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The eyes on him were searing.
The heat they left on his skin burned him as though they were branding him. Not dissimilar to what the man they belonged to often attempted to do.
Harry, admittedly, and shamefully, dreamt of that happening. Only occasionally. He knew that that admission aloud would prompt whoever nearest to give St Mungos a call, and have him admitted for a thorough and complete mental screening. Not ideal. Harry did not have time for that right now.
And anyway, despite those… darker thoughts, Harry was nothing but loyal to the cause. The cause that sprang into quick action once they heard of his sudden appearance, dragging the young Lord along due to a silly premonition quoted two decades ago, also completely out of Harry’s hands, by the way.
Any sane person would know that Sybil Trelawney was clinging to scarce remnants of Cassandra Trelawney’s persona.
(Harry was very confident in the idea of his future being of his own creation, not of a fabled ‘Fate’) ((He would later learn that even the most good of ‘God’s Creations’, most pure, most kind, and most benevolent can be easily misled thanks to the simple-mindedness of humankind))
That meant that Tom Marvolo Riddle was an anomaly, annoyingly so.
Riddle, when he wasn’t waxing poetry about committing some heinous crime and then enacting it days later, chose to absorb any knowledge regarding the mystical makings of the universe, what governed it all, or rather who; Harry was reluctant to admit this did lead to conversations (lectures) about the older boy’s obsessive need for control. Rendering that theory from being brought up in bed anytime soon.
Anyways, Harry knew his mission. He did. It’s why he was pointedly not looking in the direction of his target. He knew firsthand that Riddle’s legilimency was unparalleled, so looking the man in the eye could possibly ruin all of the Order’s perfectly curated preparations. Or reveal his deepest desires.
A flash of green caught the corner of his left eye, but he still refused to look. He had fallen for that trick once before, and all he remembers is being sucked into what he could only describe as being a ‘complete fucking eye sore’ that sort-of resembled Hogwarts’ library.
Very weird, very dangerous.
Harry stubbornly ignored another flash, taking a single sip of his butterbeer.
Riddle’s rage felt palpable through the dingy air of the pub. Harry was sure that the other man would advocate the act of being ignored to be of equal weight to say, murder (for example).
Then a shadow fell over the bar stool to the left of him and the Potter-Black Lord braced himself for an onslaught of curses to hit his person, but nothing came.
“I cannot find any of those stupid, flimsy papers that we keep in the second drawer.”
Harry almost whips his head round at that, “‘We’?” Disdain bleeds into his tone, “And what in Merlin’s name are you going on about now?”
Riddle flicks a bit of magic onto the exposed skin of his wrist as a rebuke, “You know. The ones where you get the muggle’s,” (His voice drops to a whisper, here) “to drop food off at our apartment. I know you’ve hidden them, even gone as far as to put an anti-theft charm on them.”
Rubbing at the targeted skin, the younger man scowled at the alcohol covered wall, “First of all, it’s not our apartment, you contribute nothing towards the overall monthly cost. And second, I moved them because you keep spending my muggle money on Chinese food. Do you even realise how embarrassing it is for all the delivery workers in rotation to know my name?”
Riddle made a noise that sounded like he couldn’t care less. He probably couldn’t, he probably found the workers in whatever spare time he had (after conducting some heinous crime) and made them forget their own name.
“If you weren’t able to resist it, I would use the Imperius curse on you to release them into my care.” The older man snarls, fingers twitching in the corner of Harry’s eye.
“To-may-to, to-mah-to.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re not getting my takeaway menus.”
Another sharp pain, which weirdly resembled a static shock Harry received on the trampoline of 7 Privet Drive when he was much, much younger, resounded in the same spot of exposed skin. In retaliation, Harry kicked the other man’s leg. This resulted in a tedious and unforgiving game of ‘footsies’ that Harry knew would leave him with multiple, unexplainable bruises.
Just another problem for future Harry to worry about.
