry training to be an officer—who would have guessed it would lead to them discovering more and more in common?
Every time they discussed things, the way Harry’s face lit up when they related on something was so freaking adorable it was a shame Tom couldn’t loop his own memories just to savor those moments endlessly.
Harry was such an outgoing soul that, by sheer coincidence, they both realized they lived right across from each other—who would have guessed?
And as if guided by fate, they soon met again while Harry was out on a jog as Tom was leaving the gym, leading to them spending the afternoon talking and opening up to each other even more.
Every expression Harry made was worthy of being immortalized in a painting; a shame Harry wasn’t a model. The young man had such a boyish charm to him, that adorable innocence—it was almost like Harry was inviting Tom to sink his fangs into him.
What was even more entertaining was that Harry genuinely started seeing Tom as a friend.
To the point that the young man opened up about his stalking problem and asked if Tom could help find out who did it because, unsurprisingly, the police were incompetent and did not take men being stalked as a serious issue—much in Tom’s favor.
Since he mentioned it so adorably, Tom simply had to gift him a few more presents from Harry’s “admirer,” making the raven-haired man grow sicker and more unsettled as the days passed. And even that girlfriend of Harry’s couldn’t provide much moral support for him.
Just the thought that it was Tom who could make Harry feel so many different things—and that it was Tom, too, who could comfort him—made him want to bend the man over and devour him completely. Harry was just such a tease. Such beautiful despair, such powerful emotions, such a pure heart, and such a resilient mind. He wanted to break him so badly and then piece him back together. He wanted to cut Harry open and see what his insides were made of.
He wanted to push Harry to the brink of pleasure and hear how high the boy could cry out. He wanted to play Harry Potter like a flute—and then feel his body slowly turn cold after Tom bludgeoned the life out of him.
Tom had never felt such intense emotions before. Harry must truly be special—a special subject meant only for Tom to explore endlessly.
This must be what people meant when they said they had fallen in love.
Such a beautiful emotion. The perfect emotion for him and Harry. Tom knew he could make Harry the happiest—after all, even as Harry seemed to be growing more depressed, he was still the only one who could make the boy laugh carefreely. Tom and Harry were meant to be.
But Tom realized he had one very large obstacle: he wanted Harry Potter… but he knew he did not want Ginny Weasley with Harry Potter.
Tom surfaced from sleep slowly, dragged upward through a fog of heavy dreams by the urgent, relentless pounding at his door. The sound thudded again and again, sounding desperate and frantic.
Who could possibly need him this badly?
At such an hour.
He forced himself out of bed, limbs heavy, mind still wrapped in the warm haze of sleep. His hair fell in dark, disordered strands across his forehead as he crossed the room and opened the door—
—and the last remnants of drowsiness shattered instantly.
Harry stood there.
Pitiful Harry.
He was trembling violently, like a rain-soaked stray dog abandoned in the cold. His curls clung damply to his temples, his breathing was ragged, and his eyes were wide and glassy. He looked so small. So fragile.
So easily breakable.
“Harry, what’s wrong?”
“Tom!— I— uh— hospital— tak—”
The words fractured apart in Harry's mouth, dissolving into airless gasps. His chest rose and fell too fast and soon he was hyperventilating. Tom stepped forward immediately, hands settling against Harry’s back, rubbing slow circles—trying to coax him to slow his breathing.
“Relax,” Tom murmured softly, voice smooth as dark velvet. “It’s going to be fine. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“You have a driving license, yes—”
“Yes, Harry, I do. Why?”
“Please—the hospital! Take me, please! It’s Ginny—”
Tom asked nothing further. He simply guided him to his sleek black car and then drove off toward the designated hospital. He was so casual, as though he had been waiting for this moment all along.
Harry had bolted out of his seat before Tom had even finished parking, rushing toward his girlfriend’s side as quickly as possible. Tom hurried after him too—not to see her, but to see what expression Harry would make.
It was then he learned what happened.
It was a tragic accident.
So utterly tragic.
Isn’t it just unfortunate how Ginny Weasley had gotten into a fatal car accident just two days before their anniversary as a couple?
Just two days before, when Harry had planned to propose to her and claim her as his spouse for the world to see.
Oh dear, such tragedy when things were going so well between them.
Talk about exquisite timing.
The Weasley family broke beneath the news, and precious Harry…
Harry collapsed.
The sound that tore from him when the doctors pronounced her dead was raw, unguarded, and so deeply, beautifully human.
It was a cruel irony that she had always been the one who drove for the pair, while Harry could barely tolerate sitting in a moving car without feeling motion sickness.
So that night she simply had to go out to another town to help their mutual friend upon Harry's request.
And somehow her car’s brakes malfunctioned.
Thus leading to her crashing into the snow in this bitterly cold December month.
It was merely a string of unfortunate coincidences.
Nothing more.
Tom felt a deep well of sympathy stir within him.
How tragic that Ginnerva Weasley had to die such an effortless death.
How tragic that she would never feel the ring on her finger, since Harry never got the chance to give it to her.
