Chapter Text
crash and burn
part 1
"Crash"
On the morning of November 21st, 1979, Lily and James Potter decide to have unprotected sex for the seventh time, hoping that a single sperm would be able to reach its destination and create a small, perfect life. That same morning, umberknowst to the Potters, a sperm does indeed find the way, and a small, perfect life begins during a thunderstorm in Godric’s Hollow. Nine months later, little Harry James Potter takes his first breath of fresh air and proceeds to cry so loudly his magic flares and destroys all the windows on the OB-Gyn Ward at St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Now, Fate could be merciful to the little creature that seems to hold so much power in himself, but there are many more things in the universe than what meets the eye, and fixed points that can never be altered, not even by the Gods themselves. So - on October 31st, 1981, as the Potters are getting ready to take their beautiful son out for his first Hallowe’en night, Peter Pettigrew cracks under the pressure of his unsatisfying life and his long-time hatred for his friends and breaks down their front door, shooting James in the chest with a surprisingly strong Avada Kedavra. The man-rat then proceeds to walk up the stairs and point his wand at Harry Potter, shouting the spell just as Lily Potter rushes to throw herself in front of her boy.
The curse hits the mother.
Peter Pettigrew wastes no time in casting the third, and final, curse that night. Thinking it merciful to end a life before it could know the pain of a life without parents. But the curse ricochets and hits the ceiling, blowing a hole in the shingles and the wards alike, and Peter runs away like the coward he is.
That Hallowe’en night, Sirius Black is called by his boss, Auror Cornelius Fudge, and sent to investigate the mysterious explosion. Three hours later, the man-dog has tracked down Pettigrew into muggle London, where he engages him in a duel that many, later, will call “Extraordinary in its destruction.” Peter gets killed together with twelve muggles, and Sirius gets taken to Azkaban with a sentence of twelve years for manslaughter.
In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state.
On the morning of June 8th, 2005, Harry Potter opens the window of his Horizon Alley flat to let a large eagle-owl inside. The owl spares him no glance, but drops off a letter before flying away. Confused, Harry grabs the letter, noticing with a spike of pain the large engraved sealing wax coat-of-arms, and opens it to reveal an elegant card made in black, heavy, rich paper. The writing is appropriately luxurious and inviting, spelled to reflect like pure silver, and carries all the right words to make his blood boil. He should crumple it and throw it away immediately, but Harry knows he will never be able to, so he leaves it on the table and goes to grab a pinch of Floo powder to call Hermione at her office, where she spends all her free time, even on Sunday.
***
You are cordially invited to
the wedding of
Draco Lucius Malfoy & Theodore Egbert Nott
Saturday 16 of august,
ceremony commences at 4 p.m
Salazar’s Sanctuary, Wiltshire, England
reception to follow
Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England
formal attire
please rsvp by June 31st.
***
“Are you kidding?” is the first thing Hermione says, swirling on her chair to better face the Floo. Harry is kneeling onto the carpet, spreading soot all over every time he shifts. His knees hurt, it’s ridiculous that wizards have used this method to speak to one another for centuries without finding a more comfortable way of doing it. His head is floating in Hermione’s office, taking in the stacks of paper threatening to topple over at the smallest gust of wind.
“I wish I was! That bloody– asshole!” he snarks. He wishes to have his hands free, so he can better enunciate how angry he is, but both are currently occupied keeping him from falling face first into the hearth. Hermione, thankfully, is brilliant enough to catch every bit of his mood, because she nods at the insult instead of reprimanding him, as she usually does.
“It’s a very… tactless thing, inviting you to the wedding.” she grimaces, and Harry rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, tactless, that’s one way of saying it. He’s just cruel.”
Hermione pinches her lips and flattens her face. She has made her opinion on the matter many times, but still hesitates to use any kind of rash language, thinking that they’re adult enough now to leave pettiness behind. Well, some of them can, apparently. Just not Draco Bloody Malfoy. Sometimes Harry misses the days when Hermione wore her hatred for the spoiled ferret proudly. He still, sometimes, watches the memory of The Punch(™) in the pensieve just to feel something.
“Yes, well.” she says in the end, then “You should just… ignore it. Of course you’re not going.”
Harry opens his mouth.
“Of course I’m going!” he blurts, because there is no fucking way that he would miss the wedding of his ex-boyfriend who cheated on him with that loser Nott for a year. He won’t miss this for the world. This wedding is practically begging to be crashed by him.
“Harry…” Hermione pushes away her fringe and presses down fingers on the bridge of her nose, “You called me. Not Sirius, not Ron. You called me. Because you know, deep down, that you need someone level-headed–”
Another voice suddenly interrupts, and Harry twists his head to catch a glimpse of the newcomer, but he can’t exactly look at the door from there.
“Who needs level-headed?” it’s Ron’s voice, finally stepping in front of the desk, where Harry can see him clearly. He’s munching on some kind of sandwich, and wearing his Auror uniform all skewed.
“Harry.” Hermione points at his floating head, and Ron’s face breaks in a wide grin.
“Oh, for the wedding thingy?”
Harry sighs, deeply.
“How do you know about it already?” he asks, receiving a shrug in response.
“A bunch of invitations arrived an hour ago, everyone’s talking about it. Apparently they have invited half of Britain.”
Of course they have. Draco told him many times that he liked big, loud weddings. Harry was so in love with him, he would’ve given him the biggest, loudest wedding of all times - even if he, himself, hated that kind of parties.
“So, you’re crashing it, right?” Ron adds, still smirking like a madman. Hermione moves to slap his shoulder, clearly disappointed by his suggestion.
“Ronald! Harry is not crashing it!”
“Why?” Harry asks.
