Blood and Silence

The walls of Tom Riddle’s estate were too pristine, too quiet. It wasn’t the cold sterility of a hospital, nor the brutal efficiency of a prison. No, this place was curated—controlled. Like everything Tom touched.

Harry sat in the chair they had dropped him in, his wounds cleaned and bandaged, his hands free. That alone told him something. He wasn’t a prisoner.

Not yet.

Tom sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey cradled in his fingers. He watched Harry in silence, amusement curling the edges of his lips.

"You don’t seem very concerned about your situation," Tom observed.

Harry exhaled slowly. "Should I be?"

Tom chuckled. "Most people would be."

"I’m not most people."

Tom leaned forward slightly, studying him like a curiosity. "No, you’re not."

The silence stretched between them, taut with unspoken words. Harry knew better than to mistake this civility for kindness. Tom hadn’t saved him out of goodwill.

"You were set up," Tom said, swirling his whiskey lazily. "I assume you’ve realized that by now."

Harry’s jaw tightened. He had known the moment the bullets started flying. His father’s men were too well-trained to be caught off guard like that.

"It wasn’t one of mine," Tom continued, watching him closely. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have wasted the bullets."

Harry didn’t doubt that. Tom Riddle didn’t deal in half-measures.

"Your father hasn’t sent anyone looking for you," Tom added casually. "I wonder why that is."

Harry didn’t let the words cut, though they sliced through something in his chest. He had stopped expecting anything from James Potter a long time ago.

"Maybe he thinks I’m already dead," Harry said evenly.

Tom hummed. "Maybe he just doesn’t care."

Harry didn’t argue.

Tom set his glass down, fingers steepling beneath his chin. "Which leaves us at an interesting crossroads, doesn’t it?"

Harry held his gaze, unwavering. "What do you want?"

Tom smiled, slow and sharp. "Oh, you already know what I want, Harry."

A shiver ran down his spine at the way Tom said his name—like he was tasting it, savoring it.

"You want control," Harry said.

Tom’s eyes gleamed. "I want you."

The words settled between them like a slow-burning fuse.

"I don’t belong to anyone," Harry said, his voice steady despite the way his pulse thrummed.

Tom’s smile widened, as if he enjoyed the defiance. "Not yet."

There it was—the offer, the game, the trap. Tom could have killed him. Could have left him to die in the dirt. Instead, he had brought him here, cleaned his wounds, given him a seat at the table.

Harry was no fool.

Tom didn’t just want a soldier. He wanted something else.

"You can walk out of here," Tom said, tilting his head. "I won’t stop you."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"But if you do," Tom continued, "you won’t last a week. Whoever set you up will try again. And next time, you won’t be lucky enough to have me watching."

It was the truth.

Harry had spent his life fighting to prove his worth, only to be discarded the moment he became inconvenient. He had no allies. No safety net.

But here, in the lion’s den, he had something close to power.

"You want me to work for you," Harry said slowly.

Tom smirked. "I want you by my side."

It wasn’t a request. It was a claim.

Harry could feel the weight of it pressing against his skin, sinking into his bones. He had spent his life being carved into a weapon, and now Tom wanted to wield him.

The choice was an illusion.

Harry exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "You like collecting broken things, don’t you?"

Tom chuckled, dark and rich. "No, darling," he murmured, standing and stepping closer, until Harry could feel the heat of his body.

"I like fixing them."

Harry held his gaze, pulse hammering against his ribs. He should say no. Should fight. Should run.

Instead, he did the most dangerous thing of all.

He stayed.