Chapter 3
Chapter 3
The city had barely woken up.
Fog clung to the streets like a restless ghost, curling between the lampposts, muting the early morning bustle into something distant and detached. The sky was a dull shade of grey, heavy with the promise of rain that had yet to fall. London in the morning always felt like it was holding its breath.
Harry Potter wasn’t much better.
He walked with his shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. His mind kept jumping through Images of dead bodies and blood stained marble floors. The case had left a permanent ache behind his eyes, a dull pressure that sleep—what little he had allowed himself—had done nothing to ease.
No leads. No suspects. No answers.
Just a corpse with its throat cut and a blood-drawn snake curling across the wall like a taunt.
The air was cold against his face, brisk enough to chase away some of the lingering exhaustion, but not enough to clear his head completely. He hadn’t even realized where he was going until he stepped onto the familiar pavement outside his usual café, the glow of the hanging lights spilling onto the damp sidewalk.
He hesitated for only a second before pushing open the door.
The warmth hit him first, followed by the scent of coffee, caramelized sugar, and the faintest trace of cinnamon. It was still early, meaning the place wasn’t crowded yet—just a few patrons scattered around, nursing cups of coffee and hunched over newspapers.
A flicker of normalcy.
Something steady.
Harry exhaled slowly and stepped into line.
He didn’t bother looking at the menu. He never changed his order.
There was something almost comforting about the routine—the quiet predictability of it. Step in, order coffee, sit by the window, gather his thoughts before another long, fruitless day at the office.
But then—
"No, I’ve got it."
The voice slid into the moment as smooth as silk.
Harry turned slightly, brow furrowing.
Harry knew that face.
Tom Riddle.
There he was, standing inches away, offering to buy him coffee. Again.
Harry straightened slightly, his exhaustion momentarily shoved aside. “I can pay for my own coffee.”
Riddle’s smile was slow, deliberate. “I’m sure you can. But humor me.”
Harry hesitated.
There was something about the way Riddle spoke—smooth, careful, like every word had been weighed before being offered. It was the kind of confidence that wasn’t just practiced, but ingrained.
The kind that set Harry’s instincts on edge.
Still, he let it happen.
He watched as Riddle pulled out crisp bills from his wallet, the movement slow, almost indulgent. He exchanged a few easy words with the barista, his tone warm and polite, like he had all the time in the world. And then, just as easily, he turned back to Harry, sliding his gloves off with a measured grace.
“What’s a man like you doing out alone this morning?”
Harry rolled his eyes, but there was an unexpected flicker of amusement beneath his exhaustion. “I didn’t sleep much,” he admitted, not really sure why he was answering. “Figured coffee would help.”
Riddle hummed in understanding, slipping his gloves into his coat pocket. “Work, I assume?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately.
He shouldn’t talk about the case—shouldn’t give anything away—but something about the way Riddle asked made it feel less like a question and more like a statement. Like he already knew.
“You seem awfully interested in what I’m doing,” Harry said instead.
Riddle’s lips curled at the edges. “Perhaps I simply enjoy good company.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, but I do,” Riddle murmured, his voice lower now, quieter.
Harry felt his breath catch.
It wasn’t fear, not exactly.
It was awareness.
The kind that settled under the skin, the kind that prickled at the edges of his mind, making it impossible to ignore the sheer presence of the man standing before him.
His drink was called.
Before Harry could step forward, Riddle did. He took both cups from the counter with ease, turning back and offering one out with an almost lazy tilt of his head.
“Sit with me,” he said.
It wasn’t a request.
Harry stared at him for a long moment. He should say no.
He should.
Instead, against every warning bell ringing in the back of his mind—
He followed.
They settled at a small table by the window, the light outside still weak and grey, barely cutting through the lingering morning fog. The café was quiet, the hum of conversation a low murmur in the background, accompanied by the occasional clatter of dishes behind the counter.
Tom Riddle sat with the kind of effortless ease that suggested he belonged wherever he chose to be. His posture was relaxed but deliberate, one hand curled loosely around his cup while the other rested on the polished wood of the table. His fingers were long, elegant—the kind of hands that belonged to a pianist or a surgeon.
Or a killer.
Harry shoved that thought aside. He was not going to let his work ruin his morning more than it already had.
Instead, he took a careful sip of his coffee, letting the warmth seep into his fingers as he studied the man across from him.
“You don’t strike me as the type to go around buying strangers coffee,” Harry said eventually.
Riddle’s lips curved slightly, as though he found the remark amusing. “And yet, here we are.”
Harry exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose. “Guess that makes me the exception.”
“Oh, you are,” Riddle murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “I find you quite exceptional, actually.”
Harry arched an eyebrow. “Is that a pick up line?”
Riddle only smiled. “Would it work if it was?”
Harry shook his head, half-smirking as he took another sip of his coffee. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”
“I prefer determined,” Riddle corrected.
“Same thing.”
“Not quite,” Riddle said, tilting his head slightly. “Persistence suggests desperation. Determination, on the other hand, suggests intent.”
Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Right. And what exactly is your intent here?”
Riddle took a slow sip of his drink, his grey eyes gleaming over the rim of his cup. “Perhaps I was simply curious.”
“Curious about what?”
Riddle set his cup down, fingers tapping idly against the ceramic. “You, of course.”
