Chapter Text
Tom Riddle had never been so well-dressed for a con—pardon, social call. His tie was the picture of respectful modesty, his smile polished to a sheen of sincerity, and his shoes gleamed as though they feared punishment. He was, in short, every mother’s dream and every father’s quiet anxiety.
Tom prided himself on efficiency, elegance, and a particularly refined form of opportunism. At twenty-three, he was already a rising star at the Ministry—young, brilliant, and possessed of a face that could make even the most conservative matron reconsider her stance on “that half-blood boy.” He was, by all accounts, going places.
Still, no amount of glowing reputation or aristocratic sponsorship was ever enough. Influence, Tom had learned, was like fine wine—it aged best in abundance and was absolutely wasted if one didn’t hoard it. So today, armed with his most diplomatic smile and a conveniently official envelope, Tom Riddle was paying a call to one Mr. Harry Potter: a retired Auror and the current (if perpetually absent) holder of the Potter seat in the Wizengamot.
Most people, of course, no longer took Potter seriously. An old omega who’d long withdrawn from public life, living quietly in his ancestral manor—it didn’t exactly scream “political threat.” But Tom knew better than to underestimate omegas. People liked to think them soft; Tom preferred to think of them as pliable.
He had, after all, honed his approach to near perfection. The younger ones fell for the “I can fix him” charm—brooding eyes, tragic backstory, moral ambiguity. The older ones, on the other hand, preferred the “let me guide this promising young man” routine. Tom could do both, sometimes in the same conversation, and he never broke character. He just needed to see which route would work better on Mister Potter.
The iron gates of the manor creaked open at his arrival, revealing a garden so immaculate it bordered on satire. The lawn was trimmed with military precision, the roses bloomed like they’d signed a contract, and there wasn’t a single fallen leaf in sight. Tom had half a mind to check whether the gnomes saluted.
When the front door opened, however, he almost forgot his prepared lines.
Harry Potter—sixty-year-old, retired omega, supposedly frail—looked like he’d misplaced thirty years somewhere and hadn’t bothered to find them. He had the air of a man who’d wrestled life to the ground and then invited it in for tea. Bright green eyes, still sharp and kind, regarded Tom with quiet curiosity. The sort of gaze that made people feel seen, or worse, understood.
“Good afternoon,” Tom said smoothly, offering his best smile. “Mr. Potter, I presume?”
“Indeed,” said Harry, his voice low and kind, with the faint rasp of age that somehow made him sound even more distinguished. “And you must be the young man from the Ministry who sent that very polite owl. Do come in, dear.”
Tom followed him inside, mentally noting the smell of tea, sugar, and what could only be homemade cookies. The sitting room was cozy, lined with well-worn books and family photos. He took a seat on the sofa and, with the utmost grace, accepted a porcelain teacup from the man himself.
“So, Mr. Riddle,” Harry began pleasantly, setting down a plate of cookies that practically glowed with butter. “What brings a promising young gentleman like you all the way out here?”
Tom folded his hands modestly, every movement calculated to project respect and humility. He put on his most disarming smile, the one that had previously secured him funding from one Hepzibah Smith, who didn’t even question where her galleons were going.
“I come bearing an invitation, sir,” he said, producing the neatly sealed envelope. “For the Ministry’s annual gala. As a Wizengamot member, your attendance would, of course, be most welcome.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, taking the envelope but smiling faintly. “How thoughtful. And they’re sending messengers door-to-door now, are they? I was under the impression we still had owls.”
Tom feigned a solemn sigh. “Ah, but one can never be too careful these days, and a personal touch never hurts.”
Harry gave him a long, knowing look, the kind that suggested he’d once interrogated dark wizards and still had the knack. “Hmm. A personal touch. Quite right, I suppose.” He poured more tea, his tone light. “You’re very dedicated, Mr. Riddle.”
“I try to be thorough,” Tom replied smoothly. “My department values… initiative.”
Harry chuckled. “And tea, I hope.”
“Oh, immensely,” Tom said, taking a careful sip. It was perfect—smooth, fragrant, expertly brewed. He could have wept. “This is remarkable, Mr. Potter.”
Harry looked pleased. “Thank you, dear. Sugar?”
“Please. Two cubes,” Tom said, trying to appear relaxed but already cataloguing the cookie tray like a battle strategist. He took one and bit into it. The heavens parted. The cookie was buttery, crisp-edged, soft inside, with a hint of cinnamon and something ineffably nostalgic.
He swallowed reverently. “Mr. Potter,” he said with complete sincerity, “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything this good in my life.”
Harry flushed, actually flushed, the corners of his mouth twitching up in delight. “Oh, you’re such a polite, handsome boy,” he said fondly.
They made small talk.
Tom let Harry lead with topics like gardening (“Do you prune your own hedges, Mr. Potter?” “Of course, doing such things is the joy of gardening.”), Quidditch (“One is never too old for Quidditch,” Harry said sagely, sipping his tea), and Ministry politics (“A nest of puffed-up peacocks,” said Harry, utterly without malice. Tom had to agree with him there).
At the right moment, Tom turned the conversation toward himself—softly, self-effacingly.
“Oh, of course, I’m only a half-blood,” he said, tone humble, gaze lowered. “No family name or fortune to my credit. I’ve had to work quite hard to prove myself.”
Harry’s expression softened at once. “That must have been difficult, dear. The Ministry can be dreadful with its hierarchies.”
Tom gave a little shrug. “I manage. I’m fortunate enough to have met kind people along the way. It’s the generosity of others that allows young men like me to find our place.”
“Oh, you’re far too modest,” Harry said warmly. “I can tell you’re clever. And ambitious, too. You remind me of someone I once knew. Always running off to fix the world.”
Tom smiled, the very picture of bashful charm. “I wouldn’t dare compare myself to anyone of worth, sir.”
Harry laughed, the sound gentle and genuine. “Oh, hush. And call me Harry, please—you make me feel ancient.”
“Impossible,” Tom said smoothly. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I would have guessed thirty-five at most.”
Harry actually snorted, though the compliment clearly hit home. “You flatterer. Careful, or I’ll bake you a whole batch next time.”
Tom’s grin was downright angelic. “In that case, I should warn you—I take promises very seriously.”
And that, as far as Tom Riddle was concerned, was victory.
By the time he rose to leave, he had in his pocket not only the satisfaction of delivering his “official” invitation but also something far more valuable: a personal one.
“Do come by again, won’t you?” Harry said, following him to the door. “You’re welcome for tea anytime. I so rarely get visitors these days.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Tom said with exquisite sincerity. “Truly.”
As he walked back down the immaculate garden path, the autumn sunlight glinting off his polished shoes, Tom smiled to himself. Another connection secured, another door opened.
And honestly, he thought, pocketing one of Potter’s cookies for later, omegas of all ages really were weak to him.