The underworld thrives on chaos—its lifeblood is in drugs, violence, and illicit dealings, a ruthless ecosystem where morality holds no weight.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, a name whispered with both fear and respect. He wasn’t just a criminal; he was a legend, the kind of man who turned law enforcement into pawns scrambling to keep up. His genius, sharp as a razor, made him untouchable, and his first arrest at 25 only added fuel to his myth. The courts called him insane, and psychologists were summoned to unlock the riddle of his mind. They failed. Everything about him—from his words to his actions—was a puzzle no one could solve.
But Tom’s empire wasn’t just built on fear; it thrived on allure. He was striking, almost cruelly beautiful, his features sharp and commanding, his physique built like a statue of some ancient god. He could have had anyone he wanted, and for years, he did. Lovers came and went, fleeting and insignificant.
That changed the day Harry James Potter entered his life.
For three years, Harry was the exception to every rule Tom had lived by. A young man with a magnetism as dangerous as it was unassuming, Harry captivated Tom in ways that even he didn’t fully understand. Around the world, Tom was feared—a monster, a tyrant, a force of destruction. But in the quiet moments he shared with Harry, he became someone entirely different. To Harry, he was tender, patient, almost vulnerable. His hands, used to wielding power and violence, treated Harry as though he were something fragile, something irreplaceable.Yet, love did not erase Tom’s possessive nature; it only sharpened it. He was acutely aware of how others looked at Harry, how they lingered too long or dared to smile in his direction. Tom’s wrath was a silent, looming storm, and his cold glares were enough to send most people scrambling. Harry wasn’t just a lover—he was his, and Tom’s every action made that painfully clear.
Their happiness, however, was doomed to be fleeting. Life between them had a rhythm, one that Tom cherished in his own way. But when a misunderstanding broke the harmony, Tom’s pride became his downfall. Refusing to listen, refusing to trust, he let the cracks spread until they became fractures. If only he had stayed long enough to hear Harry’s truth…
———
Summer arrived, bringing with it the blistering heat and torrential rains that seemed to chase one another endlessly. Harry sat by the window, lost in thought, watching raindrops patter against the glass. He sighed softly. The rhythm of summer was no stranger to him—hot days that bred irritation, oppressive humidity that drained energy. Summers were often unkind, a season with little to admire. Yet, this time, there was something to look forward to, something that brought a flicker of excitement to Harry’s otherwise pensive gaze: a long-awaited trip with Tom.
After weeks of chaos and fatigue, Tom and Harry had decided to travel together. This year’s destination was France, specifically the shores of the Côte d’Azur. However, this wouldn’t be just any travelling trip. Tom, ever the enigma, had proposed they explore the coast by yacht rather than simply bask in the comfort of a beachside town. When Harry asked why, Tom had only given a mysterious smile and refused to explain. Harry let it slide, assuming that perhaps Tom wanted a new adventure.
After all, as they say, the road ahead reveals the true mettle of the traveler, right?
Caught in his thoughts, Harry didn’t even notice Tom returning home. Quiet as a shadow, Tom slipped behind him and wrapped his arms firmly around Harry’s waist. Resting his head in the curve of Harry’s neck, he inhaled deeply, as if drawing strength from Harry’s very presence. No matter how exhausting or crushing the day had been, this—this moment with Harry—was all Tom needed to find his peace again.
Harry flinched slightly in surprise but turned to find Tom holding him close, his eyes shut, lips stretched into a rare, childlike smile. Brushing back Tom’s dark, silky hair, Harry bent down to place a gentle kiss on his broad forehead.
“Tough day?” Harry asked softly.
Tom shook his head, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Hugging you makes it all go away.”
Harry smiled faintly. The world saw Tom Riddle as a monster, a man unflinching in the face of violence, unyielding and terrifying.
But Harry knew better.