The tingling warmth in the shape of a galleon burned a metaphorical hole in his left pant pocket, and he was sharply aware of the guilt flooding through his thoughts of his distraction from the mission. His resolve immediately hardens, as he angles his legs away from the onslaught of abuse.
“I need to know what you’re planning.” Harry asks, not only for the sake of the Order, but for his own selfish needs. He would have to be stupid to not have noticed Riddle’s shifty behaviour these past few weeks: leaving before Harry wakes up, hiding all of his communications (even going as far as setting letters on fire as soon as Harry walks into the room), avoiding all talks of ‘work’.
Riddle at least had enough common sense to not deny his statement, “What makes you think I’ll tell you, my Chosen One?” The playful lilt to the term of endearment did a poor job of disguising how absurd he thought the new conversation was.
Harry pointedly ignored the used possessive adjective, “Don’t do this.”
The delighted laugh that escaped the object of his deepest desires attracted the eyes of the patrons surrounding them, and unbeknownst to Harry, a sound that only ever surfaced when he was present company.
“While I appreciate this poor job of a lecture, Harrison, you are deluded if you think I will stop. You must have known this when you dragged poor, old me into your bed. I can’t possibly think what gave you the impression I had had a change of heart?” Riddle’s hand dropped to the thigh furthest from him, resting gently atop of Harry’s wand which was tucked into his pocket (11’’ long, made of holly, containing a single feather of the late Headmaster’s Phoenix).
Harry feigned disinterest, eyes drifting to the clock that was hung above the alcohol. The walls of his Occlumency steadily rising, parallel to his abating heart rate.
“This is the last chance I’m offering to you,” Finally shifting his whole body to face Riddle (No, Tom. Always Tom when he looks at Harry like that), and earth meets fire. An unprovoked shiver goes down his spine, finally giving himself the chance to drink his part-time lover in. Harry ignores the instantaneous probing at his steel walls, “It would be in your best interests to finally learn to listen to me.”
Tom ducks his head closer, pure glee dancing across his normally emotionless face. Harry almost hesitates when he glimpses something in the other man’s eyes. If he was any other person he would not have noticed the subtle insistent prodding at his mental walls, fortunately Tom’s attempts at finding a weak spot were rendered nought and Harry sends silent gratitude to Severus Snape - who was good for something after all, at the very least to Harry.
His moment of victory quickly passes when Tom tilts his head to the side and a single curl drops with it. Harry’s heart thuds traitorously.
“Now Harrison,” Tom drawls, the fire in his dark, red eyes a beacon in the dreadful pub lighting, “What are you planning?”
All Hell breaks loose.
Flashes of green, and then red, fill the tight area and Harry wastes no time jumping out of his seat and utilising his wand, aiming it in Tom’s direction, “Stupify!”
Predictably, Tom deflects this with an elegant wave of his hand. However, his momentary distraction allows Harry to get into a more offensive position and cast a solid ‘Protego’ around himself.
Dark spells are being thrown around, countered by darker spells from the Death Eaters Harry knew Tom had stationed in and around the area but he pays them no mind, confident in the abilities of his friends that he had stationed in and around. By now though, Kingsley Shacklebolt should’ve warded the area so no one can apparate in or out, a carefully thought out suicide mission that the Order members had readily agreed to. This all leaves Harry’s head when Tom rises from his seat and mimics his stance.
Harry had expected his occasional lover and full-time enemy to bring the brunt of Heaven down on him, what he was not counting on was a full blown grin to be directed his way.
“A scrappy dogfight? You shouldn't have.” Tom delights, waving his wand (13 ½” long, made of yew, also containing a single feather of the late Headmaster’s Phoenix) and Harry twists to the side, narrowly avoiding a stream of red light. A loud explosion comes from behind him.
“I did warn you - Confundo! - Get your puppets to stand down and surrender and this will be over as quickly as it started.” Harry ducks to avoid what is probably another attempt on his life and Tom lets out another laugh.