“Because!” Hermione screams, making a few papers fall down the desk, “I know you hate them both, and they don’t like you very much. I don’t know why they invited you, probably only to brag about their relationship while you’re still single and having binge-eating ice-cream sessions watching stupid rom coms movies. But it’s… it’s still their day, you know? If you go, you’ll forever be a sore spot during one of their happiest days. It won’t make you feel better, only more miserable. You will all be miserable.” she’s right, Harry knows it. He and Draco broke up a year ago, and Harry has thrown himself into work, and going to the gym, and crying, and masturbating, and crying while going to work, and eating stupid cookie-flavoured ice cream, and crying while at the gym, and crying while masturbating, and crying while eating ice-cream— so yes, he knows he will be miserable. He’s significantly more ripped than before, having spent all that time lifting weights and punching bags with the picture of Malfoy taped to them, even with all that ice-cream he’s inhaled, but he’s still miserably single. And going to a wedding of people he hates while single sounds like the most awful thing to do. Draco has probably decided to invite him just to make him feel like this. Alone, unwanted.
“Yeah, but they invited him.” says Ron, making a ball with the paper of the sandwich, “Why should Harry stay at home when they invited him? If they didn’t want him there to— spoil the mood, why send him an invite in the first place?”
Ron raises a good point. Always the strategist.
“Draco is a five year old child sometimes, of course someone here has to be the bigger person and try and avoid a disaster.” Hermione watches, unfazed, as Ron throws the paper ball in the general direction of the bin, missing completely.
“Okay, but why does Harry always have to be the bigger person? Why can’t he just… say fuck it, and go? Draco fucks around… er– you know, and invites him to be petty? Well Harry should go and crash his stupid wedding. Let him find out the consequences of his stupid actions for once, ‘Mione. So, they will forever be haunted by their wedding pictures with Harry in them, so what? Next time Drakey-poo will think twice before doing something so shitty.”
Ah, the sweet prospect of retribution. Harry can already taste it, the decision having taken itself. He will go to this fucking wedding, and he will do it in style.
“So, who do I bring?”
Hermione facepalms.
Harry promises to think about it for a week. If by next Monday he’s still thinking of going, then he will send the invitation back. It’s a sound plan, especially because Harry doesn’t want to be the first one to answer back - he’s not that desperate. Obviously, he’s already put down his name and ticked the plus one option. He won’t change his mind.
Tuesday night, Harry’s fucked.
He’s at the newest pub in town, the Green Dragon, straight out of the Lord of the Rings, and holding a butterbeer like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Ron is by his side, patting his shoulder, and so are Seamus - who now works for the Weasley twins, making beautiful fireworks - and Dean. Hermione should get there any minute now.
“Why have you sent him that rsvp with the plus one option if you don’t have a plus one, mate?” asks Seamus, prodding at his butterbeer, like Harry’s a dangerous animal found at the side of the road who could lash out at the smallest unexpected movement.
“Because— I can’t go alone. I’ll look like the biggest fucking loser if I go alone to my ex’s wedding. I need to crash that shit party, not make them happy at my misery.”
Ron pats his shoulder again. He’s smiling, the fucker.
“I would offer, ‘course, I kinda want to crash the ferret’s wedding too… but he knows me and ‘Mione are together.”
“Same here.” Dean pointed between him and Seamus, who married last year.
This is why Harry is fucked. All his friends are already involved with someone. Neville has Hannah, Ginny is happy going out with that Italian chaser, Luna is currently who-knows-where with Rolf… He’s not yet so desperate to send an owl to Lavender or Parvati, and besides, he never liked them much, so it wouldn’t be believable to go with either of them. One would think being Harry Potter - young, handsome (his friends say that), rich and single would attract a bit more action, and yet… Even Fred and George are taken! And Charlie, and — Percy!
He begins bashing his head against the table, wishing to die on the spot. His friends more or less ignore him, turning to gossip about the latest news in the Ministry, leaving him to the consequences of his own actions.
“... And you know what I discovered?” Ron says, conspirational tone making the table fall into a hush, “Malfoy-” the name makes Harry still, listening attentively for once, “Apparently has not invited everyone. He missed one, probably because he’s bloody terrified of him… But I heard from Katie, who heard from Tracey, who heard from Zabini… Tom Riddle was not invited.”
Harry raises his head so suddenly, all the blood rushes down and makes his vision swish for a couple of seconds.
“That’s it!” he yells, attracting the attention of a few patrons, then in a more socially accepted volume: “Tom Riddle. I’ll invite him. I’ll fucking— invite the Dark Lord to the wedding. Draco hates him, he’s so scared… and Nott is not a big fan, either. How Draco managed to avoid inviting his dad’s boss is beyond me but— it’s perfect! He’s rich, handsome and powerful!” he announces with the same pride one would use after discovering a new species, or maybe a new habitable planet.
Behind him, Hermione lets out a tired groan.
*
It’s on Thursday morning that Harry can finally put his plan into motion. He dresses in his usual working robes, black, sleek and functional, and travels to the Ministry carrying the morning paper under his arm, feigning a nonchalace he really doesn’t possess. He even stops for coffee in the cafeteria, filling it with too much sugar and cream to make the bitter taste more tolerable. Harry is a curse-breaker. After a brief stunt in the Auror Training Program he decided police work wasn’t for him. Too many restrictions, too little fun and adventurous ways of using his magic. And not so many Dark Wizards going around doing illegal stuff, since the Dark Lord has taken control of the Traditionalist Cabinet and passed some laws to enable more leniency on the use of the Dark Arts. Sure, some stuff is still pretty illegal to practice, but most Dark Wizards don’t venture in the forbidden land of Necromancy, or Black Magic. So, with a lot of spells being declassified and an actual Lord moving the masses, the Aurors saw their work cut neatly in half. Harry surely didn’t want to spend his life going after petty crimes, filling his days with endless paperwork or boring patrolman duty. He went straight to Bill Weasley, pleading to take him as an apprentice, and then spent three months immersing himself in Ancient Runes to learn as quickly as possible the basis for his new training.
After another two years under Bill’s tutelage, he managed to become pretty good with dispelling dark magic - especially because, now that it was legal to practice, most curse-breakers could finally work out in the open again, not holding back anymore as they did before. Most dark curses, ancient ones in particular, could only be fully broken by the same dark magic, after all. So he dabbled a bit on the darker side of things and ended up being one of the best at quickly recognizing curses. Talent that brought him back to England, where he got a position at the Ministry as a Consultant for the Auror Department, and sometimes even for the Unspeakables.
