Poetic Justice

Harry wakes up slowly, letting out a large yawn. He rolls over in his bed, stretching as much as possible without actually getting up. For a few minutes, he’s tempted to fall back asleep, because his bed is just so comfy and warm, why would he want to get up?

It’s weird how he actually feels well-rested; usually he stays up much later than he should, and still gets up early from well-ingrained habit, thanks to the Dursleys. But today, he actually feels like he got a proper amount of rest. (Doesn’t stop him from wanting to fall back asleep, but he knows it’s a pointless endeavor anyways.)

The only logical conclusion for why he got a proper amount of sleep is if he went to bed early, but why on Earth would he-

Harry remembers yesterday’s events and groans, any lingering tiredness immediately vanishing.

Right, he has a slave now. And said slave is Voldemort.

Merlin, why can’t Harry just have a normal life? Even just a normal year? Just one. That’s all he asks for. One year where his life isn’t written like some crappy seven book series.

Harry gets comfortable under his covers; he needs to think, and there’s no reason he needs to get up to do so.

He’s in the kitchen only two minutes later, sipping some hot tea and regretting many life choices. He knows he needs to see if Riddle is up yet, but he’ll deal with that later. Right now, he’s busy mourning the loss of his covers because his body hates him staying in bed after he wakes up, for some reason. Curse his bodily habits.

The idea is finally sinking in now, that none of this is a dream. Harry walked through yesterday in a half-daze, like any second he was going to wake up and everything was going to be back to normal. Obviously, that didn’t happen. And now he has to accept the reality that he accepted Voldemort as a slave.

He sips at his tea, still lost in thought.

Riddle, for the most part, seems pretty subdued. It actually worries Harry how he’s not even fighting against it. He’s called Harry ‘master’, kneeled without being prompted, obeyed Harry’s orders, didn’t touch the food until told he could do so, and expected Harry to bind his wrists overnight (let him—brought it up himself, instead of just pretending he didn’t know), as if he’d just.. accepted all this. As if all the fight had left him.

(And Harry doesn’t want to know what it took for Riddle to break. What it took to get Riddle to kneel down, to call him master with no hesitation.)

And Harry even made him wear a collar. (He doesn’t know why he delusioned himself yesterday, thinking that Riddle had any choice in this. Like there was any choice except for him to accept-) Merlin, what was he thinking?! Of course, he doesn’t want Riddle to get sent back, but a collar. Why doesn’t he just parade Riddle around in the streets at this rate?!

Merlin, he’s going to have to tell Hermione and Ron. That’s going to be a nightmare, at best. Honestly, he should probably call them right now, but.. Harry is hesitant to do so. Riddle and him, they both need some time to sort things out, and that’s not going to happen with other people around. He can already imagine their reactions to it—Hermione in a furious rage, spending even more hours at the office to stop any more cases of slavery happening, and Ron right there with her, maybe not agreeing, but supporting her the entire way.

Harry sips his tea again, which is already getting cold. He applies a heating charm subconsciously, never snapping out of his thoughts.

He can’t believe that slavery actually exists in the wizarding world. He didn’t even want to think of that as a possibility—still doesn’t, really. But now he’s stuck with his very own slave and has no clue what to do about it. He can’t just let Riddle lounge around the house; if the Ministry people show up, they’re not going to like that. So, giving orders it is.

Actually, Harry has no problem giving orders; in fact, he probably likes it a bit too much (to make up for people controlling him his whole life-). The bigger problem is that he has no orders to give. All of the housework is taken care of by Kreacher or himself, and Harry refuses to give up any of his work. He would go insane if he suddenly stopped having work to do; that’s been his routine his entire life, and he’s not about to change it.

So that leaves pointless orders. Until he can find a suitable ‘job’ for Riddle to do, Harry can give him random tasks that serve no true purpose, other than to be, well.. humiliating.

