Poetic Justice

Tom shuts the door behind him, and hearing the lock click shut really shouldn’t have felt as euphoric as it had, but he pays that no mind. For a moment, he wonders if he’s even allowed to lock the door, but decides to risk it. The sense of privacy is too compelling to pass up and Tom revels in it while he can, even if it could be countered by a measly first-year spell.

‘Take a shower, or even a bath if you want,’ Potter had said. ‘There’s shampoo and towels already in there, and Kreacher will find some clothes that fit you. Just—take your time. Take as long as you want. Merlin knows we both need time to think some things through.’

Tom sighs.

He’s a slave now—Potter’s slave, at that. The same boy whose parents he killed. The same boy who he ruined the life of. (The Daily Prophet spreading rumors and lies, the Triwizard Tournament, using him for the ritual to get his body back, torturing and killing his friends, killing him. Need the list go on?)

And in the end, at the final battle at Hogwarts, Potter had the audacity to leave him alive. After Tom killed him.

(He knows Potter was dead. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows. Potter was dead.)

It makes him wonder why Potter is even pretending to be nice to him. Why let him take a shower when he could just use a cleaning spell (or not even that)? Why give him the chance to disobey—to revolt against him? Why even take the chains off in the first place, when anybody else would’ve just kept him locked up somewhere, unable to fight back at all?

He wonders how long Potter is going to keep pretending. Sooner or later, Potter is going to get over his newfound shock of ‘owning a slave’, and realize exactly how much power he has over him. Potter is going to realize he can punish Tom as much as he wants for all the pain he’s caused him with no retribution. In fact, most people would only encourage it even more.

Tom isn’t looking forward to whenever that will be.

Finally snapping partway out of his thoughts, he starts taking off his clothes—basically rags, covered in dirt and blood. He may have no idea what Potter is thinking, but he’s not about to waste the opportunity to take a shower.

Soon enough, the only clothing left is the bright red collar snapped around his neck. There is no lock and key, unlike the chains from earlier, only a buckle, like somebody would see on a dog collar.

(Tom supposes that’s all he is anymore. Nothing more than a dog—and that’s if he’s lucky.)

Tom could easily take the collar off at any time by reaching up and unbuckling it, but he supposes that’s what Potter was trying to achieve. He’s serving Potter of his own free will (or as close to that as he can get), and the fact he can remove the collar is proof of that.

It’s proof that Potter trusts him to keep his side of their agreement—the one where he agrees to obey all of Potter’s orders without complaint in return for living.

Honestly, like there was any choice but to agree. Tom supposes he should count himself lucky that Potter isn’t already torturing him, but it’s hard to see the positives in his situation, no matter how much ‘worse’ it could possibly be. (And Tom’s sure he’ll find out just how bad it could be eventually.)

He’s not sure why Potter made the agreement in the first place. Perhaps it was his moral code; Potter feels better knowing that he’s not ‘forcing’ Tom to follow orders, and Tom is a willing participant in this.

(Fun fact: He’s really not.)

(He has no choice because he’s a slave.)

Even.. Even without the agreement, Tom would’ve still obeyed. He would have obeyed all of Potter’s orders, because what other choice does he have? He doubts Potter would pass up an opportunity to punish him, if he were to disobey. In fact, there’s still a high possibility of that happening—if he doesn’t do a good enough job with whatever task, or if he ends up accidentally disobeying, or just for no reason, just because Potter feels like it.

Merlin knows Tom has done enough to deserve any punishment Potter could think of.

He doesn’t really want to think of the whip colliding with his back with a loud crack, only adding to the layers upon layers of pain, with Potter standing over him, smiling with sadistic glee. He doesn’t want to think of Potter testing each and every punishment tool he was given, seeing how long it would take Tom to break. (And he would. He would break.) He doesn’t want to think about being locked in a cupboard under the stairs for weeks at a time, only let out to do chores and for more beatings (and where had that thought even come from?). He doesn’t want to think about being chained down while Potter invites his friends over, giving them all a chance at revenge.

Tom doesn’t want to think about any of that, but his mind supplies the images in vivid detail anyways, even the phantom pains that go with them.

. . . . .

Harry hears the bathroom door click shut and sighs, leaning back and sinking into his couch. Two hours ago, he had no clue slavery still existed, and now he’s the proud owner of his very own slave.