“Come now Harrison, I know you have worse spells in your limited inventory.” His taunting only served as fuel to Harry’s infamous rage, “And besides, I should be the one saying that to you. If you cease this childish tantrum I may even consider allowing your two pets to be killed quickly.”
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Being reminded that Hermione and Ron were also now trapped in this limited space, battling off equally talented Death Eaters didn’t improve his depleting mood.
Tom, once again, flicks the curse away.
This is how it goes, Harry sends mildly life threatening curses his way, and Tom deflects every single one of them with his wand and a snide remark, making small progress in closing the distance between them.
His frustration was building with the lack of fight from the other man, the tension in the room along with it. However, not a single curse (besides Tom’s) had come Harry’s way the entire time he was present. A fact he would take apart later under the sheltering darkness of his room.
Fine. He’ll do this another way.
“I burned them! I threw every single one of them into the fireplace!”
He imagines that if Tom was a more expressive person, his jaw would have dropped. The closest he gets is a sliver of upper teeth, eyes crinkling in the corner in what he suspects is outrage.
“Burned.” The single word uttered with the most fury Harry had heard from him all night.
The younger boy presumes maybe this wasn’t the most ideal way.
“You burned them?” Tom hisses, finally gaining on Harry. This close, he can smell the rage on his own personal enemy. This close, it’s easy to forget their surroundings, and instead envision their last, hidden, encounter.
Tom’s hands, pale and long, tangled in and tugging on Harry’s relentless curls.
Whispered threats in his ear, followed by a gentle nip on his earlobe, that would make anyone pull away. But not Harry, never Harry.
Despite his occulumency shields remaining high, Tom has fallen unnaturally silent, head tilted an inch to the right in such a familiar gesture it pulls on a single heartstring of Harry’s. Red eyes alight with a different fire, as if fully in sync with Harry’s mood shift.
What they had, whatever it was (specifically unnamed), was far from conventional. They both knew that. They both knew the consequences that would be thwarted against their respective selves if anyone was to find out just how truly they knew the other. It was under the long list of things they purposely did not talk about.
Harry had long since realised that he could have accepted Ginny’s obvious attempts, or even reciprocated Dean Thomas’ lingering stares, either one a more appropriate choice. And much more likely to be approved by his pseudo-family.
Unfortunately, Tom Riddle was one of a kind.
The kind that wouldn’t hesitate to take an attempt on Harry’s life in public, but then worship his body with the same amounts of ferocity in the privacy of Harry’s bedroom.
It was dangerous. It was exciting. A type of adrenaline that could only come from something horribly life-changing. Harry hadn’t felt like this since he, Hermione, and Ron used to sneak into Hogsmeade late into the night and smuggle copious amounts of alcohol back into the tower, narrowly avoiding the tell-tale footsteps of the Potions Master.
Dangerous. Exciting.
Besides, it’s not like it was anything serious.
“Harrison,” Tom breaks through his thoughts with a dangerous lilt, as if knowing exactly what plagues his lover’s mind, “Cease this pathetic excuse of an ambush, and we can go home.”
“Not your home.” Harry rebukes immediately.
Tom just continues to stare at him like he’s seven horocruxes rolled into one and presented on a silver platter. Like he’s Tom’s prized possession and undoing equally.
“No one else has to die, Harrison.” A silver-tongued attempt to appeal to Harry’s saviour complex (another conversation that cannot be brought up in bed).
Harry raises an eyebrow, the words flitting behind his mind shields. He considers the tone, the emphasis on ‘has’, and always the way his part-time lover utters his official forename. Tom has never been an earnest individual, Harry privately doubts he ever will be, so why was the man pretending like he was doing Harry the favour here?
“Today? Or forever?”
“Is there a need for such specifics?”
“I think there is every need,” Harry mutters, prodding the tip of his wand to Tom’s sternum, who looked thrilled by the turn of events. Harry’s confusion was cleared when he felt a wand tip press into his lower back, “Bastard.”