Beneath that hard exterior was a fragile soul, bruised and battered by a loveless world. Tom’s past was an intricate web of pain and betrayal. Born into a world that had offered him neither family nor kindness, he had been shaped by hardship. He once told Harry of a time in his childhood when, after days of begging in the streets, he finally scraped together a handful of coins, only to have them stolen by a deceitful stranger. Later, in his youth, he had loved a girl with every fiber of his being, only to discover she had merely used him for her own gain. Those scars had hardened him, building walls so thick they seemed impenetrable.
But then came Harry.
Harry, who didn’t care about Tom’s crimes or his past, who stayed by his side despite everything. Harry, who cradled his broken pieces and shielded him from the world’s judgment.
Tom rose from his seat, walking over to the leather bag he’d dropped by the door. Reaching inside, he pulled out two plane tickets and held them up triumphantly.
“Surprise! I got the tickets. We’re flying out tomorrow.”
Harry’s face lit up with joy as he flung his arms around Tom’s neck. In one smooth motion, Tom scooped him up, carrying him to the window where the rain still drummed softly against the glass. Without hesitation, Tom pressed his lips to Harry’s, his kiss was rough, always, as though trying to pour every ounce of his affection into that single moment. Harry didn’t resist. He kissed Tom back with equal fervor, a silent promise that no matter what storm awaited them, they would weather it together.
———
Early morning came with the sharp trill of a phone ringing, jolting Harry from his restless sleep. Eyes heavy and body sore—thanks to someone who seemed to lack any sense of moderation—he groaned. His hips ached in protest, a frustrating reminder of the man lying next to him.
Damn that insatiable Tom Riddle.
Reluctantly, Harry reached for his phone on the bedside table, squinting against the early light to see who had the audacity to call him at this hour. But the moment he registered the name on the screen, his breath caught, and his fingers froze for a second.
James Potter. His father.
His hand trembled slightly as he answered. On the other end, James’s tone was curt and commanding. He told Harry to come over immediately—no explanations, no pleasantries. Harry, swallowing hard, managed a nod, though James couldn’t see it, and murmured his agreement.
Slipping out of bed, Harry had barely taken a step toward the bathroom when Tom’s arm shot out, pulling him back down. Tom wrapped himself lazily around Harry’s waist, his voice thick with sleep but tinged with irritation.
“Where are you going? Stay in bed a bit longer,” he muttered, almost petulantly.
Harry smirked to himself, amused by Tom’s rare display of neediness. Gently running his fingers through Tom’s messy hair, he reassured him, “I just need to see my dad for a bit. I’ll be back soon.”
Tom cracked one eye open to glare at him, his lips forming a small pout. “You better come back quickly.”
Harry chuckled, nodded in agreement, and slipped out of Tom’s grasp before heading out.
———
When Harry returned later that afternoon, it was already four o’clock. With only an hour and a half left before their flight, he walked in carrying a thick stack of documents under one arm. Whatever they were, they looked important, and judging by Harry’s furrowed brow, they weren’t something he wanted Tom to see.
He entered their bedroom, expecting to find Tom, and sure enough, there he was, lounging on the bed as if he had all the time in the world. The moment Harry stepped inside, he instinctively tried to hide the documents behind his back, his awkward movements betraying him. Tom noticed, of course, but he didn’t press. Instead, he looked at Harry with a slightly sulky expression, his voice soft, almost accusing.
“You said you’d only be gone for a bit. Why were you gone so long?”
Harry waved a hand dismissively, crossing the room to stand by Tom. “It was work, Tom. You know how it is.”
Tom’s sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment before he sighed, leaning back against the pillows. He didn’t ask about the documents or Harry’s oddly secretive behavior. Instead, he simply said, “You’re here now, so I guess I can forgive you.”
Harry laughed lightly, leaning down to kiss him briefly before beginning to pack for their trip. Tom’s expression softened, but thr image of his smile lingered in the air like a coiled serpent, venom dripping with every curve, waiting for something.