That’s how he re-met Draco. He came in with a cursed necklace, Harry worked on it for two days, they talked. Harry fell head over the heels and Draco soon followed, and they began dating (read: mostly spending their days fucking like animals). Before Harry could realize, four years passed. And then of course he found out about Theo.
He swallows down a lump of anger and jealousy at the memory, and pushes the button of the lift with more strength than necessary, making the small witch at his side jump in surprise for the violence of the action. But he’s a man on a mission. His office is on the same floor as the new and shiny Dark Arts Department, given that he mostly works for them these days breaking curses on precious heirlooms and whatnot. Tom Riddle, Lord of the Dark Faction, has his office on the same floor. This has always bothered Harry, because Riddle always treated him like one of his minions, even if Harry told him a thousand times he didn’t work for him - but was mostly independent. Now, this became a happy coincidence.
It’s not that Harry hates Riddle. On the contrary, he quite likes the man, Dark Lord or not. Riddle has no interest in taking over the world, and he stopped pushing all that crappy propaganda about blood purity when Harry turned five years old. Now, he’s mostly balanced in his views, and focuses on creatures more than humans. Last time Harry heard office gossip, he was working on a program to dismantle Azkaban.
Now, most people would not dare cross the hallway to knock at his door, another cup of coffee ready to be used as a peace offering, to speak with Tom Dark Lord Riddle. Riddle doesn’t like being disturbed, and frankly, he hates people in general, even those that work for him. But Harry is not most people, and Riddle has never threatened to curse him in ways that would make Death appear like a mercy - yet - so he’s pretty sure Riddle likes him. Not like that poor woman who acts as his secretary, Parkinson, who’s often found crying in the toilet after Riddle screams at her incompetency so loudly the whole floor hears.
The sad thing is that Riddle is also always right.
He likes punctual, efficient people. He likes his papers to be in order, up to standard and divided into neat piles. He likes his coffee black and unbearably hot (Harry casts a warming charm on the cup before knocking) - and he likes when people don’t beat around the bush if they want something from him. Harry (still not working for him) knows this and more from all the times he found himself working along with him on some cursed artifact that even Riddle cound’t crack open. So, if he knows this, there is no way his own secretary doesn’t. She still manages to fuck up every three weeks or so, and so everyone has to endure half an hour of screaming, and then three days of bathroom crying.
Parkinson’s never been the sharpest wand in the shop, after all. Harry muses, recalling his Hogwarts days, when the girl did nothing more than gravitate around Malfoy hoping to receive a shred of his attention. When it became clear Draco was not interested, she shifted over Zabini’s group, and then disappeared from the Slytherin circles until she became Riddle’s secretary, two years ago. Harry hates that he knows all this, but gossip is often the only thing to do when the day is slow.
“Enter.” Riddle’s voice comes from the office, and Harry pushes the door open with his foot, given that he’s carrying two cups of coffee and the morning edition of The New Observer, knowing how much Riddle loathes the Daily Prophet. As soon as steps in, he finds the man himself working in complete darkness, with only a spotlight lamp pointing to his desk - strangely bare of papers. He doesn’t lift his head to acknowledge Harry, so he simply shuts the door and walks up to him, looking at what he’s doing before putting down the cups and the paper on a free corner.
Under the warm spotlight, Riddle is tracing an ancient looking papyrus with gloved fingers. Silk, to protect the enchantments woven in the paper and the vibrant pigments of the script. Harry watches, admiring, Riddle taking quick notes about the contents of the text, often forgetting that the man can actually read Ancient Egyptian. Ten minutes pass in this fashion, until the Dark Lord reaches the last line of hyeroglyphics and stops. From a drawer he produces a silken cover, and with that he closes the papyrus back into its spelled box. Only then he brightens the magical light, and finally looks at Harry.
“Curse-breaker Potter.” he greets, relaxing in his plush chair. “Has something happened that needs your assistance, or my attention?”
Harry, wisely, slides his - still burning hot - coffee towards him, and also the paper, before sitting down himself.
“Er- no, nothing too urgent anyway. I just, uhm, needed to ask you something?”
This is the moment of truth.
If Riddle doesn’t agree to his plan, then Harry will have no choice but to fold and skip the wedding, pretending to have forgotten about it in the first place to save his own dignity.
Riddle pierces him with a glare, but accepts both the newspaper and the coffee, which is a good sign. He’s way older than Harry, but doesn’t look a day beyond thirty. Rumor has it he’s done some kind of terrible ritual to maintain his youthful face, but there is no proof, and the man manages to swiftly avoid the topic everytime a journalist tries to prod. He’s also terribly fit. Like, wet-dream fit. Like sex-on-legs fit. Tall, broad, dark and mysterious. If he wasn’t so scary, everyone would beg him for a chance.
Even now, with half the population wetting (not in the good way) themselves in his presence, he still manages to rank top place in Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor list every year. Not even Gilderoy Lockhart has ever surpassed him, no matter how many blinding smiles the blonde fraud has given to the public. And Harry is just a man.
“Ask, then.” Riddle prompts after a moment of internal deliberation, taking a sip of coffee. It seems his strategy of bribery is working perfectly.
“Well, it’s about— the wedding. You know, Malfoy and Nott?” Harry waves his hand, trying to look as if it doesn’t bother him. Riddle sighs into the cup.
“Yes, believe it or not I know about the ‘Event of the Year’ everyone is talking about, Potter. I still don’t seem to understand why this should be of my concern. If you need the day off, you’re in the wrong place, as you often like to remind me, I’m not your boss.”
He needs to thread carefully now, Riddle is getting into a mood, one that always ends with Harry fleeing the office and hiding. He needs this to work, dammit.
“Well, yeah, but no. That’s not what I want to ask… Er.” Where is his Gryffindor courage? Harry decides to just say it. Band-aid style. “I wanted to ask you to be my plus one.”
