Poetic Justice

Harry suppresses the urge to sigh again, because that really can’t be good for his health. Riddle is still kneeling in front of him, waiting for Harry’s next order, which means that Harry actually has to say or do something and can’t just pretend this is all a bad dream. He can’t even put the food away as an excuse, because Kreacher had just magically cleaned the table, diligent as always.

He watches Riddle sway, his obvious exhaustion finally catching up with him. After everything that’s happened today, Harry’s surprised it took this long, to be honest.

“Alright, you look like your about to keel over, so how about we find you a room and we’ll deal with.. this,” Harry gestures to both of them, but mostly to Riddle, “tomorrow.”

Harry leads Riddle through the house, walking through the familiar hallways and up the stairs, only to make a sudden stop when he realizes something. His eyes widen because how could he have forgotten, and he mutters a quick “Stay here,” before making his way back to the bathroom.

. . . . .

Only a few moments later, before Tom has time to do anything but shift his feet a bit, Potter returns with a small tub in his hand. He motions for Tom to follow him, and Tom obeys.

He doesn’t really know where they’re going, but Tom has a feeling he won’t really like it. Potter mentioned finding him a room, and Tom can only guess what that means. He knows that Potter doesn’t trust him—and rightfully so.

He’ll probably be chained to something, Tom realizes. No matter how lenient Potter has been so far, Potter is anything but dumb. He would never—should never—let his guard down around Tom, not after everything he’s done.

Which means Tom will presumably be chained to something. Most likely, a cold stone wall. At best, Tom almost dares to hope for a carpeted floor. Potter wouldn’t take the risk that Tom might think about running; chaining him to something greatly diminishes that risk, all while reminding Tom of their respective places—something which Tom isn’t likely to forget anyhow.

And Tom harbors no thoughts about running. It would be a pointless endeavor—everything here has magic, and Tom.. doesn’t. (He doesn’t even want to think about his magic, locked up in his core, only accessible through Potter’s unlikely order.)

(Tom misses his magic so much.)

Plus, on the off chance that he did somehow escape, a simple ‘Point Me’ would lead them right to him. He’s also sure the Ministry did a tracking spell on him, as well. No, trying to escape would only end up badly for him, because Potter would probably delight in the opportunity to punish him, and a slave trying to escape is a grave crime, at best.

Tom’s already decided to be good for Potter. He wouldn’t dare be anything else.

The collar around his neck feels heavier, somehow.

It’s then that he notices that they had stopped walking. Potter is looking at him with a raised eyebrow, and Tom dearly hopes that he hasn’t already messed up. That he hasn’t accidentally ignored an order from his master. That any leniency shown thus far will be taken away, Potter believing Tom was being disrespectful on purpose.

But Potter only turns around, opening a door that Tom hadn’t noticed before. (He must be really tired if he’s missing such obvious things. He hopes the floor is comfortable enough to sleep on.)

Tom is rightly nervous of what could possibly be inside the room, and his mind supplies him with many images—most of which he definitely doesn’t like. The door creaks open slowly, like it’s from a horror movie, trying to add more suspense. Or a door that hasn’t been opened in a long time, because there was no reason to.

Potter keeps nudging it open, putting a bit more weight into it. “Sorry, I swear I was going to fix this one day, but it just slipped my mind.” He pauses. “.. Multiple times. Well, at least I’ll have a bit more reason to actually work on it now!”

Potter’s half-cheerful voice is a direct contrast to the dread pooling in Tom’s stomach, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

Tom pointedly doesn’t look into the room, hoping to put off everything for just a couple more seconds. Seconds that passed much too quickly.

The door stopped creaking, and Potter took a step back. He gestures into the room with a wave of his hand and an almost proud look. “I guess this’ll be your room for a while. I mean, it’s not much, but your.. arrival.. was kinda sudden.”

Tom finally risks a look into the room, apparently now his room. Probably nothing more than a fancy word for dungeon-

Tom freezes.

The room is carpeted, with a soft cream color aligning the walls. There’s a dresser with a mirror in one corner of the room, and right next to it is a desk. There’s even a small window, letting a bit of the sunlight shine through.

And in the other corner is a bed. An actual bed.

The sheets look thin, and the blanket on it more so, but there’s an extra blanket at the foot of the bed with a wildly colorful space-theme on it—so obviously out of place in the beige room. Which means that Potter added an extra one for Tom.

Merlin, Tom had been expecting a carpeted floor at best. But..

.. a bed. There’s a bed.

And then the realization hits him. Tom’s never been told he can sleep in the bed. This is probably another test, to see if he truly knows his place as a slave.

That’s fine. A carpeted floor is more than enough.

“I mean, I know it doesn’t measure up to your royal princely standards,” Potter continues with a half mocking tone, and Tom wonders how long he’d zoned out again, and what in the world Potter is talking about. “But it’s a room. I’m sure we’ve both slept in a lot worse conditions.”