Harry had barely settled onto the bed when Tom yanked him back down, pulling him flush against his chest. Before Harry could react, Tom seized his lis in a fierce kiss, stealing away his breath like a thief in the night. His hands pinned Harry's wrists firmly above his head, a grip so unyielding Harry couldn't help but wonder what on earth Tom had eaten to become this strong.
The kiss was relentless, and rough leaving Harry's thoughts a hazy blur. By the time their lips reluctantly parted, both were left gasping for air. But Tom wasn't done; his mouth descended to Harry's neck, licking and nipping in a way that sent shivers down his spine.
Harry let out a rueful chuckle, though his voice came out breathier than he intended.
"Three hours until our flight. Do you want to be late?"
Tom's eyes narrowed, a mischievous glint flashing in them.
"I already packed all your clothes. One hour of making love won't hurt, Harryyy!"
Of course, only Tom could be this shameless.
Harry sighed, shooting him a resigned glance. "Just one hour, okay?"
A triumphant grin spread across Tom's face as he leaned down to capture Harry's lips once more. The two of them sank back into their shared whirlwind of passion, utterly lost to the world and each other, their embrace stretching beyond any sense of time.
———
Standing on the tarmac of Charles-de-Gaulle Airport, Harry squinted against the oppressive heat, shielding his eyes with his hand. The sun bore down relentlessly, making the air heavy and stifling. He noticed Tom ahead of him, holding an umbrella, striding forward without sparing him so much as a glance. Something about Tom’s demeanor was off—cold, distant. Harry thought it strange but brushed it off, chalking it up to exhaustion from the flight.
By the time they reached the harbor and boarded the yacht drifting in the middle of the Côte d’Azur, the sky had darkened, heavy clouds rolling in to replace the brilliant blue. The air carried the damp scent of an impending downpour, and soon, rain lashed against the deck in thick sheets. Yet, despite the storm, Harry, Tom, and the bodyguards stood outside, oddly serene as they watched the churning sea. Harry sipped on his soda, his preference over the wine and liquor Tom always enjoyed—a fact Tom knew well. Tom stood at the bow of the ship, his back rigid, eyes locked on the horizon with an expression Harry could only describe as melancholic. Concerned, Harry approached him, slipping his arms around Tom from behind. But Tom didn’t relax. Instead, he turned, his lips curling into a wry smile as he tipped Harry’s chin upward.
“Do you know,” Tom began, his voice soft but tinged with bitterness, “how small this world is? And yet, people still can’t live in peace with each other?”
Harry remained silent, sensing there was more to come.
“I used to have a brother,” Tom continued, his gaze drifting to the sea. “He was my only family. But he’s been gone for a long time now.”
Harry’s brows knitted together, but before he could respond, Tom pressed on.
“Do you know why he’s gone? He was in the same business as me—drug trafficking. We sailed these very waters, thinking we could finally enjoy some peace amidst the breeze and the waves. But I was wrong.”
Tom’s tone darkened as he gripped the railing, his knuckles white with the force. Harry watched him, wide-eyed, as the storm seemed to reflect the tempest in Tom’s words.
“There was a spy on board that day.” Tom’s voice trembled with anger. “The cops—they came for him. They dragged him out, beat him, tried to force him to talk. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His silence cost him everything.”
Tom’s fists clenched tighter. “They surrounded us. He told me to run, to leave him behind, but how could I? How could I abandon my brother? He was stubborn, though. He chose to throw himself into the sea rather than betray our secrets. From that day on, I stopped trusting anyone. Especially cops.”
The venom in his voice was palpable now, and it made Harry’s stomach churn. He tried to step back, but Tom’s bodyguards caught him and held him firm. Panic coursed through him as Tom turned, his expression unreadable.
This wasn’t the Tom Riddle Harry knew.
This was someone else entirely.
“Potter,” Tom hissed, his tone mockingly soft. “I thought my armor was thick enough to never trust anyone again. But I made the mistake of trusting you.”