There. Done. Harry wants to pat himself on the shoulder, but he keeps both hands firmly relaxed at his sides. His palms are sweating so much they would leave imprints if he were to touch anything.
“Pardon?” Riddle lifts an eyebrow, his red eyes blinking in surprise.
“Well… Uhm. You see… I have no one else to go with, and I thought… Huh.”
At this, Riddle scoffs.
“How eloquent. First, Potter, why would you ask me, of all people? Second, Potter, why should I say yes. I don’t like these kinds of events, and I don’t like you. Surely you have someone else to bother?” with a gesture, Riddle dismisses him, clearly suggesting the discussion has reached its end. But Harry is not done yet, he can’t leave now, like a coward. He knows Riddle won’t buy anything less than the truth, and he also knows that he could care less about Harry and his problems. He won’t accept to go with him if Harry plays his “I’m alone” card, he would probably laugh at him. But there’s one thing he will appreciate, and that is revenge. It’s pretty Slytherin after all, to crash your cheating ex-boyfriend's wedding.
So he blurts: “I hate him.” and that gets another reaction from Riddle, a hint of curiosity and even amusement crosses his features. “Draco, I mean. I don’t think you were around the Malfoys a year ago, given that you were working to build this department… but me and Draco, uhm, used to date. For four years.” Riddle’s face turns to bored again, not interested in gossip, but Harry rushes to add: “And then he cheated on me. I found out last year. Draco was cheating on me, for months! With Theodore Nott, of course. And now they’re getting married.”
Riddle is not impressed.
“How touching. If you’re done, I’ll ask again: why should I care about your feelings?”
Harry takes a deep breath.
“It’s not about my feelings. I just… they invited me! They sent an invitation to me, just to… you know, brag? So I thought, fuck it, I’m totally going to crash their stupid wedding. I want to make them regret having invited me. And then I thought, I should bring someone with me, because if I went alone it would just be pathetic. And I know for certain that Draco is scared shitless of you, and Nott almost pees himself everytime you go and have tea with his father. That’s why they didn’t invite you, not even to keep face. They’re too scared you would go. So… Do you want to crash this wedding with me?”
Riddle doesn’t throw him out when Harry speaks the last word, so Harry takes it as a good sign. He watches as the Dark Lord finishes his cup of coffee, then grabs a muggle cigarette from his inner pocket, using a spell to light it, and conjures an ashtray on his desk.
An entire minute passes, before the man finally answers.
“You just want to make their ‘happiest day’ a miserable one instead.” is not a question, “Well, while it’s true I am not interested in these events, I was wondering why everybody seemed to get an invitation, while mine never came. I would’ve burned it of course, but it’s the principle of the matter. Draco and Theodore insulted me, as they did you.”
After another moment of silence, he adds: “Very well. It could be fun to enjoy a spot of vendetta once in a while. Send me the details, Potter. But don’t expect to have my presence for free. Let’s say…” Riddle taps his chin with his index finger, amused again, “Until the wedding, you will bring me coffee and the morning paper each morning, at eight sharp, and you will also spend an hour after your shift here in my office to work on some artefacts that are getting accumulated in the Department.”
Harry is too stunned to question it, not having actually expected to bag Tom Riddle as his plus one. He just nods, and when Riddle dismisses him again, this time he goes quietly.
It’s only three hours later that he processes Riddle’s requests, and whines so loudly that Crouch Jr. stops by his office to see if a wounded animal somehow managed to occupy it.
Harry thought he would hate spending (more) time with Riddle, bringing him stuff and going through the ever-growing pile of dark artifacts currently being held in the Department for authentication. It ends up, he doesn’t.
Riddle is quiet and diligent, and when Harry steps into his office at the end of his shift, at six p.m., the man barely speaks to him - which works well for the both of them. He usually prepares a bunch of boxes on his desk for Harry to work on, while sitting in a plush leather armchair near the fireplace, opposite Harry. Riddle works on his Wizengamot papers, Harry spends his hour casting counter-curses and detection charms at jewelry. Not so bad, after all. And when Riddle gets too fed up by the sheer incompetence of his colleagues, he dismisses Harry ahead of time - or leaves himself to blow up in the privacy of the Conference Room. And Riddle blows up, a lot.
Now that Harry has more time to truly observe him, he learns all about his mood shifts. Minuscule things that others would never pick up, but he does. Having grown up with Vernon and Petunia Dursley taught him a lot about catching signs more quickly than a Seeker would catch a snitch. So it’s not surprising that by the first week, Harry has already learned and catalogued Riddle’s microexpressions. For example, when he’s merely bored or disappointed, he tends to shake his head minutely and shift position, often conjuring a cup of tea for comfort. When he’s truly pissed, instead, Riddle tends to click loudly with his tongue, writing little memos and sticking them to the report that has insulted him. When Riddle is truly, truly furious, he balls up the offending paper and throws it at the wall, lights up a cigarette, and then spells the paper back to a readable state. There’s also the way his mouth twists downwards when he’s disgusted, or upwards when he sees a weakness in whatever legislation he wants to tear to the ground. He’s not a particularly emotional man, every sign doesn’t last more than a second at most, but his whole body-language changes ever so, not fully hidden behind the layers of masks he wears. It’s still better than going on a mad cursing rampage against muggles, as Dark Lords often tend to do, so Harry is happy to let him be. It also helps that Riddle is never angry at Harry himself, since their work fields never interact much.
Sometimes Riddle forgets he’s even there to begin with, given how silent Harry can be while focusing on his wordless casting, and that moments are his most treasured. When Riddle lets the mask fall. It’s nothing more than a few comments that make it through the crack - but it’s enough to make him appear more human. An affronted: “I see that Bancroft is still losing braincells as he grows old.” that makes Harry snort inwards, or a “If Lucius disappoints me one more time I swear to Merlin I’ll feed him to his peacocks…” that has Harry closing a hand over his own mouth to stifle a barking laugh. Or his personal favourite: “If Fudge slips in his shower and dies I’ll throw a fuckin’ party.”
