Parched
Harry didn't know what to do.
It was already embarrassing enough that he'd been caught staring at Riddle one too many times already. He didn't need his stupid mouth to get him into more trouble than it was worth, but he simply couldn’t help it.
Harry was obsessed.
Riddle was the most beautiful person he had ever laid his eyes on. His eyes were like the ocean in the night, the black swallowing up his own gaze every time he managed to catch the boy's eyes in the hallway. There was just something about being underneath that stare that made insides clench too tight in his belly. As if someone had placed a weight over his chest and pressed against his ribcage until bone shattered.
It was embarrassing how much he wanted Riddle. But it was that very same shameful feeling, the kind that defied all reason, that made his heart beat and his breath catch with arousal. The danger attracted him, enthralled him. Without that thrill, Harry was certain he wouldn’t be as attracted to Riddle as he was.
The boy oozed danger. The thick waves of magic surrounding his body belied it, screamed it so loudly that it was still strange to Harry that no one else had noticed. Then again, Harry watched the boy more closely than anyone else dared. Others stared, admired the boy for his intelligence and wit—the perfect picture of a gentlemen.
But no one truly saw Riddle. Not like Harry did.
There was a quiet strength to Riddle that just demanded to be seen. One that Harry was not willing to ignore, not when it made his insides curl in ways that no other had ever made him experience before.
Harry wanted to know how it would feel to be crushed beneath Riddle's weight, to be arrested by more than just his gaze. Crushed, shattered to pieces by the strength of Riddle’s hands. All for the euphoric high of Riddle’s fingers on his neck, of his magic draining the air from his lungs.
It drove him mad. Witnessing Riddle how time and time again, Riddle controlled his magic as naturally as Harry took the skies. It was the same thrill, the same performance. Except, Riddle did it all with just the tips of his fingers—with just a twist of his wrist and a level stare.
Not even Harry, as talented as he was on his broom, could mimic something quite like that. His broom obeyed, but it was not a part of his being. There was still sentience—still resistance when the weather was unfavorable.
Riddle held his wand as if it were an extension of himself. As if the end of that wand were the tips of his fingers, that grip taut and unyielding as he dueled against his opponents for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Harry couldn’t help himself. Riddle was intoxicating when he dueled, even when the boy was clearly holding himself back. A fact no one else save for Harry seemed to notice. Hermione suspected it, but she didn’t know . Not like Harry did, never like Harry did.
Even if he’d yet to see for himself just how powerful Tom Riddle was. This was all conjecture. He had put the pieces together, gathered all there was to know from obsessive observation.
But that wasn’t enough. No, it would never be enough. Harry wanted to know everything about Riddle.
He wanted to know what it was like to be at the end of that wand with Riddle unrestrained. To experience for himself just how brutal Riddle could be; the boy’s fury crackling just beneath Riddle’s skin, the tendrils of his power lapping at Harry’s flesh like curious hands against his neck.
The fury lay hidden beneath Riddle’s mask, but Harry would unveil it. He’d risk everything for it, drink from that ichor and let himself choke on the darkness hidden within that mind, lurking in the shadows of his curled lips.
Like the lethal predator he was; a sharpened blade poised to slit through flesh and bone...
And it was exactly for these reasons that Harry now found himself standing in the middle of the crowded hallway with Riddle looking him directly in the eye. It’d been unexpected, a complete shock to be singled out from the mass of students that wandered through Hogwarts walls.
Harry hadn’t planned on running into him in the first place. In fact, he’d done everything possible to avoid the very boy he thought of obsessively since hitting puberty back in Second Year.
It made something dark and insidious swell inside him. A hunger he couldn’t contain, that nearly drove him mad with excitement.
"Is there something wrong, Potter?" Riddle mused, immediately snapping Harry from his thoughts. The haze of arousal dissipated instantly. It gave way to a thrum of anxiety that always lurked in the back of his mind, whispering for him to see sense , to see reason where there wasn’t any, when caught Riddle’s web.
Minutes passed, but Harry hardly felt the seconds trickle by. He didn’t know long it was that he remained silent, eyes wide and riveted by Riddle’s spidery lashes.