A small smirk tugs at Tom’s lips, a gesture that drew Harry’s eyes straight there, dangerous memories flickering through his mind like an old muggle’s production. This was what drew Harry in the first time, the beauty and danger and the knowing that any wrong move would cause catastrophic uproar within the Wizarding community.
“Come now Harrison, I know your saviour complex is working overtime, all you have to do is give in to it. No one else has to get hurt today.” Tom murmurs in, what he must presume, a placating tone.
Today.
A single word that snapped Harry out of his desperate delusions. He took a step back, keeping his wand aimed at the other’s heart. Tom slithers to the side, in the direction of flashing lights and deadly curses. His face betrayed nothing, a blank canvas wiped of their conversation. Instead, a carefully rearranged mask sat perfectly in place.
“I offered you a choice,” Riddle began, voice getting louder, and wand rising in tangent, “More than I would offer lesser men. I now present what every single one took away from our conversation.”
Suddenly, like a bubble had burst around them, the frenzy of the pub hits Harry full force. Desperate shouts amplified in volume. A curse flew over his head, one almost scraped his arm, the whoosh of another came from behind him and he quickly stepped to the side as the clock that hung on the wall shattered into a thousand pieces.
Although he had guessed previously, Harry was now one hundred percent certain been protected from the worst of the fight.
Riddle begins to chant, his eyes falling closed. Unrushed Latin composed to resemble a singing choir. The already-stifling air became almost inhabitable, darkness began pooling from the deepest crevices of the room.
Harry’s eyes widened, his Latin was rusty at best and nothing compared to the other man’s. Desperately, ideas rushed to mind. He knew interrupting would have untold consequences on not only the two of them, but every other individual trapped inside the wards.
Casting a quick ‘Protego’ around himself, his eyes luckily search out Shacklebolt immediately, who was dueling a masked death eater. Harry sends a powerful ‘Expulso’ in that direction, blasting the death eater into another and sending them back into a wall with a loud bang!
Shacklebolt's head snaps so fast in his direction, and a subconscious, almost comical, thought has Harry concerned about whiplash.
“Cancel the wards! We need to get out of here, now! We need to regroup at-” He cuts himself off, frantically waving his wand in Riddle’s direction, partly because actions would cause a quicker reaction and partly because he wasn’t about to reveal Headquarters to anyone listening.
Shacklebolt’s eyes flick to Harry’s right, taking in the scene of Riddle’s imperceptible murmuring and Harry’s frenzied expression. Shacklebolt must know that Harry wouldn’t ask unless the situation was absolutely dire. He finally gave a short nod, understanding the risk of possibly killing everyone versus losing the remaining death eaters. He raised his wand, muttering words Harry couldn’t read off his lips, and the oppressive atmosphere lessened faintly.
Harry almost fainted with lightening sharp relief, despite knowing the original plan of the suicide mission, Shacklebolt had listened. The man sent yellow sparks high above, catching the attention of those around them and apparated away. Members of the Order in close proximity caught on quickly, also sending yellow sparks up and popping away.
A ripple effect spread through the pub, as loud cracks filled the room. But Harry had already refocused his attention on Riddle.
The man’s eyes had shot open at the noise, but he was chanting no longer. Instead, his lips had upturned, like he had already won. His red pupils alight from the use of dark magic.
“What have you done?” Harry whispered, relief being replaced with pure panic.
Tom ignored the remaining chaos, all of his attention on Harry, “I offered you a choice, Harrison,” He replies softly, like soothing a caged animal, deflecting the question, “I am not at fault for what is to happen.”
“What have you done Tom?” He repeated harshly, quelling the fear threatening to rise.
The older man raises his wand, and before Harry could block the unknown curse sent his way, he is knocked off his feet, banging his head roughly on the metal foot rail of the bar.
“What needed to be done.”
Harry’s world went dark.