His hand reached out, no longer gentle, as he grabbed Harry by the throat. The sudden force made Harry gasp, his hands clawing at Tom’s grip as his airway constricted.
“You waltzed into my life,” Tom spat, his face mere inches from Harry’s, “seduced me, wormed your way into my world. Don’t think I didn’t notice you meeting your father this morning. A cop, isn’t he? What did you do, Potter? Hand over my files? Did you set me up?”
Harry shook his head furiously, his vision blurring from the lack of air. “No!” he managed to rasp. “I didn’t!”
Tom only tightened his grip, his voice rising to a roar. “You used me! Admit it! Admit it!”
When Harry didn’t respond, Tom finally released him, letting him collapse to the deck, gasping and coughing. But there was no reprieve. Tom yanked him up by the shoulders, slamming him against the railing. His eyes burned with a maniacal gleam as he sneered.
“Do you think I didn’t know? I’ve known you were a cop all along. I just wanted to see how long you could keep up the act."
Harry summoned what little strength he had left, his voice trembling but defiant.
"I didn't betray you, Tom! I swear -"
Slap!
The sound of the blow echoed through the air, and Harry staggered, his cheek stinging. He sucked in a shuddering breath, but Tom's glare silenced him.
"Liar!" Tom roared. "Don't play dumb with me, Harry. From the very beginning, you wanted to take me down."
Tom turned away, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared into the rain-soaked sea.
He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and chilling.
"Brother, are you seeing this? I'll get justice for you. I'll make them all pay. Today is the day they killed you, and I swear on your memory, they won't get away with it."
When he turned back to Harry, his face was wild, his movements erratic. He lunged forward, grabbing Harry's arm and yanking him toward the edge of the deck. Harry stumbled and fell, his body weak and unresponsive. The realization hit him like a blow-
Tom had spiked his soda.
Fuck!
Tom crouched down beside him, gripping his jaw tightly, forcing Harry to meet his gaze. His touch wasn't tender; it was cruel, almost gleeful as he drank in Harry's fear.
"You're scared," Tom murmured, his lips curling into a twisted smile. "Good. That's how I like it."
Tom’s voice was laced with venom, each word sharper than the last. “I heard you used to be a play boy. You served me well in bed, didn’t you? So, tell me—how many other men did you fuck? You must’ve been quite the professional, huh?”
”Slut”
Harry’s breath hitched, his wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto Tom in desperation. His hair was disheveled, his body trembling as he clung to Tom’s legs, sobbing and pleading.
“No… no… no, Tom, please!” Harry choked out, his voice breaking. “Please don’t do this to me. You have to listen to me. I swear, Tom, please… TOM!”
His cries were cut short as Tom’s boot drove harshly into his hands, forcing them off his legs. Harry fell back with a gasp, his pleas now panicked screams as he reached out toward Tom, who only stared down at him with cold indifference.
“Take him away,” Tom ordered, his voice calm but laced with cruel authority.
The bodyguards grabbed Harry and yanked him away, their grip like iron. Harry struggled, his voice raw as he called out Tom’s name, but the man didn’t flinch. He lit a cigarette, the small flame illuminating his face, his eyes gleaming with something dark and unforgiving. He crossed his legs, exhaling a plume of smoke, his gaze fixed on Harry like a predator watching its prey.
This was the side of Tom Harry had only heard about in whispers—the ruthless, remorseless killer. The man who had sworn he’d never look at Harry this way was now staring at him with contempt, like a stranger.
Why?
“Have fun boys!” Tom commanded
The bodyguards descended on Harry like starving predators, their movements ruthless and unrestrained. They tore at his clothes, ripping through the fabric with an almost animalistic ferocity, leaving him exposed and vulnerable under their merciless hands. One of them seized a fistful of Harry’s hair, yanking his head back with a force that sent sharp pain radiating through his scalp.