Nothing mattered except for that stare. He could scarcely breathe,his mouth suddenly dry. No words came to him, and Harry, for once in his life, didn’t know how to act.
His heart was beating a mile per minute. Stomach tight in both fear and arousal because Tom was talking to him. The boy of his dreams—the one he had never dared approach since discovering his feelings—had said his name. Harry’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and his fingers curled into tight fists as he struggled to fight off the rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins.
He is looking at me , Harry thought, his face growing hotter when Riddle continued to look at him curiously, his lips pressed into a neutral line.
What could he be thinking?
Then, Riddle licked his bottom lip, and Harry’s attention snapped instantly to the boy's mouth. The lips were a rosy hue, wet and glistening with saliva. Heat pooled lowly in his gut, and thoughts that were less than appropriate came to the forefront of his mind. As if Riddle’s mouth, somehow, had torn out each and every desire Harry had ever felt for the boy.
Harry’s mind drank in the shape of those lips, imagined just how they would taste against his own...whispering, teasing him with images of that mouth trailing along his throat before teeth dug into the tender flesh. Stomach clenching, Harry could practically feel Riddle’s breath on his face, stealing every bit of air that Harry failed to breathe.
This was madness, he knew. This was obsessive, and toxic. He shouldn’t want this boy as much as he did, but Merlin , he did. He hungered for Riddle like a voracious lion desired prey—to taste iron and copper along his tongue.
“Potter?” Riddle said, but Harry was no longer listening.
Don’t you want to know how good he’ll taste, Harry? The thought came, unbidden. It was sly, teasing. Nothing like the regular thoughts that swam through his mind. Don’t you want to know how they’d taste against yours? How his teeth would feel, chewing you up? Harry saw it, unable to quash the thoughts as they came.
He saw himself kissing Riddle, those lips devouring his own with a purposeful curl of his mouth. Harry’s breath hitched, as if he were experiencing it in the real world. As if, he were truly tasting Riddle’s saliva, drinking that ambrosia and swallowing up the sound of Riddle’s pleased moans.
Harry stopped breathing, possessed by the images that refused to end. His imagination refused to be silenced, to be curtailed. Riddle awoke something in him and Harry had no way of stopping it. Not when Riddle was—
A row of white teeth latched onto his trembling mouth, incisors pressed against the flesh. Dark and hungry eyes looked back at him, and Harry shook, the dark promise lurking in those depths said it all. Riddle would bite down until he bled, he’d cut him open for just a taste—
Harry tore himself from the fantasy before it consumed him, both horrified and aroused by the direction his perverse thoughts had taken him.
Calm down, Harry. You need to keep yourself together.
Harry dropped his gaze to Riddle's feet after a beat, eyes fixed on Riddle’s polished shoes. They gleamed brightly beneath the lit sconces of the hallway.
They were just as well kept as the rest of him. Impeccable.
I wonder just how they’d feel crushing me beneath their—
" Harry ?" Riddle said, and Harry, startled, turned his attention back to Riddle’s face. Realizing just then that he’d gotten lost in thought once again.
Black eyes were staring intently into his own, no longer as empty as they’d been before. There was something lurking in the depths. A something that looked like a strange amalgamation of amusement and confusion, as if Riddle couldn’t quite put his finger on the kind of mystery Harry posed.
Harry lost himself in his stare, enraptured by both the sound of his own name from Riddle’s mouth, and how seductive it was. Both awed and shocked that Riddle would deign to speak his first name.
Harry, in all the time he’d been in Hogwarts, had never heard the boy speak his name before. It sounded like how chocolate felt on his tongue, smooth and comforting. Seductive and indulgent. It was sinful how Riddle managed to make something as blithe...exquisite.
Heat rushed to Harry's navel. Liquid fire cut along his psyche, silenced the doubts and restraints that kept him perfectly still. It was too much. He’d spent so long fantasizing that he was simply no match for the reality of this. There was no resisting the pull of this attraction— obsession .
He was no match for it. Nothing could have prepared him for the reality of this, and knew right then that he was lost.
The world around them, the people passing them in the hallway, faded into nothing. All sound, all sight, save for the handsome face of Tom Riddle remained. The outside world didn’t matter when he was looking at him.