Harry never says anything when the man slips, preferring to be as unnoticeable as possible, fearing that, if Riddle was to suddenly remember he was there too, he would stop. Harry doesn’t want him to stop, he’s grown to appreciate the man’s snark and black humor.
He also really likes working on the artifacts Riddle provides. They are unusually challenging, curses layered onto each piece in ways he’s never thought of before. Jewelries made to slowly kill a person, filling their blood with a curse that resembles slow-acting poison. Rings that would sever a finger neatly if worn. Goblets laced with nightmare-inducing jinxes. Artifacts made to hurt in the most convoluted, appalling way. It’s fun to sit down and open a box not knowing what he will find inside - curses so tightly bound to one another that it’s like watching a tangled ball of yarn - sweating just to find the first piece sticking out to slowly unravel it without setting it off. It’s much better than working on ancient tombs, that while cursed - yes - are so old the spells are frayed and crumbling and unstable, or on the stuff the Aurors bring him, which usually take him only a minute to break. Household curses sold cheaply in Knockturn Alley have nothing on the passed-down heirlooms of purebloods that Riddle manages to get his hands onto.
So, yeah, all in all, Harry is quite happy about their little arrangement.
By the third week, they start having small-talk.
At the start it’s nothing more than a few scattered comments. Harry yelping in surprise when a curse hidden under another suddenly awakens, and Riddle asking about it when Harry finally manages to break it. Or Riddle throwing a balled-up report a little too hard at the wall, making Harry say: “You should try my technique. Print a picture of the poor unfortunate soul, stick it to a punching bag, profit.” that has Riddle quirk a corner of his mouth.
The first true conversation happens on a Friday. Harry is beyond tired, having spent all his day in a fucking swamp surrounded by giant, smelly toads, knees deep in mud and who-knows-what-else, while a group of Aurors stood by helplessly watching as he broke a curse that someone had set off, for fucking reasons, in the middle of Nowhere, England, that could literally explode like a muggle nuke anytime. Probably the culprit did this just to inconvenience Harry, because there is no way someone spent his free time in that god-forsaken place playing with volatile magics for fun .
So he showers back at the Ministry - and still smelling foul, no matter how many times he uses soap or casts a scourgify, he stomps into Riddle’s office holding the biggest coffee-pot he finds in the Department and spikes it with whiskey under the Dark Lord’s gaze with a face that says: try me, bitch. Riddle merely opens his palm, as if answering: give me one too. That’s when they hear it, the gossip.
Harry, in his haste, has not fully closed the door to the office. It’s not even noticeable, but apparently the lock hasn’t clicked, because the privacy charms are not working, so the voices from the hallway manage to penetrate into the room without the usual muffling filter. They hear Parkinson speaking with some other witch, the echoes of their high-heels against the marble floor accompanying them for the whole time.
“...And he’s spending all his time in there with Lord Riddle?”
“Oh yes, everyday! He brings him coffee and the morning paper too… which is a relief, since I never manage to get his coffee quite right. How difficult can it be?”
“No matter the coffee, Harry Potter is spending his free evenings with the Dark Lord! What do you think they’re doing?”
Pansy Parkinson lets out a laugh.
“What else can they do besides sex? Come on Mandy, I bet they’re fucking like mad…”
As the voices finally grow thin enough to be unrecognizable, Harry finds himself erupting into a mad laughter that borders on hysteric. He has not thought about this outcome, but it was stupid of him. This is exactly what was bound to happen. When he calms down from his exhaustion-induced moment of madness (Sirius would be proud) - Harry immediately checks on Riddle. He expects to find him furious, maybe even ready to curse the two witches. Instead the man looks amused, smiling even, eyes crickling at the edges.
“I was wondering when the rumors would begin.” he says, and Harry finds himself nodding.
“It took them long enough. A month. I’d say, they’re not very observant.”
Riddle shrugs, long legs for once completely straight in front of him, sinking into the plush armchair with his elbows resting on the armrests and hands conjoined, fingers touching.
“Do you finally understand who am I working with? Imagine having to wait for them to do your job.” His words are sour, but his face is still relaxed. Harry grimaces at the thought, because it does sound tiring. He’s never been more glad to work alone in his life.
“Exactly.” Riddle sighs, “But anyway, why are you smelling like death itself?”
With a groan, Harry remembers about his cup of coffee and takes the biggest sip he can without choking himself.
“Swamp. Curse. Toads.” it’s his explanation. Riddle makes a face then grabs his wand and swishes it, pointing it straight at Harry. Maybe others would scream at the gesture, diving under the desk to protect themselves, but Harry is not afraid the man would curse him. A gust of wind hits him, but it doesn’t hurt. It merely ruffles his hair and finally, finally, takes away the stench from his skin. Harry groans again, but this time in pleasure.
“Thank you. What spell was that?” he asks, falling onto his chair (because now, apparently, he has a chair that is his in Riddle’s office) with his cup.
“ Evaporora, I advise you to use a lot of moisturizer in the next few days.” Riddle says with a smirk that makes Harry laugh again. Who would’ve thought the Dark Lord to be a prankster? After a moment, Harry dries the cup with a last swig and closes his eyes.
“Aren’t you angry… for the rumors? They can’t be good for you. I mean, you’re a politician, I don’t want to— disrupt your image or something.”
He can’t see Riddle, but he can hear him shrug, his robes shifting just so against the leather.
“Less than you think. We’re not muggles, tore down from their power because of an affair. Of course, I’m not married, nor involved with anyone, so our fling, as the papers surely will put it, would just make some people very unhappy about my unexpected unavailability. Of course, this rumor won’t reach the papers. Other than a few glances from my collaborators, I don’t think my image will be touched at all. I’m not your boss, and there are no rules in place for inter-office relationships.”