How tragic that Tom had not been granted the privilege of witnessing the expression she might have worn in her final moments—the realization dawning that the man she loved would ultimately belong to someone else. Taken by someone Harry rightfully belonged to.
Someone who knew Harry far better than she ever could.
Someone who had memorized him: breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.
But it didn’t matter.
Tom was here now.
Especially now, when Harry was sobbing in his arms, crying over his newly deceased girlfriend.
Tom held him close, one hand cradling the back of his head, feeling the warmth of his grief seep through fabric into his skin. Tom would make sure to care for him during these trying times.
He would become the steady presence Harry leaned on to survive each day.
Tom would be right here, tending to his mental and physical well-being.
They would support each other while Harry tried to move on from his dead lover.
Soon Harry would come to understand he needed only Tom and how perfectly they belonged together.
As they say, nothing binds two hearts more tightly than a shared traumatic experience.
Tom knew he had to move things slowly.
Like a serpent coiling around still-warm prey, he had to make sure Harry couldn’t run. So he began by giving the other man space at first — space to grieve his ex’s death, space to adjust to the reality that Harry was now free from her suffocating grasp, free for Tom to partake in.
Then, gradually, imperceptibly, he closed the distance.
It was slow, of course.
Like that one night where he coincidentally figured he should come check up on Harry. Simply to make sure Potter was coping well enough.
That’s how, by chance, it led to Tom sitting beside him while Harry cried. If only Harry would just let him lick the fallen teardrops.
He did his best to whisper comfortsing words into those quiet sobs.
It happened once. Then twice.
Then it became a routine.
Routine bred necessity.
And soon necessity would turn into dependence.
He made sure to begin innocently enough.
He knew Harry was loyal to a fault—a golden retriever soul. He wouldn’t forget Ginny easily, even though Tom was right here.
When Harry was unable to sleep again, Tom was there to support him as usual. Dark shadows were carved beneath Harry’s eyes, and brittle exhaustion weighed heavily in his posture. He sat curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn close, fingers restlessly worrying the hem of his sleeve.
Tom would make him milk tea—Harry's favorite. Then he would sit beside him, close but not touching. He wouldn’t rush physical contact. Those would come soon enough. It was merely a matter of patience.
He knew better than to rush.
Tom would let Harry sip his tea in silence, offering calm, steady companionship, then leave before the night ended, knowing Harry still wanted solitude.
Because Harry was drowning in terrible guilt over his girlfriend’s death, blaming himself for causing her end.
If only Tom could simply pull him close, kiss his anguish away, and whisper the truth —
No, baby, you did nothing wrong. I was the one who cut the wires.
But Tom would never say that. Because the more guilt Harry carried, the more stress and despair hollowed him out, and the easier it became for Tom to save him—to offer unwavering support and slowly draw Harry into thier own perfect little world.
As days bled into weeks, Tom meticulously ensured he appeared as often as possible, always ready to support him.
Meanwhile Harry, crushed by guilt, withdrew more and more from friends and family—much to Tom’s delight. He accepted Tom’s presence far more easily, perhaps because Tom had not “known” Ginny (oh, but he had; he knew exactly what she was, a goddamn minx) and therefore would not judge Harry the way the Weasleys might.
Even though Tom thought it was obvious the Weasleys wouldn’t blame Harry, Harry was just too innocent, darling, and couldn’t harm a fly enough to ever cause the death of his girlfriend.
Tom wouldn’t tell Harry that.
Harry didn’t need the Weasleys anyway.
He would be the only one Harry relied on. He would wait for him forever.
And his wait was rewarded.
Because one very bleak night, while drinking whiskey to forget himself, “I just… don’t want to be alone right now,” Harry admitted quietly, voice slurred, staring at the floor rather than at him.
Tom had to fight the mad urge to grin wildly. This was it. Harry was yielding. Yes, yes, yes.
Tom let a pause stretch, as though thoughtfully weighing Harry’s words.
“You don’t have to be,” he replied gently. “I’m here for you, Harry.”
And when Harry hesitated before asking —
“…Could you maybe stay tonight?”
Tom allowed himself a small, warm smile.
Of course. Always.
That was their first sleepover.
Then came the second.
Then the third.
Soon it became natural for Tom’s presence to fill Harry’s home — his coat draped over chairs, his shoes resting neatly by the door, his toothbrush in their shared washroom, his voice threading through the quiet spaces of Harry’s evenings.
Their routines blended seamlessly, like piano woven with violin. Mornings were spent getting coffee at the café where they first met. Afternoons passed in runs or gym sessions. Evenings were quiet, spent talking or simply existing side by side.
Harry didn’t even realize how completely Tom had spilled himself into his life—or perhaps he did and simply didn’t mind. Tom hoped it was the latter.
After all, Harry was so adorably trusting. When they spent time together, he would lean onto Tom’s shoulder without a second thought, and Tom watched it happen with deep, patient satisfaction.
Grief had hollowed Harry out. Ginny’s death left a cavernous emptiness in his heart, in his future. The life he had imagined with her had burned away completely. He was a dead man walking, his life full of empty spaces.