And Harry can admit that Riddle deserves a bit of humiliation, at best. He deserves a lot worse than that, honestly. But Harry remembers his time at the Dursleys, where he was forced to cook and clean every day and barely got enough food to survive, where Vernon would beat him if he ‘didn’t do a good enough job’, where little Harry was only three or four before he was given his first chore.

Harry doesn’t want to be that kind of person. He doesn’t want Riddle to be terrified of his every move. He doesn’t want to make Riddle wish he’d chosen the other option. He just wants..

Harry doesn’t know what he wants.

Now that he’s had more time to think, Harry’s realized he’s still mad at Riddle for, well, Voldemort. That’s to be expected, really. But what is surprising is that he doesn’t hate Riddle. By no means does Harry like him, but he doesn’t hate him.

(There are only four people Harry truly hates, people he will never be able to forgive. And Voldemort doesn’t make that list.)

But he has to admit that Riddle deserves it. Deserves whatever humiliating or even painful order Harry comes up with, because he hurt so many. Riddle tormented and hurt so many different people, and he would never be able to feel as much pain as they did, no matter how badly Harry punished him.

(Harry has to admit that being made into a slave was a reasonably fair punishment, no matter how much he hates the idea. It’s, as they call it, poetic justice.) 

Harry sighs, sipping his tea once more only to realize the cup is empty. Instead of getting a refill, he grabs a notebook and pen instead, and he writes a list of topics they need to discuss.

After he finishes, which means it’s as good as it’s going to get, Harry stands up and starts walking towards Riddle’s room. For a brief moment, Harry wonders if Riddle is awake yet, but assumes he probably is. For another brief moment, this one filled with panic, he wonders if Riddle is still in his room, or if he’d tried to make a break for it the first moment he got.

“I- I will not run away. I won’t,” he had said. His hands were shaking at his sides, balled into tight fists.

And, despite every past experience telling him not to, Harry believed him.

He knocks on the door.

He doesn’t hear anything on the other side, but the door swings open a moment later to reveal Riddle, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. A quick glance into the room shows Harry that the bed is made, looking as untouched as it had before he’d left.

“You did actually sleep in the bed, right..?” Harry raises an eyebrow, not actually having expected that to be a problem.

Riddle only stutters out a quiet “Y- Yes, Master.”

And there’s another thing. What’s Harry supposed to do about Riddle calling him ‘master’ all the time? (He wonders what it took for Riddle to call him that. What happened in those months before the trial, for someone like Voldemort, so strong-willed, to break.)

“Right, well, it’s breakfast time. And then we’ll see about having our very important discussion.”

He motions for Riddle to follow him to the dining room, where they find out Kreacher had set up a variety of breakfast foods—eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit. Just the same as last night, Harry beckons for Riddle to take a seat and joins him on the other side.

And just like last night, Riddle doesn’t make a move for the food. Instead, he stares at it, lost in thought. (Though what he’s thinking about, Harry couldn’t guess.)

“Rule number one,” Harry starts, startling Riddle out of his thoughts, “You are always allowed to eat food, unless I specifically state otherwise. And at that point, there will be a damn good reason for it.” Harry remembers feeling so hungry he’d rather be dead, all while not only having delicious food in front of him on a daily basis, but him having to cook said meals as well. “So eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and you never have to ask my permission to do so. If I don’t want you eating something, I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, Master.” Riddle’s voice is a bit breathy, as if he’s almost too startled to even form words. He’s staring at Harry with a wide-eyed expression, and Harry has to gesture to the food on the table for Riddle to break his gaze, only for him to stare at the food instead.

(What in the world did Riddle think being a slave was like to make him so shocked at Harry giving him food?)

(All Harry can do is compare the situation to the Dursleys.)

After getting over his hesitancy, Riddle tentatively raises a shaky hand towards the fruit bowl, constantly glancing back towards Harry, as if afraid that he was somehow messing up. Harry pretends he doesn’t notice, digging into his own food.