Riddle is right, a lot of people are married, or dating, people in other Departments. Ron is an Auror for example, and Hermione is currently working for the Undersecreary to the Minister. And it’s not like Harry has a bad public image, either. If anything, this rumor could help Riddle in return - the Dark Lord dating a Potter would surely make him appear less strict about Dark and Light divisions, and perhaps even gather him some sympathies from some members of the Wizengamot that until now thought him a heartless, loveless being. Riddle reaches his own conclusion, because he adds: “After the wedding, if you’re amenable… I’d like to extend our arrangement. As we will surely debut as a couple then, it won’t do for us to break up immediately after, and there are some galas I’m expected to bring a date to. Others are getting suspicious about my, apparently, everlasting single status. You surely heard the rumor about my Amortentia-induced conception.”
Ah yes, that particular rumor had filled the Ministry for months after someone on the Light side had casually discovered and dropped in the middle of Rita’s Skeeter office some papers detailing the Dark Lord’s birth. It was still all hearsay, because no one was alive to tell the tale anymore, but gossip wasn’t stopped by the lack of proof. If anything, it only fueled the fire. And a lot of people thought that being conceived under the effects of a love potion could make the child unable to feel love. It would surely explain all about the tragic story of Tom Riddle, and his Dark Lord status - no matter that he wasn’t mad, and had never been anything more than a cunning politician.
“Yeah, I heard about that. It’s a bunch of rubbish if you want my opinion.” Harry still has his eyes closed, too relaxed to care opening them. His whole body hurts from his long day, and he can’t wait to go home and lie down and sleep until Monday morning.
“How so?” Riddle must put down his papers, because there’s a crumpling sound of parchment from his side of the room.
“Well,” Harry begins, speaking to his heart’s content. He might possibly be a little bit drunk from the spiked coffee, given he’s not eaten anything today but a few crackers, “For one, I don’t believe Amortentia could cause a child to be born without love. As if it’s the child’s fault for…” for a moment he searches a way to say it without being crass, but he can’t find it, so blunt it is: “Being born out of rape. To me, it’s just an excuse to find faults in a victim that had no control over his enviroment. Wizards love to do that, condemn the children for their parent’s sins. Especially because more often than not, if someone has to use a love potion to– assault someone else, it means the child is often born out of marriage. And purebloods really hate bastards.”
A small hmm comes from Riddle, so low Harry barely catches it.
“Yes, it was fortunate my mother had at least the decency to marry my father while she dosed him.”
That makes Harry’s eyes snap open.
“What? Are you– so it’s true?”
The man smirks again, this time though, with an edge Harry doesn’t like much.
“In a way. I managed to track my father, but when I met him, his mind was a jumbled mess. Him being a muggle, of course, did not help. He couldn’t use Occlumency to fix the damage. What my mother used is unclear, but there are only two options, really. Amortentia, or the Imperius Curse. I tend to think more of the latter, since Amortentia is not easy to brew, nor cheap, and she didn’t have enough money or talent to successfully ensnare someone for over a year.”
At that revelation, Harry sags more into his chair, lifting his glasses away from his face to push fingertips against his eyelids.
“That’s awful. I’m sorry that it happened to you, you know. But still, people shouldn’t go around spreading rumors. Even if it’s true and you can’t feel love, that’s— not a reason to distrust your work. A lot of people out there don’t feel romantic attraction, or even sexual attraction, and that’s okay. Anyway, facts always speak louder than words. Maybe I’m still young, but ever since I was aware enough about politics, I never found anything wrong with yours. So.”
Maybe he’s not happy about everything the Traditionalist Cabinet pushes through, but he can’t really complain about all the measures they’ve taken to protect werewolves - granting them potions and healthcare and houses - and other creatures. He still remembers the debate between Riddle and Umbridge on the matter, when Riddle utterly destroyed that vile woman and polished the floor with her legislation proposal. Sometimes it seems that there’s nothing wrong in being a Dark Lord, if Riddle is an example of it. He’s not— well, evil. Whatever, Harry is not made for politics anyway.
“You’re very strange, Harry.” says Riddle then. Harry can live with strange.
“And you’re asking me to be your date to the galas, so who’s the strange one?”
“Yes, well.”
Life goes on. Riddle-call-me-Tom (as of last week, after he got tired of Harry saying “Goodmorning Mr. Riddle”) now has a new routine: asking Harry about stuff. He asks him about his opinion on certain people (he doesn’t have one) or certain laws (he has a lot), and shares some of his thoughts as well. He talks about his colleagues and some of his future projects to legalize more dark rituals, to bring back Blood Magic - even if he has to concede the point about sacrifices never passing the Wizengamot’s scrutiny . Harry listens, and gives him his bluntest answers.
The rumors around them never reach the papers. In fact, they don’t seem to reach the rest of the Department either. It seems that Riddle had a chat with Mrs. Parkinson, despite his assurances to Harry about his public image, and the witch dares not speak a word of their involvement to anybody else. The only reason others still haven’t caught on is that their meetings happen after hours, and most of the workers on their floor go home well before six p.m, so no one beside Pansy and Mandy has caught them in the act.
When Harry asks Tom why he’s keeping the gossip hushed down, if they are to be seen in public very soon together, the man merely answers: "Wouldn't it be more fun if we surprise everyone at the wedding?” with a smirk so utterly villanous that Harry can’t help but laugh at.
July passes quickly, and Harry turns twenty-six without much fanfare. Ron, Hermione, Seamus, Dean and even Neville and Hannah manage a small get-together at Seamus’ house, the biggest one, and they spend the night watching horror movies and swapping sweets like they’re children having a sleepover. The next day, when Harry goes to work, he finds a box on his desk. It’s black, with an electric blue silk bow, and when he opens it, he finds a beautiful platinum pocket watch with a mother-of-pearl enameled dias, and a chain of twisting lilies. It’s a classic gift, elegant, refined, made with impeccable taste and consideration. Maybe too much for Harry, who never dresses in anything more fancy than leather work robes. But it’s not too over-the-nose (not like some golden monstrosities he’s seen around, all bedazzled in diamonds like disco balls) that it would clash if Harry was to wear it. All in all, it’s a thoughtful gift, appropriate for the occasion.