The strands that now tangled between their cruel fingers had once been sacred—once soft, once cherished, once touched only by Tom.
Tom, who had always held Harry with a mix of possessiveness and tenderness.
Tom, who had run his fingers through Harry’s hair in moments of quiet intimacy, as if it were a privilege only he was worthy of.
Tom, who had once sworn that no one else would ever lay a hand on Harry.
But now, the promises of protection and devotion lay shattered, as broken as Harry’s spirit. Those hands, foreign and brutal, replaced the warmth of Tom’s, turning what was once an act of love into a weapon of humiliation. Each tug, each cruel grip, was a stark reminder of how much had changed—how far Tom had let this go.
Harry's eyes widened in horror, his sobs turning into silent screams. Tears streamed down his face in unrelenting torrents, his voice hoarse as he begged for mercy, for someone-anyone-to stop this nightmare.
But no one listened.
Tom didnt listen.
He simply sat there, watching with the cold, detached gaze of a man who had already made up his mind.
Before Harry could continue speaking, his protests were silenced as they forced a gag into his mouth. Stripped of any chance to defend himself, he could only struggle weakly as Tom's men overpowered him. Tom’s men spread his legs apart, one in front, one behind, the other two on each side of him, then they began to rape Harry brutally. His pleas, muffled and frantic, fell on deaf ears as their actions grew increasingly cruel. Harry's wide, tear-filled eyes searched for mercy, but none came.
Tom sat nearby, distant and unyielding, lighting another cigarette as he observed Harry —the once love of his life being raped brutally by his men. His face remained emotionless, his decision resolute. It was disgusting, the sounds of slapping and thrusting, moaning and breathing all mixed together. The man who once looked at Harry with affection now watched with cold detachment, as though he were no longer human to him.
Two hours had passed, and Tom’s men showed no sign of stopping. Their brutality continued, and the scene had turned into a twisted theater of pain. Tom was right about Harry lewd body but he was wrong about trusting him.
"Enough," he ordered, his words laced with an authority that immediately halted his men. They stepped back, leaving Harry lay there, his naked body exposed under the faint drizzle of rain, the remnants of their cum staining his skin. His chest barely rose and fell, his breath shallow as he remained unconscious, his body a canvas of humiliation and pain. Tom stood above him, his expression hard, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—a shadow of regret, perhaps. But even that was fleeting.
Ha.
Tom crouched down, removing the gag that had been shoved into Harry's mouth. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before giving Harry a sharp kick to the head, the force of it meant to rouse him. Harry didn't stir. His body remained limp, lifeless.
Frustration flickered across Tom's face.
"Wake him up,"
he ordered.
One of the guards quickly brought over a bucket of freezing water and unceremoniously dumped it over Harry's head. The icy shock sent a shudder through Harry's body, and with a gasp, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked blearily, his vision blurry and unfocused as he struggled to understand his surroundings.
"So?" Tom's voice cut through the haze, sharp and mocking.
"Already giving up?"
Harry's eyes slowly found Tom's, the pain and betrayal in his gaze unmistakable. His lips trembled as he struggled to form words, his voice raw with anguish.
"Bitter tea cures sickness. Truth hurts, doesn't it, Riddle?" His voice dropped,
"You've lost everything, Tom”
Harry’s defiant words only seemed to fuel the storm within him. With a snarl, Tom slapped him again, the sharp sound echoing in the air, followed immediately by a brutal kick to Harry’s stomach. Harry curled up, clutching his abdomen, his body wracked with pain as he endured the onslaught of punches and kicks. His once flawless, captivating face was now bruised and battered, almost unrecognizable.
But Tom wasn’t satisfied. His mind conjured an even more sick. He ordered his men to bring out a water pump, his grin twisted and malicious. They hesitated for a moment, exchanging uneasy glances, but the fear of defying Tom outweighed their doubts. They complied, setting the machine up as Harry lay there, barely able to move. Tom grabbed the hose and forced its end against Harry’s navel, jamming it in place before turning on the pump. The cold water surged into Harry’s body, and he writhed in discomfort, his stomach bloating grotesquely. His once lean, defined torso expanded painfully, the tight skin stretching as if he were pregnant with triplets. Harry squirmed, his breaths shallow and erratic, his face contorted in agony.