Harry flushed a deeper crimson, gaze dropping shyly for a moment, before gathering his composure to speak. This was his chance. This was the moment he could learn for himself just how dark Riddle was— if he could crush you with just a glance, if you beg nicely for the pain
His resolve wavered slightly when Riddle cocked a brow in expectation, dark eyes narrowed slightly when Harry had yet to acknowledge Riddle’s words.
It was all the motivation Harry needed. He couldn’t ruin this. He was a Gryffindor , a lion, not a frightened kitten. He’d confess. He’d do whatever it took to get Riddle to notice him in the way he wanted.
Even if it might mean rejection. It was a risk he would take.
"I-I like your shoes. They would look even nicer over me, crushing both my bones and pride," Harry said, cringing internally at how desperate he sounded. That he, Harry Potter, would say such things out in the open where anyone else could overhear—
But Harry pressed on, stepping closer to Riddle. This was his only chance . This might never happen again.
"You have beautiful hands, they look lovely when you're handling your wand."
Harry wanted to die, but he couldn't stop himself. The words came without thought, without any sign of ceasing. He’d already started speaking, there was simply no way for him to take it all back. He’d made this bed, and now he would lay in it.
Though he'd prefer if he was laying in it with Riddle at his side. If his embarrassment, his affections, amounted to something in the end. If it was enough to hold a sliver of Riddle’s attention.
"They'd look even better wrapped around my neck, stealing away the air from my lungs," Harry finished, hands sweating and shoulders shaking.
He’d done it. He’d finally confessed.
Relief did not come.
Harry didn’t feel any better than he had before he’d confessed. In fact, he almost felt worse. As if at any moment, his heart would cease beating to save him the embarrassment of Riddle’s inevitable rejection.
It was awful. The way this made him feel, and yet—
Even if it was terrible, even if he wanted to vomit, this discomfort was still better than the alternative. Of never knowing for himself if Riddle could ever reciprocate this, as imminent as his rejection was.
Experiencing this anxiety was better than hiding away from his strange emotions. Bottling this all up without a way of letting it out would only hurt him, foster the obsessive feelings that cut along his spine when Riddle so much as glanced in his general direction.
Merlin , did Harry want him. More than was normal, but even he knew how horrid his odds were.
Riddle would never like him. The boy was untouchable and aloof. The odds were against him no matter how optimistic he was.
No girl or boy had ever been able to get more than a handshake or a kiss on the hand from the Head Boy. Not the beautiful Daphne Greengrass and certainly not Draco Malfoy when he’d attempted to charm Riddle into his circle.
So how would Harry, the reckless Gryffindor prince, ever manage? If not even they could do it?
Still, it didn’t stop Harry from wanting him, from at least confessing.
Riddle expression froze in place. His features emptied completely of all emotion before, without warning, he stepped into Harry’s space.
Harry didn’t move, entranced by the strange gleam in the boy's eyes. He was helpless, a slave to his own desires. Heat curled in his belly, navel clenching with an excited thrill.
It was as if someone had simultaneously cast a body bind and heating charm all at once. Body frozen and skin hot enough to scald his insides.
Riddle didn't stop until he was only a centimeter away, his taller frame making Harry crane his neck to look at his face.
Merlin...
And then Riddle leaned forward, cutting the short distance between their faces. Surprise colored Harry's face a deeper shade of red, irrepressible when Riddle's lips— his mouth— pressed so close to his ear that Harry could feel each breath the man exhaled into the skin.
Oh Merlin, I'm—
"Meet me at the Astronomy after curfew. If you make this request while on your knees, perhaps, I may consider allowing you the privilege of cleaning the soles of my shoes with your tongue,” Riddle purred.
Harry's mind ceased functioning.
Harry had never been this hard in his entire life. So much so that he didn't even notice when Riddle chuckled into his ear and stepped back to give him a slow once over.
It was the most intense look Harry had ever had thrown in his direction. Riddle stripped him bare. Took him in from his scuffed shoes to the top of his messy hair, as if memorizing the shape of his body before he turned and strode away.
Harry’s legs trembled with arousal and anticipation. Uncomprehending that Riddle had actually noticed him.
Godric, what have I done?