Harry snorted, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Right. Because an overworked cop with a caffeine addiction is so fascinating.”
Riddle didn’t blink. “More than you know.”
The words sent a shiver down Harry’s spine—not because they were threatening, but because of the way he said them.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Harry broke the silence first, shifting slightly. “So, what do you do, exactly?” he asked. “Besides buying coffee for sleep-deprived law enforcement.”
Riddle’s smile didn’t fade, but it changed—became something subtler, something more amused. “Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that.”
Harry exhaled through his nose. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I’m giving you,” Riddle said smoothly.
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You don’t like being direct, do you?”
Riddle hummed, tilting his head in mock consideration. “Only when it suits me.”
Harry studied him for a long moment. There was something infuriating about the man—how he answered without really answering, how he danced around questions with the same ease as someone who had done it a thousand times before.
And yet—
It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
Riddle was sharp, charming in a way that felt calculated but not forced, like he had spent years perfecting the exact balance between warmth and mystery. He was dangerous, but not in a way that set off any immediate alarms—just enough to keep Harry’s instincts on edge.
“Alright,” Harry said eventually, leaning forward slightly. “Let’s try something easier. What brings you here? You don’t seem like the ‘grab a coffee in a hole-in-the-wall café’ type.”
Riddle smiled, slow and knowing. “And what type do I seem like?”
“The kind that has an assistant fetch his coffee while he does—” Harry gestured vaguely, “—whatever it is you do.”
Riddle let out a low chuckle. “I do have assistants, but I find that certain things are better handled personally.”
“Like coffee?”
“Like interesting company,” Riddle corrected smoothly.
Harry huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Right.”
Another pause stretched between them, filled only by the distant chatter of the café and the quiet hum of the city outside.
Harry stiffened, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup. “You were watching me?”
Riddle’s smile didn’t waver. “Observing.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Of course.” Riddle leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “Observation is passive. Watching suggests something more… intentional.”
Harry stared at him, the weight of those words settling between them.
He wasn’t sure what bothered him more—that Riddle had noticed, or that he was right.
Harry exhaled slowly, schooling his expression back into something neutral. “Meet anyone Interesting? Or did you waste your morning? Be honest with me, you wasted it, didn’t you?”
“Not entirely,” Riddle murmured.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “No?”
Riddle’s smile was slow, deliberate. “I got to meet you, after all.”
Harry snorted, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“I told you,” Riddle said smoothly, “I’m determined.”
Harry sighed, but there was an undeniable flicker of amusement beneath his exhaustion. He wasn’t sure if Riddle was flirting or if this was just how he was- , toeing the line between playful and unnerving with unnerving ease.
Either way, he wasn’t sure why he was still sitting here.
And yet—
He didn’t hate it.
He should have gotten up. He should have finished his coffee, made some excuse, and left.
Instead, he stayed.
And let Riddle’s voice weave around him like smoke.
Harry wasn’t sure how much time had passed.
The café had filled and emptied in waves, but somehow, Tom and he had remained, their conversation slipping effortlessly from one topic to the next.
It wasn’t often that Harry let himself indulge in simple, easy talk—his life had been consumed by cases, paperwork, and sleepless nights for so long that the idea of sitting in a coffee shop, chatting with a near stranger, felt almost foreign.
And yet, here he was.
Tom Riddle was surprisingly good company. He had an ease about him, a charm that felt entirely effortless, the kind of confidence that made people listen when he spoke. He was intelligent—sharply so—and he had a way of spinning words that made even the most mundane topics feel intriguing.
He didn’t realize how long they had been talking until the sharp buzz of his phone cut through the air.
Harry blinked, dragging himself back to reality as he fished the phone from his pocket. He saw the name flashing across the screen—Colin Creevey— and immediately, his stomach twisted.
Calls from Colin weren’t casual. They weren’t for small talk.
Something had happened.
His fingers were already swiping to answer as he murmured, "Give me a second."
Riddle inclined his head, watching him with open curiosity as Harry pressed the phone to his ear.
"This is Potter," he said briskly.
"Harry—" Colin’s voice was tight, urgent. "We’ve got another one."
The words hit Harry like a weight to the chest.
His jaw clenched. "Where?"
"Same M.O. Same damn precision, same blood marking." A rustling noise on the other end, the sound of Colin moving through a crime scene. "We’re at the docks. Warehouse Thirty-Two."
Harry inhaled sharply. "I’m on my way."
He ended the call, already pushing back his chair.
Riddle was watching him carefully, head tilted just slightly. "Bad news?"
Harry exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.
For a brief moment, something flickered across Riddle’s face—something almost sorrowful. He exhaled softly, shaking his head. "That’s awful."
Harry barely registered the words. His mind was already racing, ready to jump straight into his work.
He grabbed his coat, throwing it over his shoulders. "I have to go."
"Of course." Riddle’s voice was warm, understanding. "Work calls."
Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second. He didn’t want to leave, which was absurd. This was his job, his life, and yet—
Riddle smiled, something almost… fond in his expression. "I’ll call you."
Harry barely heard Tom’s words as he stood, his mind already shifting into case mode, running through the possibilities, the connections. Another body. Another message. Another step closer to something that felt far bigger than he and his team could handle. Another day. Maybe this one would bring progress. He still had time..
The city had barely woken up after all.