Tom’s laughter filled the air, harsh and unforgiving, as he watched Harry’s misery unfold. “Look at you now,” he sneered, reveling in the sight of Harry’s suffering. “Not being such a bitch anymore, are you?”
One of his men finally spoke up, his voice shaky. “Sir, I don’t think he can take much more of this.”
Tom’s expression darkened, and without hesitation, he turned and punched the man square in the face. “Do you have any idea what this slut have done to me? He deserves worse!”
Ignoring the man’s groan of pain, Tom turned back to Harry and finally switched off the machine. Harry’s head lolled to the side, his vision blurry and his mind foggy. He was too weak to scream, too drained to cry out. His body trembled violently as he lay there, barely clinging to consciousness.
He’s dying.
Harry is dying.
Tom lit a cigarette, the glow of the embers casting a faint light on his cruel smirk. He took a long drag, then crouched down beside Harry, pressing the burning tip against his cheek. The smell of seared flesh filled the air as Harry flinched weakly, his body too broken to resist. Tom leaned back, lit another cigarette, and repeated the action, branding Harry's face again and again with the fiery tip. Each burn left a scar, adding to the growing disfigurement of the man who had once been so beautiful.
When he finally stopped, Harry's face was a grotesque mix of swelling, bruises, and charred marks from the cigarette burns. His breathing was faint, each exhale a struggle. He was on the brink of death, his spirit crushed, his body nearly destroyed.
Tom stood, towering over Harry's battered form, his cigarette still glowing between his fingers. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his expression unreadable, before turning to leave. Harry's world faded into darkness, his consciousness slipping away, uncertain if he would ever wake again.
Yet somehow, he managed to smile.
At first, it was a faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, but soon it grew wider, spreading into a grin. And then, he laughed. A dry, hoarse laugh, rasping and raw, rising into a sound so unhinged that it sent chills down the spines of everyone present. His laughter, cracked and eerie, filled the air, echoing through the now-quiet storm.
Tom froze, stunned by the sight. His men exchanged uneasy glances, equally shocked by the man who, moments ago, had seemed on the brink of death. But Harry’s laugh wasn’t just madness—it was derision, a scathing mockery aimed directly at Tom.
That laugh was unbearable.
Tom’s face twisted with rage, his pride cut deeper than any knife could manage. He lunged at Harry, his hands finding their way around the man’s throat, squeezing with all the strength his fury could muster.
“Stop laughing!” Tom roared, his voice trembling with desperation. “Stop it! Shut up! SHUT UP!”
But Harry didn’t. Even as his air was cut off, even as his already bruised body struggled against Tom’s grasp, he kept laughing—weakly, but audibly. It was a laugh soaked in pain and defiance, a laugh that reflected every inch of Tom’s broken humanity.
Unable to stand it any longer, Tom let out a guttural scream and reached into his pocket, pulling out a gleaming dagger. Without hesitation, he drove it into Harry’s chest, again and again. Each strike was brutal, each scream from Tom louder than the last.
“Why are you laughing?!” Tom yelled, his voice cracking with emotion. “Stop it! Stop it, damn you! Shut up, Harry! Just shut up!”
Blood gushed from Harry’s chest, staining the deck in vivid red, but the laughter didn’t stop. It only faded as his voice weakened, until it was nothing more than a faint gurgle. Finally, Harry’s body stilled. His smile vanished, his face pale and lifeless, and the world around them grew eerily silent.
The rain had stopped. The storm was over.