Slowly, over the course of the meal, Riddle relaxed. He stopped acting like every bite was going to be his last, and the tension in his muscles loosened. Harry was fairly certain they were going to get through breakfast with no major problems, at this rate.

Of course he had to jinx it.

Harry hears the ‘clink’ of the cup hitting the table before he looks up from his food, just to see orange juice splashed everywhere on Riddle’s side of the table. Quite a bit is soaking into Riddle’s food, and the rest is in a small puddle that’s about to drip off of the table.

A couple drips of the splash hit his face, and Harry wipes them off.

Riddle, on the other hand, is frozen in place, hand still outstretched from grabbing the cup, and cringing backwards as far as he can without moving.

Harry breaks the silence, muttering to himself, “I just had to say something, didn’t I?”

And that seems to snap Riddle out of his trance, but now he’s stuck in an endless babble of apologies and growing paler by the second. “I’m sorry Master I’m sorry I really didn’t mean to it was an accident I’m sorry I’m sorry please don’t please Master I promise to be good please I’m so sorry I did not mean to please I’m sorry-”

“Riddle.” Harry says it with a stern enough voice for Riddle to shut his mouth immediately, no doubt expecting the worst. “It’s just orange juice. You made an honest mistake; I’m not going to ‘punish’ you over that. It was an accident.”

Riddle doesn’t reply. He looks like he wants to sink through the floor.

Harry doesn’t offer any more words, instead vanishing the mess with a wave of his hand. (Really, a wandless vanishing spell is much easier than everybody made it out to be.)

But that brings up another point that Harry hadn’t thought about. Harry still has full control over Riddle’s magic, apparently. And honestly, he has no clue what to do with that fact. He knows he can’t just give Riddle access to his magic, lest very bad things happen again. But at the same time, Harry doesn’t want to keep it from him either.

Magic is- Magic is what makes up who they are. For someone who grew up with nothing, magic was their only escape, knowing that whatever happened, they’d still have their magic.

And Riddle doesn’t even have that anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Riddle says again, breaking the silence. His gaze never leaves his lap, where his hands are now neatly placed.

“Are you still hungry?” Harry already knows the answer before Riddle even opens his mouth—knows because he feels the same.

“No.”

Harry hums, beckoning for Riddle to follow him to the living room. Riddle, of course, follows. He gestures for Riddle to sit on the couch before he can come to any of his own conclusions, most likely about kneeling, then takes a seat himself. As expected, Riddle looks nervous, fidgeting minutely with his hands, an unconscious motion.

Harry takes a moment to compose himself, understanding this is going to be a stressful talk immediately. “So, first off.. I am very new to this. I had no idea the wizarding world still did slavery until yesterday, and I think I’m honestly still in denial. I am aware this is probably common knowledge, but in my defense, Dumbledore has an uncanny ability to hide obvious things from people. I’ve been going through the Black library, but I’m not very good at studying, so.”

Harry glances up from where he’d been staring at the floor, which had suddenly become quite interesting, with all its wonderfully intricate patterns, and he catches a glimpse of red, and he suddenly can’t stop the nauseous guilt gnawing through his stomach.

“Second of all, I’m sorry.” Riddle seems to startle at that, as if that was the last thing he’d expected Harry to say—which might not actually be that far off. It doesn’t help Harry feel any better. “I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m going to mess up. I’m going to mess up really badly, I’m sure, and you’re going to bear the brunt of that, and I’m sorry about that. I’ve already messed up, actually—I don’t know what I was thinking yesterday. You.. I shouldn’t have made you wear a collar. That was wrong.”

There’s a silence where neither Harry nor Riddle say anything, and Harry realizes he didn’t even cover half of what he’d meant to say.

“It was wrong of me to make that deal in the first place. I was stupid, and I don’t know why I delusioned myself into thinking you had a choice in any of this. You don’t have to wear the collar. The deal was a stupid idea, and I was stupid for thinking differently. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is.. you can take off the collar.”