An image flashes through Tom’s head. A creaky door being slammed in his face, hearing the jingle of the lock being clicked into place, and all light seeping into blackness. Being crammed inside a place much too small for him, filled with cobwebs and bugs. His bed being nothing more than a thin sheet, and blanket only a rotten cloth with holes-

… What was that?

No, that doesn’t matter right now. He has to- he’s been given an actual room. He still doesn’t even know if he’s not just imagining everything.

He turns to Potter, his voice a bit more shaky than he would’ve liked. “This- You’re letting me.. This is.. my room..?”

“Uhh.. yes?”

Tom sunk to his knees again, already getting over any hesitancy he’d originally had for the demeaning act. He’d be doing it a lot more in the near future, plus, with Potter, after everything he’s given Tom (food, a shower, a room), he didn’t hate kneeling half as much as he used to. He loathes the guards who forced him to his knees, but he can’t imagine hating Potter even half as much, even when ordered to perform the same action.

“Thank you, Master.”

Only three words, but with so much emotion behind them.

Potter, for some reason, looks both confused and concerned. “Okay- hold up. I think we need to rewind a bit—like, to the beginning. The very beginning.Why do you look like you’re about to cry?”

Did he look like that? Tom doesn’t doubt it.

He doesn’t know what Potter is talking about again—it should be pretty obvious—but he answers anyway. “You- You’re letting me stay in a room.”

“.. Yes..?” Harry doesn’t look any less confused. “Wait- What were you expecting?”

Now Tom is also confused. Even more than he was.

He’s not sure exactly what to tell Potter, but decides he probably shouldn’t start their new.. positions with lies. “..Something like.. a dungeon, or a cell, Master.”

Potter makes a very pained expression, and Tom can’t tell why. “So.. do you know anything about how slaves are normally treated in this society..?”

“Yes?” Tom didn’t mean to phrase that as a question, but that’s what it came out as. He tries to explain. “Many of Gellert Grindelwald’s followers were enslaved after the war, so I’m quite familiar with how it works.”

“Right. Great,” Potter’s voice deadpans. “We will discuss that tomorrow. Right now,” He points at Tom, then to the room. “You. Bedroom.”

Tom obeys, standing up and walking a step into the room. (And it’s somehow even better on the inside.) He turns around, holding out his wrists for Potter.

And now Potter only looks confused again, plus a bit of.. concern? “.. Um.. What.. are you doing..?”

At this point, Tom’s not sure if Potter is trying to mess with him, or if he genuinely doesn’t know a single thing about slavery. “Do you.. not wish to bind my wrists overnight, Master?” He cocks his head to the side a bit, aiding his confused (and that’s all they’ve been for hours now) look.

Potter stares at him for almost a full minute, like he’s trying to assess if Tom is joking or not. Tom tries not to wither under his gaze, wondering if he said something wrong. When Potter finally breaks the stare, it’s to turn around and take a deep breath. And another. And another.

Finally, Potter turns to face Tom again, who hasn’t moved an inch the entire time. His eyes are filled to the brim with emotions—too many for even Tom to recognize any single one. “Okay, it seems we have a lot of things we really need to discuss, but!- we’ll do that tomorrow. So, for now, I’m going to tell you that no, I’m not binding your wrists together. I mean, if you try to run away, I might change that fact, but for now, absolutely not.”

Tom doesn’t know what to say to that, really. Instead, he drops his arms back to his side. He’s grateful, don’t get him wrong, but.. why?

Potter says they’ll discuss it—among other things—tomorrow, and that’s fine with Tom. Not that he has much choice in the matter. He’s only here to follow orders. Potter gives him a command and he obeys; that’s all there is to this.

Tom isn’t sure where ‘discussing’ comes into their arrangement, but he doesn’t argue. Perhaps Potter wants to question him—to see how much he knows about slavery so he knows better how to treat Tom. How being this nice to slaves is unheard of.

He wonders if Potter is waiting for him to respond, even if it had only been a couple seconds, and decides to reply. “I- I will not run away. I won’t.”

Potter raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s good. I don’t even want to think of what kind of punishment that would ensure.”

Tom tenses a bit at the word ‘punishment’, but Potter doesn’t comment on it. Somehow, Potter’s comment didn’t feel like a threat, just a fact.

“Anyways,” Potter hands the tub he was holding to Tom, who takes it with minute hesitancy, still wary of his intentions. “This is for your injuries. Just rub it on at night before you go to bed until the wounds heal.”

Now that Potter mentions it, the tub looks similar to something he’s seen before—a salve for both healing and easing the pain. Something that shouldn’t be used on a slave. Something that nobody else would ever give a slave.

Tom doesn’t even care if all of this is a trick anymore.

Potter turns to leave, but stops only a step later. He faces Tom again, who hadn’t moved yet, too caught up in his thoughts. “Oh, also, I have no clue if I actually need to specify this, but yes, you can use the bed.”

Potter shuts the door behind him, leaving Tom alone in his new room.

He can use the bed.

Tom almost breaks down and cries right then and there.