Tom stood over the lifeless body, his breathing ragged, his clothes soaked in Harry’s blood. His hair clung to his forehead, his once-pristine demeanor now utterly disheveled. He looked down at Harry’s face, unmoving, yet something about it still mocked him. Those lifeless eyes, staring at nothing, seemed to bore into his soul.
“Get rid of him,” Tom growled, his voice low, almost defeated.
His men hesitated, but his sharp glare sent them into motion.
They hoisted Harry's body from the ground, carrying him toward the edge of the yacht. As they moved, something remarkable happened-a single tear rolled down Harry's cheek, the last remnant of the life that had once burned so brightly within him. Tom watched, unmoving, as the men threw Harry's body into the sea. The water swallowed him whole, his form disappearing beneath the waves, sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss.
"Turn the ship around. We're leaving."
The engines roared to life, and the yacht began its journey back, cutting through the calm waters. Behind them, the sea returned to its endless stillness, the waves washing away the last traces of Harry Potter.
———
The office was deathly silent, save for the faint ticking of a clock, counting down time that now felt infinite and unbearable. It had been three days since it happened—three days since Harry’s voice, his laughter, his warmth had been snuffed out of existence. Tom sat in the leather chair behind his desk, the place where they’d once shared quiet moments, where Harry’s presence had brought light to his otherwise dark world.
Now, that light was gone.
Tom stared at the cupped drink in his hand, untouched and forgotten. His expression was unreadable, but his chest ached. There was triumph in his heart—he’d avenged his brother, hadn’t he? Justice had been served, hadn’t it? He let out a dry, bitter laugh that echoed hollowly in the room.
Yes, he had won. He had destroyed the one person he loved most in the world to prove he was right.
But now the victory tasted of ashes.
His thoughts spiraled as his mind replayed the last three days like a never-ending loop. The cries, the begging, Harry’s broken body lying lifeless in the rain. He clenched his fists, trying to bury the wave of nausea clawing its way up his throat. He had loved Harry—more than anyone, more than anything. And yet, he had let that same love destroy him. Destroy them both.
A knock on the door shattered his reverie, pulling him sharply back into reality.
“Come in,” he growled, his voice harsher than he intended.
One of his men entered, carrying a tape and a stack of documents. The man, visibly nervous, handed them to Tom before bowing and leaving the room without another word. Tom frowned, his fingers running over the label on the tape. It felt oddly old-fashioned, out of place, as if mocking him. He started to dismiss it as some foolish prank until his eyes caught the handwriting on the label.
“To Tom Riddle.”
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Harry’s.
Tom’s breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled as he stared at the tape, his pulse quickening with an odd mixture of hope and dread. He didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room and inserted the tape into the old television set, his heart pounding in his chest.
Static crackled for a moment before the screen flickered to life. There he was.
Harry.
Alive, smiling, perfect—unmarked by the bruises and scars Tom had left behind. His messy hair caught the light, his eyes bright and warm, looking straight into the camera as if he were looking directly at Tom.
“Ah… is this working?” Harry’s familiar voice filled the room, soft and tinged with nervousness. He adjusted the camera awkwardly before sitting back.
“Okay, there we go! Hi, Tom.”
Tom’s knees gave out, and he sank into the nearest chair, his eyes fixed on the screen, his breathing shallow.
“Honestly, I don’t even know where to start. I’m not good at this kind of thing, so I thought I’d just record it,”
Harry continued, his voice carrying a softness that now cut through Tom like a knife
"My dad's a cop. You know that now. I followed in his footsteps because... well, it's what I grew up with. But when I met you, everything changed.
Harry paused, his expression growing wistful.
“Three years, Tom. Three years of us. I never told you who I really was, but I swear, my love for you was always real. I've been by your side. And in those three years, l've never once stopped loving you. Not for a second. Even when you were angry, even when you scared me, even when you pushed me away, I stayed."
Harry continued, his voice breaking slightly. “I stayed. Because I saw the real you. Not the cold, ruthless man everyone else sees. I saw the man who held me when I was scared, the man who kissed me like I was the only thing keeping him alive. I saw the man who made me feel safe, even when the rest of the world felt like it was falling apart."
