In Which Harry is a Master of Seduction
Harry Potter was absolutely, one-hundred percent mortified.
He could not go back to work. He could never face Tom again...heck, he couldn’t even face his reflection in the mirror after what had happened that day at the maid cafe.
Tom had felt him up...he had touched Harry’s butt, and squeezed it, and for some unknown reason, Harry...Harry had liked it.
But it wasn’t just Harry’s dick that liked it. Oh, no. It was also, somehow...Harry’s soul.
When Tom had swiped his thumb over Harry’s lower lip, Harry could feel a tug from within him. In a way, it had mirrored the way his scar pained whenever Voldemort was nearby...but this feeling wasn’t painful at all. It was... enthralling. Like he was pulled to Tom, and obviously, Tom felt it too…
Harry knew he had a connection to Voldemort. With that time he dreamed of attacking Arthur Weasley through Nagini’s perspective, and his scar paining whenever Voldemort was nearby, not to mention the dreams… he thought of how Dumbledore had ignored him during his fifth year. Did Dumbledore know something that he wasn’t telling Harry?
Was there some deeper connection he had with Voldemort that Harry didn’t know about? Something...with his soul?
But the very idea of it was terrifying. A soul bond with his arch nemesis? Harry couldn’t imagine being any more cursed. Tom Riddle would grow into the man who killed his parents, who would cause so much destruction and bloodshed...and he couldn’t bear the idea of being tied to him, in any way, shape or form.
So that’s why Harry decided (in a very un-Gryffindor way) that his current best plan was...calling in sick at the cafe. He stayed cooped up in his apartment above the cafe and moped around, wondering what to do. What would Dumbledore do, if he was in Harry’s shoes? What would Hermione do?
But. Harry knew he technically shouldn’t be back to avoiding Tom again. Heck, he was trying to honey trap the Slytherin! Right? He couldn’t do that while hiding in his apartment… Harry needed to seduce Tom. But Harry was a fifth year who didn’t know much about seduction. So all he did was sit around and try to come up with a new plan.
Because seducing Tom - getting close to Tom, physically or emotionally - meant that Harry had to get close to him, too. And encouraging a soul connection with the future Dark Lord didn’t sound like a great idea, even if it would be to change him… Harry groaned and hit his head against the wall. Dueling Voldemort was way easier than seducing him!
Suddenly, Harry heard a knock on his apartment door. He groaned. It better not be Katrina again, checking up on him...although it was nice of the old lady to do so.
But as he swung open the door, shivering a little, his jaw dropped.
Tom was standing on his doorstep, holding a box of vials.
Harry took in the sight in front of him. Tom looked tired and worn, with dark circles under his eyes; his usually perfect curls were slightly windswept and disheveled. He was wearing muggle clothes - a baggy white button-up shirt tucked into the same black trousers Harry had seen him wear before. And the worst part was that Tom looked concerned, but the concern was clearly wiped off his face when he saw Harry.
“What,” Tom began, “are you wearing?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “You always ask me that.” But now, he had started to feel a bit embarrassed, because Harry was only wearing a lilac-colored slip dress with lace on the edges. And with the way Tom was staring at him, his eyes flitting up and down Harry’s body-
“What are you even doing here?” Harry snapped, feeling embarrassed. He wished he had a shawl to wrap himself in.
“I…” Tom trailed off, looking down. “I wanted to see you. You haven’t been at the cafe...Katrina said you were sick, so I brought some healing potions.”
Harry’s eyes softened. Tom looked so disheveled because...because he was worrying about Harry. He had been worried that he hadn’t seen Harry at the cafe...and he’d come up to Harry’s apartment, with a box full of healing potions, to make Harry better.
“Come in,” Harry said, stepping aside the threshold. It was the second time Tom had entered Harry’s little apartment. There wasn’t much, except for a small kitchen, a bed, and a bathroom. There was no furniture besides the bed. Tom sat on the edge of the unmade bed, cradling the box of vials.
“You don’t sound very sick,” Tom said as Harry made tea on the stovetop. Harry froze, realizing he was partially caught in a lie.
“I’ve been feeling much better since this morning,” Harry quickly said, “But thanks for the potions, anyway.”
Tom nodded. “I wish you’d…” Harry glanced over at him. “I wish you’d told me. I was worried about you.”
Harry’s heart sank a little bit. Was this the same man who, one day, would kill Harry’s parents, and attempt to kill him? Harry couldn’t believe it - couldn’t bear to believe it. But this was not Voldemort - not yet. This was Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle had worried about him. Had even maybe cared about him. And that was enough for Harry right now.
“Sorry,” Harry said softly, pouring the tea into two mugs and walking over to the bed, handing one mug to Tom and sitting down beside him.