Harry expects Riddle to practically rip off the offending accessory, one that devalues him into something less than human, but Riddle, instead-

He’s trembling. Staring into his lap, looking on the brink of tears. His hands are balled into tight fists, and Harry can see them shaking uncontrollably against his lap.

Something Harry said must have upset him; that much was easy enough to gather. But, if there was one thing Harry had learned in the past few hours, it was that Riddle wasn’t going to speak up unless Harry prompted it.

And so he did. “Did I say something that upset you?”

“Please, Master,” Riddle murmured, his voice coming out shaky, steadily growing more panicked as he went on. “Please- I’ll follow your orders, I’ll obey every command—any command! Please, I’ll be the perfect slave, Master. You can punish and train me as you see fit; I will not fight you. Really, I won’t. I know I’ve already messed up- Please, Master- Don’t give me back to the Ministry, please, I will obey! You can use me as you see fit, for anything you want! I will be your perfect slave, Master- just don’t give me back to the Ministry- Please don’t get rid of me.”

He sobs, tears threatening to spill over, and his voice comes out as barely a whisper. “I don’t want to die.”

Harry is caught off guard in about seven different ways, so he starts with the most prominent issue. Or, at least, the first one that pops up in his head. “Woah- wait, who said anything about the Ministry?”

Riddle blanches. “You- The collar represented the deal you made—where I would obey and you would keep me alive- Please, Master, I will obey. I am willing. Truly, I am.”

And then it clicks. Harry had told Riddle that if he obeyed, Harry would try to keep him alive the best he could, and the collar was proof of that agreement.

And Harry told him to take it off.

“Okay, listen, I’m not- I’m not going to send you back to the Ministry. Or anywhere else. I can promise you that. Believe it or not, I rather like you alive,” Harry explains. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, just.. admitting that the deal was a bad idea.”

Riddle doesn’t say anything in response to that, but Harry didn’t really expect him to. He summons the space blanket from Riddle’s room, handing it over to the trembling wizard, who takes it with minute hesitancy. Riddle quickly wraps himself into a burrito, curling up on the couch as much as possible. Harry gives him a few minutes to try and calm down, to even his breathing out, before trying to restart the conversation.

“Are you okay now?”

Riddle looks much more tired than he did a few minutes ago, but he nods. “Yes, thank you, Master. I apologize for acting out of term and making you wait.”

And again, Harry’s heart hurts. “Riddle- Tom, you don’t have to apologize for having emotions.”

Riddle doesn’t reply.

Harry uses the opportunity to bring out the list and unfold it, though he doesn’t look at it yet. “I don’t.. I don’t mind if you talk. I know there’s probably hundreds of rules and regulations about how slaves are supposed to act, and I’m sure you’ve got every one of them memorized somehow, but.. let’s ignore those, for the time being.”

“You will not get in trouble for anything you say. This is supposed to be a conversation, not a lecture. But like, even in general, I don’t mind if you talk or make noise or whatever. I mean it,” Harry explained. “As for right now, I’m open to any and all ideas you may have, because I’m honestly running blind. And feel free to ask any questions you have, because I’d rather have you ask then deal with the aftermath of you not. I’d never heard of the wizarding world doing slavery before yesterday, when, you know, you happened. So, I guess.. you seem to have a better idea of what slavery is like. What.. What happens?”

Riddle meets his eyes, and then looks away only a moment later. “Slavery in the wizarding world is actually fairly common in times of war, despite what your.. book.. may say. Many of Grindelwald’s followers were turned into slaves for a certain time frame, and I’m sure the same will happen with many of the-” He abruptly cuts off, but forced the words out. “-the Death Eaters.” Riddle hands are shaking, as if he expected Harry to get mad for mentioning his former followers. When he doesn’t react, Riddle continues. “Slaves are- Usually the process of obtaining one is different. I’m a.. special case in that regard, it seems.”

“What’s it usually like?” Harry asks, trying to leave any of his questions until after Riddle finishes explaining. Learning the basics is good enough for the moment.