There’s only one person that would give him something like this, and Harry keeps his smirk for the rest of the day, until the clock strikes six and he can waltz (not really) inside Tom’s office to thank him.
Tom just smiles.
Harry forgets about the wedding.
Well, maybe that’s incorrect. He simply… stops thinking about it. Tom just becomes a part of his daily routine, to the point where it feels unnatural spending his Sundays and Saturdays alone at home, and not stuffed into the office working on dark magic. The wedding becomes just a vague notion of a future event he doesn’t care about, too taken by getting Tom’s coffee right and using flashier magic to break the curses just to catch him off guard and maybe steal a compliment from the unusually-strict-lipped man, who at most will say: “Impressive.” in the least impressed tone ever. So, on August 15, when he enters the office and finds Tom waiting for him, lights shut, he falters. Has he done something wrong? Is Tom tired of his presence? Is Tom dying? Is Harry dying?
“Er- Shouldn’t you be sitting there-” he points to the empty armchair, “And I working on something at your desk…?” he asks, almost pleading. Tom watches him for a moment, then he scoffs and shakes his head, moving to stand in front of him. He’s taller than Harry by a whole head, so he has to crank his neck to look him in the eyes.
“No, we’re going out today. You need robes.” he says, as if it’s obvious.
It’s not, not really.
“Uhm. I… have robes? I am not cursed or something, right? You see my clothes as well?” For a moment Harry panics, looking at himself, afraid to realize he’s really naked or something. Or maybe his robes have holes all over he’s not managed to see until now? Or maybe—
“For the wedding, Harry. Formal attire, yes?”
The what?
“Are we getting… married?” he asks, voice small. Tom rolls his eyes and simply grabs his arm, dragging him outside and towards the lift.
“No, you dunderhead. The wedding, the one you invited me to. Draco’s wedding? It’s tomorrow, and we need formal robes. Or you expect me to go to such an event in my daily uniform?”
Oh— that wedding. That makes way more sense, actually.
“I… didn’t notice so much time had passed already. But, uhm, why do you need me? I have a set of formal robes, I think…”
Tom doesn’t slow down a bit, punching the lift button for the Atrium, while still holding onto Harry’s arm, perhaps afraid he would run away if he let him.
“You think– Merlin, Harry. Sometimes I’m astounded thinking how so much raw magical talent can survive in your exceedingly empty head.” ouch, that hurt- “We are going to buy a matching set of robes for the wedding, as is appropriate. Since in public you will be seen as my paramour, you will have to look the part, at least during formal events. I certainly won’t be seen in your presence if you’re wearing a pair of robes that haven't left your wardrobe since the Yule Ball.”
Holding his head low, Harry can only take each blow, incapable of defending himself. Tom is right, and besides, how does he know that his formal robes are exactly the pair he’s worn in his fourth year? He doesn’t have the time to ask, though, because the lift reaches the Atrium (thankfully already empty - wow, wizards sure run away as soon as they can from work) and Tom is dragging him to the floo, calling for Zelda’s boudoir and pushing him inside the green flames. Harry stumbles out of the hearth - almost plummeting face-first into the wooden floor - spluttering a protest that goes unheard, and has barely the time to get out of the way before Tom appears next to him, casually brushing the soot away from his shoulder with a practiced motion.
They are in a room. It’s round, and moderately large, with tall windows on one side and many spools of fabric on the other, and a full-body mirror standing in front of a small dais. Just next to the fireplace is a dusty-pink velvet loveseat, and Tom sits down crossing his legs, patting the free space next to him as if Harry is a dog ready to be called. The fact that he goes and sits is completely unrelated to the dog part, it just seems rude to ignore such a perfectly comfortable loveseat.
“Where are we?” Harry can feel the magic buzzing in the air, and snaps his head when a bottle of champagne appears with a loud pop just shy of his shoulder, filling two tall crystal flutes. Tom takes one. After a sip, and an appreciative mhhh, he answers.
“Zelda Adkins’s Boutique. This room, specifically, is reserved to guests of a certain status that require utmost privacy while shopping. I am one of the few to have her direct address. She’s my personal tailor.”
Harry’s eyebrows cannot go higher on his forehead, but he tries to compose himself quickly, and grabs the second flute. Champagne tastes like feet, and he grimaces after one sip.
“Oh. Cool.”
Tom sees right through him, because he shakes his head again.
“You didn’t think we would be shopping at Twilfitt and Tattings, did you? Or Merlin help me, Madame Malkin’s?”
He absolutely had.
“Course not.”
They wait for a handful of minutes, until a trapdoor on the floor is lifted, and from the hole appears a minute witch with bright golden hair and yellow eyes, dressed in the most extravagant set of robes Harry’s ever seen. They would put Dumbledore to shame. She glances at Tom, then breaks in a grin, before sending a spell to the trapdoor that makes a far-away bell ring with finality.
“Hello Tom, and…?”
Tom places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, “Harry Potter, my new… paramour.”
Zelda looks shocked for a moment, but it passes quickly. With a bounce in her steps, she walks to them already summoning some rolls of fabric from the walls.
“What can I do for you?”
Once again, it is Tom who answers.
“We need matching robes for tomorrow. The Malfoy wedding.”
Zelda stops mid-motion, then she redoubles her efforts to summon even more fabric, hair going wild around her oval face.
“And you came here just now? Thank the Gods we have magic, Tom. And I will take double the fee. Now, who will go first?”
The answer is Harry.
He stands for a long time upon the dais, getting measured and taped and enveloped by fabrics - until Zelda, and Tom, are both satisfied with the colours and textures. Then the witch begins spelling some scissors to cut, chalk to mark, and needles to saw, telling Harry to disrobe - “He’s your boyfriend, no need to be ashamed.” - before putting his new robe over his shoulders, still being sewn along the edges. Thankfully, all his privates are covered. This does not stop Harry from blushing crimson red, or Tom from looking at him like a piece of fresh meat, but having grown up in a dorm with five other boys has desensitized him about nakedness - enough, at least, to survive this moment. It takes a full hour for Zelda to finish the last remaining touches, but when she’s done, Harry catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he can’t help but preen. He looks… stunning.