He doesn’t bother wondering how he never knew about slavery in the wizarding world. Dumbledore has always been good at hiding important things from him, though Harry does wonder how he kept it from Hermione. This only further proves his point, really, that Dumbledore was the worst. (should’ve never trusted him-)

Well, luckily, Harry has this nice guidebook for slavery, so he won’t be jumping in completely blind.

(Who’s he kidding—he knows nothing that’s going on.)

Harry stares at the book in his hand, unassuming for what it contains. After the war, he’d expected to be done with Voldemort. All Harry’s ever really wanted was to be left alone—even now, that’s all he wants.

It doesn’t seem like he’ll be getting that for a long time now.

He flips open the book, already mentally preparing to cringe at the first thing he reads. And he was right, it was nothing he’d ever want to read, because they’re talking about a human being. There’s the basics of how slaves are meant to act, common punishments (each worse than the last), a very long list of random commands, and what rights slaves are entitled to, which is none, and a whole bunch of pages he hasn’t looked at left.

Harry could torture Riddle until he died, and nobody would care. If anything, they’d probably applaud and congratulate him. He could torture Riddle, and they’d probably ask for their own turn. He could lend Riddle out for a day (people would pay him), because Riddle is no more than property to the wizarding world. Something to be used until it breaks.

Harry remembers growing up with the Dursleys, who treated him no better than a slave at every occasion. A list of daily chores, frequently beaten for messing up (or just for no reason), little to no food ever, people ordering him around and treating him like a servant instead of a child, locking him up in the cupboard until he was useful.

How could anybody expect him to put somebody through the same situation he had been in himself? It doesn’t matter that Harry enjoys the thought of the people who wronged him kneeling in front of him. It doesn’t matter that the thought of Riddle writhing underneath of him sends a shot of arousal through his body. (Harry’s not afraid to admit he’s very attracted to Riddle’s looks—even back in second year with the diary, he’d wanted to run his hands through Riddle’s perfect hair, trace his finger along his jawline, wipe that annoying smirk right off his face-)

None of that matters, because Harry believes in a foreign concept called consent. It doesn’t matter how attractive Riddle is; Harry would never stoop that low.

The book, however, seems to imply otherwise, with entire sections dedicated to explaining how to use a slave sexually. Common punishments. Common orders. Common tools, all lined up in the back of the book, ready for him to use at his dispense.

Harry hates every single bit of it.

But, just because he absolutely loathes the thought of ever using Riddle sexually (and not because he doesn’t want to, mind you), that doesn’t mean he can just let Riddle sit around the house with nothing to do. They made an agreement, so as much as Harry doesn’t want a slave, and as much as Riddle doesn’t want to be a slave, they both still need to play the part.

Which means Harry needs to give Riddle orders.

What kind of orders do you give an ex-Dark Lord that probably loathes the very thought of bowing down, much less to somebody he hates.

(And there’s no way Riddle feels anything but burning hatred towards Harry. There’s no possible way Riddle doesn’t hate everything about his situation.)

Harry snaps out of his daze when he hears the shower turn off. How long had he been lost in his thoughts for Riddle to already be done? He glances at a clock and oh, it had already been almost half an hour since he’d heard the shower start.

Harry shuts the book, sliding it to rest beside him—no longer in the direct view from the bathroom. Like it makes the situation any better if Riddle can’t see it. Like Riddle would ever forget about its existence.

Riddle steps out of the bathroom a moment later. The clothes Kreacher had grabbed for him fit, which is definitely good, but the dampness of the bathroom air is making them stick to his body, outlining his slim figure. His hair is still wet and sticking to his forehead, other than a few strands already regaining their curl and sticking out at odd angles.

(And how the hell had he gotten his good looks back?? Where did the snake monster looking thing he used to be go?? It’s possible this Riddle is only another horcrux, but Harry doubts it. He doesn’t know how he knows, but somehow he does. He knows this is the real Riddle, with a full soul to boot.)

And, Harry realizes, the collar is still around his neck. He doubted Riddle showered with it on, meaning that Riddle snapped the collar back on himself.

Riddle walks over to where Harry is still sitting on the couch. He glances at the ground, obviously wondering if Harry wants him to kneel again, especially now that they have their little deal.

Before Riddle is able to act on whatever he decides, Harry pats the couch next to him. “Come sit down.”

Riddle gives Harry a dubious look, but does as asked, sitting on the very edge of the couch. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and a drop of water runs down his face from his still-wet hair, but he makes no move to wipe it away. Instead, he keeps watching Harry, trying to figure out what his next move is going to be.