“An auction. Slaves are lined up and sold for a price, depending on who they are, what crime they committed, and how long their sentence is. Anybody could buy one, as long as they have the money. If the owner eventually decides they don’t want the slave, they can return them for some money back, and the slave will be sold to another person.” Riddle pauses, hesitating with the next line. “.. My situation differs because I am specifically your slave. If- If you ever wanted to be rid of me, I would- I would be given back to the Ministry to- .. There would be no other master for me. I would not be sold to anybody else.” His breathing got a bit more shallow, and he seemed a bit more frantic than before. “I don’t- Master, please, don’t send me back- They would- I promise I’ll be good. Please, Master, I will obey. Please don’t send me back. I know you hate me; punish me as much as you want, but please don’t send me back.”

Harry let the silence wash over him, thinking about all the things Riddle told him, letting it all process. “.. I won’t send you back. I won’t. Deal or no deal, I won’t.”

Riddle takes a moment to calm his breathing, then continues, as if his breakdown had never happened. “The book was right about only criminals being sentenced to slavery. But, it’s very wrong about how they’re treated.. I don’t- I don’t mean to accuse you of anything, Master; you have been nothing but kind in your treatment, and I am infinitely grateful for that. I am merely stating fact.”

“I get it. Remember, no matter what you say, you won’t get in trouble,” Harry reminded him, having a feeling it was going to be necessary.

Riddle took a deep breath. “There are rules when you buy a slave, that the owner must follow. You may not give them any permanent damage, you may not kill them, and you must return them to be released when it is due. The auction makes you sign a magical contract. But, other than that, anything is fair game. Torture, commands, even lending them out to others. It’s not uncommon for a slave to be used sexually, either.”

Riddle pauses, as if he’d just realized what he’d said.

Harry can see the exact moment the idea clicks in Riddle’s head, because he turns thirteen shades paler, frozen in thought. His eyes take on the same frantic edge as earlier, which Harry now recognizes as desperation—desperate for what, Harry can guess.

“Okay, pause for a moment.” Harry does an ‘X’ motion with his arms, trying to will Riddle’s brain to stop thinking. “Alright, I’m gonna say this once, and only once: I will not use you sexually. No. Just, never. I’m a hardcore believer in consent, and you can, in no way, shape, or form, give it.”

Riddle blanches, but forces his next words out anyways. “I- I will not tell you no.”

Harry resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “And you can’t say yes, either. Not that you’d want to. But anyways, believe me when I say that I’m not a fan of raping somebody.”

Riddle nods, but looks like he doesn’t believe what Harry said for a second. “Slaves.. They’re given a list of rules and orders, and are expected to follow all of them without complaint. Failure to follow them results in a strict punishment.” He clenches his fists a bit tighter, still sitting neatly in his lap. “I’ve seen slave owners purposely give their slave an impossible order, just for an excuse to punish them later. Slaves will usually get one meal a day, and it’s a common punishment to take away the meal. It usually consisting of slop you would feed to a pig—never the same thing as their master. They aren’t allowed on furniture or chairs, because that would insinuate that the slave is in any way equal to the master. Kneeling, calling their owner ‘master’, and never making eye contact with a free person are expected behavior—along when whatever else your master orders. A slave will usually sleep on the floor, when they are permitted to, and the master usually deems it safer to- to chain the slave somehow, so they are unable to run away. It is rare for a slave to get their own room. And.. it’s.. It’s unheard of, to give a slave their own bed.”

Riddle seems to finish his explanation, and they sit in silence for a moment, before Riddle mutters out, “I apologize, Master, for not explaining very well. Slaves- They are treated as nothing more than barn animals. Showers, clothes, food, beds, even just allowing me to talk is more rare than you would think. You are truly a wonderful master.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way, for all the twenty minutes it will last.” Riddle was not going to like this conversation, Harry was sure. Not when Harry’s about to speak of orders and punishments. “I have a question. When- You said that a.. slave owner.. can’t permanently damage or kill a slave. But..”