He’s never thought about himself as stunning before.
Sure, he’s not bad-looking, and he’s put on some muscles in the last year, but he’s also always been just Harry. Now— now he looks like a noble. Like a prince. His hair is wild, but they go well with the rest, and his eyes shine green more than usual, helped by Zelda’s colour choices, popping like pretty gemstones over his amber skin. Not even his round, thin glasses manage to detract from the whole.
And the robe… He’s wearing a bloody neck corset and it looks like the best thing that’s ever happened to him. The cream-white silk shirt underneath flows into two puffy sleeves tight at the wrists, kept together by a miriad of tiny buttons in raw mother-of-pearl (probably to go with his new watch), and the fabric is cut in such a way to leave a triangle of his sternum visible, as well as most of his back. There are small shiny chains going from shoulder to shoulder, framing the muscles around his spine in a sinful way. And his ass— his whole legs, really, are hugged by long black pants making them appear longer than they are, and deliciously sculpted. It helps that his new boots in dragonhide have a golden heel five centimeters high, changing his posture from hunched to slender.
There’s also an outer robe, made in black, with a Slytherin green lining to wear on top, and when he puts it on, it only helps his figure, making him appear even more tall. Zelda claps her hands, then summons a series of jewelry to cover his fingers, ears and chest with. Long golden necklaces diving straight into the swell of his pecs, rings adorning his hands - charming his nails longer and pointer and painted gold - and even some white pearls to pin into his hair. All in all, Harry looks a million galleons, and he will bet his entire Gringotts’ vault, he’ll outshine Draco and Theo easily .
He’s so gonna crash the wedding.
When he steps down the dais, he can’t help himself from twirling in front of Tom, batting his eyelashes aiming for seduction, but falling just right of sarcastic. Either way, Tom rises from the loveseat and takes a long, long look, before grabbing his bejeweled hand to kiss his knuckles.
“Very good, Harry. Very good. You look beautiful, I am sure you will steal the scene tomorrow. I’d say I’m sorry for young Malfoy, but I’m really not.”
Blushing at the gesture, Harry grumbles under his breath and slips from his grasp, sitting down. Now it’s his turn to look at Tom getting fitted, and he intends to make the most out of it. It’s not like he’s gonna have any more occasions to see him almost naked, after all.
Tom doesn’t look ashamed when he slips out of his robe, showing an incredible expanse of pale skin stretching over lithe and firm back muscles. His shoulders are round and broad, his legs look strong enough to crush a skull just by squeezing, and his ass— Harry grabs the glass of champaigne just to have something to do besides drooling all over himself like a little baby. He wants to hate Tom, really, because it shouldn’t be fair for a single man to have it all. Not only Tom is objectively beautiful, with his sultry red eyes and pouty lips and square jaw and sharp cheekbones. His body is also perfectly cut. He’s not big, not like some of the Aurors Harry sees at the gym regularly, lifting tons of weight just to achieve a ripped look. Tom is definitely not ripped. But he’s also not fat. He has muscles, and they are the perfect measure, giving him a slender frame, made to run and move quickly and confidently. Yes, that’s it. Tom is tall but not lanky, as most tall people are (just look at Ron) - instead, he looks perfectly aware of the space he occupies, and he knows how to take advantage of it.
When Zelda makes him lift his arms to spell a piece of silk around his middle, Harry almost chokes on his champagne. Totally unfair, completely, utterly unfair. Tom’s muscles shift under his skin like waves of a silky ocean, and Harry wants to drop to his knees right there to lick the slight sheen of sweat coiling into his dimples of Venus.
But he’s not just a majestic piece of eye-candy. Tom is smart, powerful. He knows multiple languages and has traveled the world, and he’s one of the biggest, if not the biggest expert on Dark Arts in the world. Tom has it all. A god among mortals.
And it’s so bloody unfair for a man to be all that, and still breathe the same air as common people - giving them a taste of something they will never have.
In the end, Tom is fitted into a black shirt and trousers combo, with an off-white (the same shade of Harry’s shirt) vest framing his sinful waist and a cravat closing around his throat, pinned by a golden jewel. He wears pointed-toe formal shoes and a cloak that billows everytime he moves. It’s a lot less revealing than Harry’s, but it’s a beautiful set nonetheless.
And more importantly, they match.
Zelda makes them stand side by side, framed in the mirror, to fix last minute details, and it’s impossible not to admire how pretty they are together. How Harry’s slightly shorter build fits perfectly at the side of Tom’s, under his arm, or leading at the elbow. How their colours are opposites and yet manage to create an armonious whole, leaving no space for doubts on the nature of their relationship.
Oh Merlin- they’re really doing this, huh? Harry swallows, focusing on Zelda, who’s telling Tom: “... So I expect the both of you here very soon. I will prepare some robes for Harry in the meantime, you just owl me your schedule…”
Right, I have to go with him to the galas and public events… His head is beginning to spin by the time they leave the boutique, both with their new outfits carefully packed into expanded bags. Tom gives him one last assessing glance before gesturing to the floo, for Harry to go first.
“I will come pick you up tomorrow at three forty-five with a portkey for Salazar’s Sanctuary. Be ready, It won’t do for us to be too late. Fashionably, yes, but no more than that.” he says before pushing Harry into the green flames, calling: “Potter’s Flat.” without losing a single beat. Harry gets transported to his house in the blink of an eye, and is too tired to wonder how Tom knows of his personal address.
That man knows everything, after all.
Harry ends up staying awake until the sky turns grey. He doesn’t want to, really, but as soon as his brain catches up with the fact the wedding is happening, his anxiety spikes up and keeps him from shutting his eyes. He spends hours trying to imagine how the event will go, how everyone will react to his presence. To Tom’s. What they will say, what Draco will say. What the papers will say. In the end it’s exhaustion that saves him at around six a.m, and he falls into a fitful sleep that lasts well into the day.