(And wouldn’t Harry like to know that too.)

Harry stares back for a few moments, neither of them breaking the others’ gaze. And then, without warning, Harry summons a towel from the bathroom and shoves it in Riddle’s face.

Riddle startles backwards, trying to jerk the towel away from his face, until he realizes exactly what it is.

He sends Harry a glare, but seems to think better of it and looks away immediately. Harry only gives him a mischievous grin in return, and he knows that Riddle catches it by the look of pure confusion in his eyes. Did he really think that Harry would get mad for him? For glaring for all of two seconds?

They sit together in an oddly relaxed mood, while Harry rubs Riddle’s hair dry, and Riddle slumps deeper into the couch, as if the strain of the past few months has finally seeped into him.

Once Riddle’s hair is moderately more dry, Harry vanishes the towel back to the bathroom and combs his fingers through Riddle’s hair. The strands all separate into little waves, curling even further at the edges.

After a few moments, Harry leans back, satisfied enough with his work. (Like Riddle’s hair is anything but perfect anyways-) Riddle lifts his hand halfway to his hair absentmindedly, before seeming to realize what he was doing and drops his hand back down.

Harry decides to ignore that for the moment, instead climbing up from his seat on the couch. “Alright, follow me.”

Riddle looks wary again, but he gets up and follows Harry without a sound.

(Harry’s knows why Riddle thinks he can’t make any noise, much less speak, but that doesn’t stop Harry from wishing otherwise. Wishing Riddle hadn’t conditioned himself to not make a single sound. Wishing Riddle hadn’t looked so scared when he’d accidentally spoken earlier, expecting to be punished.)

Harry leads them into the kitchen, where Kreacher had anticipated his request and had already set up an easy-on-the-stomach dinner—roasted yams drenched in butter and brown sugar.

(They’re mushed enough where it shouldn’t be hard for Riddle to stomach. Harry had looked up foods good for after starvation a long time ago, after his own experience with it.)

Riddle, upon noticing the food, had stopped in the doorway. Harry could see the hungry look in his eyes, watching the food with a narrow and disbelieving gaze.

He turned his eyes to Harry with a small frown Riddle probably didn’t realize was there. Harry could almost hear his thoughts from where he was standing, filled with suspicion and resignation.

He really thinks that Harry’s going to eat in front of him, and not give him any.

Harry’s not surprised that’s where his thoughts went. The Dursleys had done that to him too many times.

Harry shakes that thought away quickly, focusing on the present. He gestures to a chair across the table. “Take a seat, Riddle.”

Riddle obeys, sitting down with a slowness that could only be explained by weariness and submission. He doesn’t reach for the food, even as his stomach growls loud enough for Harry to hear across the table.

Harry snatches the plate in front of him, aware of Riddle’s stare as he plops down a scoop of yams onto the center. He holds it out for the other to take, and it takes a few moments before Riddle realizes that he’s meant to grab it.

Riddle set the plate down in front of him, but doesn’t touch it otherwise.

“You can eat it, you know,” Harry announces. Riddle’s head whips up in surprise, obviously never expecting he’d actually get to taste it.“Just don’t eat too fast, or you’re probably going to be sick.”

Riddle nods, already reaching for his fork with a shaky hand. Harry gets his own plate while Riddle takes his first bite, and Harry literally watches him droop, no longer looking half as tense as he had been. Riddle relishes the taste of such a simple meal, probably having expected to never receive something so good-tasting ever again.

Harry watches Riddle physically restrain himself from eating the entire plate in three bites like he obviously wanted to with poorly-hidden amusement.

They finish their meal in relative peace and quiet, mostly because Riddle is trying to relish every bite like it’s the last one he’ll ever get (and he probably believes that, too), and Harry is content eating his own meal in peace.

Still, Riddle finishes his plate far too soon, and he glances to the pot of still-steaming yams, but looks away quick enough.

“Better not to eat too much at first. Give your stomach a few days to get used to having food again, because unless I’m wrong, you haven’t had a good meal in a while, right?” Harry questions.

Riddle nods slowly, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze.

“Yeah, best not to then.”

Riddle seems to mentally prepare himself for something, looking even more tense and unsure—his hands clenched into white fists by his side. Before Harry can ask why he’s suddenly all tense again, Riddle slides out of the chair and onto his knees in front of Harry.

He bows his head, and Harry watches his hands somehow clench impossibly tighter. “Thank you for the gracious meal, Master.”