Riddle caught on to what Harry was thinking. “Slaves only have a certain amount of time they need to serve a master. The longer the sentence, the higher the pricing on the slave is, and the worse the crime they’d committed. It’s illegal to kill or permanently damage a slave, because they will be released upon completing their sentence. The normal sentence can range anywhere from a year to fifteen, though I did see a few cases of twenty years.”

“.. And yours?”

Riddle smiled, half-broken and wholly despondent of hope. “I have a life sentence.” 

Harry feels his entire body freeze over. 

“I’ll be your slave until the day I die.”

And suddenly Harry understood—why he hadn’t signed a magical contract, why Riddle wasn’t in any auction (sold for a price Harry doesn’t even want to imagine), why Ms. Holly had only said “of course!” when Harry asked if he could walk over and kill Riddle, why Riddle seemed so desperate to stay on Harry’s good side.

In the end, after minutes of silence that neither could break (what could Harry possibly say to that), Harry instead just decided to change the subject completely. Or, not completely, but off of that specific topic.

He unfolded the list, which had been neatly folded into squares. “I made a list,” he muttered, as if it wasn’t already obvious. “Of things to talk about, I mean.”

Riddle hummed in reply, not meeting Harry’s gaze.

“First of all, your room.” He sees Riddle’s eyes flicker upwards. “That will stay yours, no matter what. You will always be allowed to sleep in your bed, unless I, for some reason, specifically order otherwise. Also, you can decorate it however you want—though I’m not sure how you’ll get supplies to do so. Perhaps it can be a reward or something.”

He sees Riddle’s brow furrow in confusion. “Reward?”

Harry shrugs, suddenly self-conscious of all his ideas. “Well, yeah. You do something bad, you get punished. You do something good, you get a reward. Isn’t that how it works?”

“No,” Riddle states boldly, “Slaves are never given rewards.”

“Yeah, well, my household, my rules,” Harry feels oddly defensive of his idea now, and his reply comes out a bit snappy.

Riddle immediately backtracks, as if realizing how his tone could have been taken the wrong way, and how Harry’s tone probably means he messed up. “Of course, Master. I apologize.”

Harry resists the urge to sigh. Instead, he looks down at his list, then looks back up. Whatever cooperative mood Riddle has been in is about to disappear, but there’s no getting out of what comes next.

“Second thing, I will be giving you orders. And I expect you to follow them, or we’re going to have a problem.” Harry stared Riddle down, as if daring him to contradict it. “And believe me when I say I have no problem with giving you a punishment, if I feel that you deserve one. Do not test the limits of my kindness.”

Riddle breaks the stare to look at the ground by Harry’s feet, mumbling out a small, “Yes, Master.”

“That being said, I’m not trying to be unnecessarily cruel. I don’t expect you to be perfect, and I’m not going to give you impossible tasks,” Harry explains. “If an accident happens, like.. let’s say you break a vase—which would be quite a feat, considering I don’t own any—don’t try and hide it. Just come get me, and I can probably fix it. I’m not going to be upset with you for accidents, especially if you don’t try and hide it first.”

“I know you’ve got that nice Slytherin preservation, especially considering it’s you, so I’m saying it’s most definitely a better choice to tell me. Hiding creates the possibility of me finding out later, and Merlin, there is nothing I hate more than people keeping secrets from me.”

Harry knows that goes against almost everything that makes him a Slytherin—owning up to his actions instead of trying to get out scott free—but Harry is done with having people hide things from him. Riddle is clutching the blanket so hard that Harry fears he’ll somehow rip it, but the fabric stays in one piece.

“While we’re on the subject, please do not lie to me. I know a lot more about some things than you may think, and.. a lot less about others, but either way, do not lie to me. If I somehow have guests over, I don’t care if you lie to them, as long as you don’t get caught, but not to me. Again, I know this goes directly against your Slytherin self-preservation, but it will be worse for you if I find out you were lying.”