They drank in silence for a while, until Tom said, “You know, my apartment’s just like this. I live above Borgin and Burkes.”
Harry catalogued this information away in his mind and hummed. He wondered what the future Dark Lord’s apartment would look like. Probably as cramped and dilapidated as his own...neither of them could afford a spacious home. What did Riddle decorate his apartment with? Something creepy, probably, knowing Voldemort...maybe with snakes. Harry hid his smile behind his mug, taking a sip of tea.
But then Harry met Tom’s gaze, so dark and focused on him, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. He reached out, then, for Tom’s left hand, and almost gasped when he could feel the tug that sparked between them. “How have you been?” Harry asked quietly, shakily, intertwining his fingers with Tom’s.
The touch was a silent apology; for what Harry had done, by holing up in his apartment and making Tom worry, or for what would occur in their futures, Harry didn’t know. Probably for both.
Tom swallowed and looked away briefly. “I’m alright. I don’t quite like working at Borgin and Burkes,” he answered quietly. “Everyone - all the professors at Hogwarts, they thought I’d go on to work for the Ministry of Magic. I was Head Boy. No one could understand why I’d work at a dark artifact shop in Knockturn Alley after graduation.” He laughed hollowly. “It’s so dreadfully boring, most of the time. Burke orders me around and makes me clean like a house elf. And the things I see on a daily basis, they usually aren’t worth my time.”
Harry knew that the only reason Tom had wanted to work at Borgin and Burkes was to see the array of dark artifacts given in by pureblood wizards and only select the very best items to be his horcruxes. When Tom said the artifacts he’d seen “weren’t worth his time”, Harry knew that he meant they weren’t valuable enough to be his horcruxes - to hold pieces of his soul. Harry’s blood ran cold, but he only nodded. “I get it,” he said. “I mean, no one dreams to work at a dark artifact shop forever …” he chuckled. “I’m sure you have other plans, er, right? After a few years?”
Tom’s lips twitched into a dark little smile. “Oh, yes, Harry. I have all sorts of plans.” He grinned. “I’ll save my money, move out into a better apartment, bide my time.... Yes, I’ve got a plan. I’m not going to be stuck working at Borgin and Burkes for the rest of my life, watch me.”
Harry’s eyes widened. This was as honest Tom had ever been with him. Honesty was a show of vulnerability - of trust. He just had to get Tom to trust him, and then...then...he could convince Tom to stop destroying his own soul, just for the sake of immortality…
“Sorry,” Harry blurted out. Tom looked at him quizzically. “For...slapping you and calling you a pervert again.”
Tom snorted, his contemplative expression just turning fond and mildly sheepish. “I shouldn’t have felt you up. I’m sorry.” He missed Harry’s shocked expression - Voldemort had just apologized to him?! “Besides,” Tom continued, smiling a little, “I’m getting used to you physically harassing me. Who knows, I might develop an affinity for it.”
Harry spluttered, pink-faced, and then he said something that Tom didn’t expect. “You don’t have to apologize for it,” he muttered, looking anywhere but Tom’s face. “I...kind of liked it.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Then,” he murmured, mouth close to Harry’s ear, “would you like me to do it again?”
“Tom!” Harry cried out, mortified beyond repair, again.
“I like it when you call me Tom,” he confessed, nipping Harry’s earlobe playfully. “It’s much more intimate than Riddle.”
“Intimate? ” Harry squeaked, and suddenly he was aware that Tom had lifted him in his lap - Tom had just carried him, what the heck? - and Harry was straddling Tom just as he had done a few days ago. Tom took the initiative, resting his hands on Harry’s hips before slowly kneading the flesh of Harry’s ass. Harry gasped and rocked against Tom, the pull between them practically singing when Harry curled his hands in the fabric of Tom’s loose shirt.
Tom’s face was only inches away from Harry’s own when he spoke, his voice a low, breathy murmur. “Can you feel it, Harry? Can you feel it as strongly as I do?”
The bond - the pull between them, between their souls - was undeniable. It was impossible to lie. “Yes,” Harry whispered, worrying his lower lip in between his teeth.
And then Harry did the unthinkable. He didn’t panic, or move away. He didn’t run.
He gently, carefully, leaned in further and pressed his lips against Tom’s.
If the pull between their souls was soft but tangible before, it had absolutely ignited now. The kiss grew from gentle and tentative to one raw and full of unobstructed passion. Harry lost himself in Tom, and he knew Tom had lost himself, too.
Time itself stretched and bent for them; when they finally parted, Harry hadn’t known how many seconds or minutes had passed. Tom pressed their foreheads together, gazing into Harry’s eyes as they panted to catch their breath.
“Somehow, Harry, I seem to be fond of your soul,” Tom whispered after a while. His gaze darkened. “So let me tell you something about mine.”