And Tom filled those empty spaces shamelessly, bringing with him comfort, stability, and unwavering attention dedicated to Harry.
It was so easy.
Harry hated being alone; he had always been surrounded by friends and the constant companionship of his lover. Now, crippled by guilt and grief, with his partner dead, Tom effortlessly became the sole presence in Harry’s life. A permanent presence, he might add.
It was simply the natural course of things.
After all, they were inevitable.
Tonight was another quiet evening. Tom had long since stopped returning to his own apartment except for work or to check his equipment.
Living with Harry allowed him constant access—constant observation of his favorite subject. Harry was a wonderful chef too, though lately he had lost the will to cook and lost the will to eat. So Tom took to cooking for him.
Harry was perfect.
With the way he picked at his food without any appetite, just slow, automatic, habitual movements. Even though he was chewing his bite, the dull heaviness in his eyes always showed he wasn't fully present in the moment.
It was honestly perfect.
He was so broken.
But not beyond repair.
Just broken enough to need Tom.
Now that he lived almost fully in Harry’s home, Tom reveled in this domestic intimacy—and in the opportunity to install more spy cameras throughout the house: the bathroom, the kitchen, even the fridge. He wanted to see Harry from every angle and document every change.
“You should really eat more, Harry,” Tom said gently.
“Mhm…” came the absent reply, but Harry didn’t lift his spoon again.
Then his phone buzzed on the table, the vibration faint against the wood. Harry glanced at the message but didn’t pick it up.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, pushing his chair back. “Washroom.”
Tom nodded, offering a soft, reassuring smile. “Take your time.”
While watching Harry walk away, Tom waited.
He listened and counted the seconds.
The bathroom door clicked shut. Water began running.
Only then did Tom move.
He smoothly reached out and grabbed Harry's phone with practiced ease. Typing out the password he already had memorized long since with how repeatedly he did this.
The screen opened up instantly. Tom went into the messaging app with the notification icon showing on the top:
4 new messages from Sirius Black.
Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly. Ah, how long had it been since he last read that name? Now that he recalled, the man had started making contact with his Harry. Tom had completely forgotten about this side piece while focusing on his precious.
He tapped on the profile and checked the latest messages.
“Harry, how are you, kiddo? Where have you been? Call me back ;b”
“Do you want to meet up this weekend just to catch up?”
“I miss you pup >_<”
“Ah yeah, btw—your new friend you said you are living with sounds kind of familiar, but I don’t quite recall where I met him. What did you say he did for a living?”
His fingers moved with lazy grace as he typed a reply.
Harry: I think he worked as a part-time shop assistant. Why?
Tom’s eyes watched the message turn into a blue tick, confirming it was read before he deleted the texts — along with any follow-up reply.
He placed the phone back in the exact position it had been. It was as though he had never touched it.
By the time Harry returned, drying his hands on a towel, Tom was already seated, looking up with gentle concern.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Harry nodded, exhaustion still heavy in his eyes. “Yeah… just tired.”
Tom smiled softly. “Harry, will you be free this weekend?”
Harry tilted his head. “I should be. Why?”
“I was thinking we could go out somewhere for a change of pace. It would be better for us to have a change in scenery, right?”
“Oh, I guess so… yeah. Sure.”
“Perfect. Also, I’ll need to go handle some work for a few days. Will you be alright staying by yourself for a few days?” Tom teased. After all, he had plans to take care of a few loose ends.
“Of course, Tom. I’m not a child,” Harry huffed, though a faint giggle escaped him.
“I know,” Tom murmured. He reached out, gently taking Harry’s hand. Harry blinked in surprise.
Tom leaned forward, voice low and soothing.
“Still, you don’t have to handle everything alone, Harry. I’m here.”
And when Harry looked up at him again—green eyes meeting brown—Tom saw it.
That fragile, dangerous thing in Harry’s eyes.
That soft, unspoken trust.
Like a serpent tightening its coils, Tom only smiled.
Tom spent the next few days meticulously crafting his plans.
Harry was already fragile with grief. Another devastating blow would be perfect to push him further into despair, causing him to retreat inward—straight into Tom’s waiting arms.
After all, wasn’t it always a familiar story? How a desperate godfather, projecting his dead friend onto his godson, began crossing lines just to keep the boy close? Sending gifts anonymously to a godson who resembled his deceased best friend. Growing jealous of the boy’s girlfriend—and thus eliminating her to free his “son.”
Really, this godfather was a madman.
A recently escaped convict—his path already would be riddled with suspicion—it would be perfectly natural for whispers to spread, for new evidence to conveniently surface.
Would anyone question it if Sirius suddenly became the villain in Harry’s story?
If he were blamed for the stalking.
For the gifts.
For Ginny’s death.
For everything.
After all, tragedies always needed someone to carry the blame.
And Tom had such an exceptionally skilled scapegoat.
Soon, there would be nothing left to stand between Harry… and the life Tom had already decided for them.
Case File: H.J. Potter
Final note: Subject remains under permanent observation.