Harry leans back and takes a deep breath, calming himself down. The memories of Dumbledore refusing to tell him anything—and lying when he did—are at the forefront of his mind, daring his tongue to take on an aggressive tone. And the last thing Riddle needs is for Harry to think he’s mad right now.

“I understand,” Riddle whispers, subconsciously trying to make himself as small as possible.

“And finally.. I guess I have some questions.” Harry waits until Riddle makes eye contact, even if he immediately glanced away. “Why do you think I’m doing all of this? What do you think my goal here is?”

“.. I.. I don’t know, sir..” Riddle mumbles, refusing to look up from his lap.

“Take a guess,” Harry prompts.

Riddle does not look the least bit happy about that, believing he’ll most definitely guess wrong, but obeys anyways. “.. Because you- you felt sorry for me? Didn’t want somebody’s death on your hands- It gives you the chance to punish me for my past deeds.”

“Alright,” Harry accepts, hiding whether any of those were correct or wrong, “And what do you wish to gain out of this? What are you hoping to achieve?”

“.. What?”

“Ambition,” Harry starts. “An important trait in the Slytherin house. You’ve always had it. What are you striving for, now that Voldemort has fallen?”

“I- I don’t understand. I am a slave—I am your slave. Slaves do not have ambitions,” Riddle replies, gaining a panicked edge to his tone.

“And if they did?” Harry retorts. “Do you want freedom? Your magic? To go back to ruling as a Dark Lord? I don’t believe you’d just be content to spend the rest of your life without a goal.”

“I just want to live!” Riddle snaps. “I want to avoid being punished! I want to live my life without the threat of torture or death looming over me! And yes, I want my magic. But that’s only a goddamn pipe dream because I’m not delusional enough to think you’d ever give me a chance to use it!”

Riddle stands up and throws the blanket on the ground in his anger, breathing heavily from his rant. Harry sits patiently across from him, waiting to see what would happen next.

And all at once, Riddle seems to snap back into reality, his actions just dawning on him—and no doubt thoughts of the consequences, too. The rest of his anger fades immediately, and is replaced with the sheer terror of knowing that he yelled at his master.

Riddle’s knees hit the floor only a second later with a dull thud. “Sorry sorry sorry I didn’t mean to yell I’m sorry please I’m sorry-”

He’s growing paler by the second, hands trembling in his lap. The stream of apologies soon die out, leaving Riddle scrunching his eyes shut as tight as possible, waiting for the inevitable consequences of his actions.

Harry leans forward, picking up the blanket that had been thrown on the floor. He watches Riddle for a minute, then balls up the blanket and throws it at his head. Riddle flinches as it hits, then carefully tries to remove the fabric from blocking his vision. It leaves him looking disheveled, what with his hair sticking every which way.

(Harry notes that it still somehow looks better than his.)

Riddle looks up, confused, and Harry only responds by leaning back again.

“One last question,” Harry continues after a minute, “What would you do if you ever ran into a Death Eater again? Do you still control them through their dark marks?”

Riddle winces when Harry mentions his group, but dutifully answers. “N- No, Master—I have no power over the Death Eaters. Not anymore. It- I cannot do anything towards them without magic.”

“And what if you ran into one?”

“I- I don’t know. Just.. whatever you wish me to do, Master,” Riddle answers, voice breaking into a small whisper.

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the fire in his fireplace burning a hot green, and only a second later Draco Malfoy is stumbling out from the other side, a look of distress crossing his face.

“Harry, holy bloody hell, do we need to talk. Listen, I think the Ministry is trying to-” Draco cuts himself off, noticing the second presence in the room. 

Riddle is still kneeling on the floor, wearing the bright red collar that only looks more vibrant against his dark-colored clothes. Really, there’s no way for Draco to mistake what’s going on, especially with Riddle’s increasingly panicked expression.

“The rumors are true,” Draco murmurs, barely a whisper, but Harry heard him all the same.“Merlin, the rumors are- They actually- Oh bloody hell, that means..”