Tom’s hands clenched the arms of the chair as Harry laughed softly, shaking his head. “This morning, when I met my dad, it wasn’t to betray you. He finally accepted us, Tom!. He gave me all your files and told me to hide them. He just wanted one thing: for me to help you, to make you better!. And I said yes. I was going to hide them, Tom. I was going to keep you safe! And I was going to do it. For us. For you!."
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "If you're watching this, it means I couldn't tell you in person. And if you don't want me anymore, if you think this is the end for us... I'll understand. I'll let you go. But Tom, please know that no matter what, I'll always love you. I'll always be there for you, even if it's only from a distance."
Harry's smile returned, small but genuine
"I know you hate when I nag, but I can't help it. You need to stop smoking, Tom. Seriously. You're going to kill yourself at this rate. And eat, okay? I know you skip meals when you're stressed, but you can't keep doing that. You need to take care of yourself. Even if I'm not there, promise me you'll try. Because you deserve it, Tom. You deserve to be loved"
”I love you Tom”
The tape ended, the screen going black. But for Tom, the world didn’t just darken—it shattered.
He sat there for what felt like hours, his eyes glazed over, his chest hollow. Memories flooded back—the way Harry would curl up beside him on the couch, the way he’d laugh at Tom’s terrible jokes, the way he’d look at him like he was worth saving.
The person who had loved him unconditionally, who had sacrificed everything for him, who had been his light in the darkness—he had destroyed him. And for what?
Revenge?
Pride?
Fear?
And Tom had destroyed all of it.
He had destroyed Harry.
A sharp ringing sound jolted him from his torment. The phone. He reached for it with trembling hands, pressing it to his ear.
“Tom Riddle,” came a gruff voice. “This is James Potter. Harry’s father.”
Tom froze, his throat tightening.
“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done. But Harry loved you. He gave up everything for you, Tom. Everything. Don’t you dare let his sacrifice mean nothing. Don’t you dare forget him.”
James’s words cut deeper than any knife. Tom couldn’t respond. The phone slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He stumbled to the window, the one Harry had loved to sit by, staring out at the world as he waited for Tom to come home. It was a place of warmth and quiet love, now reduced to a painful, hollow reminder of everything he had lost.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handgun. The weight of it felt heavier than it ever had before, pressing down on him like the sum of all his sins.
"Tom? Are you still there? Tom, answer me!" James called, his voice rising with urgency.
“It’s my fault,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “It’s all my fault.”
He couldn’t breathe
Harry would help him breathe
Tom stared out the window, his reflection in the glass almost unrecognizable. The man who stared back at him wasn't the cold, untouchable Tom Riddle he had crafted for the world to see. This man was broken, hollow, and consumed by regret. He saw Harry's face in his mind-the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he had loved so completely, even when Tom didn't deserve it.
Tears streamed down his face as he raised the gun to his temple. He took a shuddering breath, his body trembling as the weight of his guilt crushed him.
Bang.
The deafening sound of the gunshot echoed through the room, silencing everything else. Outside the door, his men pounded desperately, shouting for him, but the door was locked tight.
On the other end of the phone line, still lying on the floor, James Potter's voice rang out, filled with panic and confusion.
"Tom? Tom! Answer me! TOM!"
But there was no answer.
Tom's lifeless body slumped to the floor, his blood pooling beneath him. His eyes, once so sharp and calculating, were now dull and empty. In his hand, he still clutched the tape-Harry's last gift, the only piece of him that remained.
The room grew quiet, save for the faint hum of the television and the muffled cries of his men behind the locked door. The window, where Harry had once waited so lovingly, framed a view of the outside world-a world that would go on, even as Tom Riddle's came to a final, devastating end.
As darkness claimed him, Tom's last thought was silent:
Death, was mercy for him.
He deserves worse.