Chapter 4
It was lunch time.
They’d been in meetings all morning and Harry was trying desperately to think when he’d thought this was a good idea.
He’d been up all night, playing Riddle’s words about the immunity over and over in his head. Everything certainly suggested that Voldemort could easily attack them at any time, the second he could got around their extensive wards.
He’d written Hermione and Minerva, to warn them, and...well, maybe Tom’s words about turning his friends into soldiers bugged him more than he cared to admit. He didn’t want to force people to fight. If they wanted to surrender, he wouldn’t hold it against them.
The resistance had been in a tail spin for years, and people were tired.
But Harry wasn’t going to stop fighting. But then again, maybe as much as he believed in the causes of the resistance - started by Dumbledore, and soon taken over by himself - and the awfulness of Voldemort’s regime, his real interest lay in the Dark Lord.
Maybe he just needed to see if the man he loved was still in there, somewhere. Though, if he was, Harry wasn’t sure that would be any better. Might just be more painful, clinging on some hope for redemption and change.
Minerva said he was an idiot.
She was probably right.
He concentrated on loading his plate up with food. Once again, there was an extravagant selection of sandwiches, finger foods, all delicately made up in chairs.
Maybe he was supposed to be refined and take a couple, but, well. He’d learnt to take what he could get.
He was also supposed to be making polite small talk again, but after being in meetings all day he needed a break from politicians or he was going to scream.
It seemed luck wasn’t on his side.
Dufont settled next to him, holding his own platter of food.
“Mr Potter,” he greeted, politely. “Was the room comfortable?”
“Just Harry will do,” he said. “And yes, thank you.”
“And the food?”
“Everything is perfect, Mr Dufont.”
“Please, call me Ettienne.”
Harry forced a smile.
“Of course.”
“I was most impressed by your argument for the implementation of magical orphanages and regulated surveillance of muggleborns and their guardians, as an alternative to the wizarding zone state,” the man said. “You’ve clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
“Yes.” As opposed to walking into a political meeting blind with no ideas to contribute? The statute of secrecy was in shreds after all that happened with the British Magical War, and everything. Something had to be done. “I see no point fighting to end a regime if I cannot see what could lie beyond it. That just leaves a vaccuum.”
“Indeed...indeed,” Dufont murmured, eyeing him with increasing interest. “But surely Britain seems an...impractical focal point for you? All things considered.”
“All things considered meaning the Dark Lord.” Harry kept his voice carefully light.
“Yes. You clearly have a strong vision. It would be a shame to see it wasted in death. Britain is at peace with itself, more or less. You must realize there is nobody left to support you.”
The words, and indeed the conversation was blunt, shockingly so - but Harry could appreciate it. Could appreciate that Dufort, for whatever flaws he had, had obviously picked up on Harry’s distaste for beating around the bush and hiding weak arguments or politics in fancy prose.
Still, his throat tightened at the words.
“I believe that is why I came here. Everyone knows that, even if our topics are not so crude as world domination.”
Dufort stared at him, expression impassive.
“Come to France. Flee with your companions. Start a new life. Your cause will be met with far more welcoming arms elsewhere. Your ideas are solid, but…”
“But no one wants further war. What if further war is already on the cards and fear of fighting will not stop it?” Harry’s voice turned frigid.
Dufort’s jaw clenched.
“It is not a matter of fear, but practicality. Or is there some other reason you are so attached to Britain?”
He couldn’t miss the quiet challenge in the frenchman’s tone, and he looked up sharply. Started wondering, again, exactly why he’d been invited when they all seemed so very interested in him, but not in helping the resistance.
Couldn’t help but think he knew, with that question.
“My allegiance would not stop him raging war on your country.”
He could feel bile in his throat.
“That does not answer my question.” Dufort’s eyes flickered nonetheless, despite his words. Harry sighed, stood up. Ettienne stood too, grasping his arm firmly. “Harry Potter. There’s all sorts of rumours going on about you. I don’t know if I believe even half of them.” Their gazes locked. The room was swimming slightly. “Harry-” Dufort started.
“Excuse me.” It was an entirely different voice, and Dufort’s grip tightened, before dropping. Harry didn’t even need to look around – could feel fingers pressing into his shoulder, could see the look in the Frenchman’s eyes, even though he tried not to show it.
Dufort’s chin jutted up after a few seconds.
“You should leave Britain whilst you have the chance, Mr Potter.”
The man walked away.
It didn’t take longer than a month of dating Tom, to know that the Slytherin Heir’s possessiveness stretched to all areas of his life. Of course, it was a pity Harry didn’t twig until too late, or didn’t think given the circumstances.
Not that first time, anyway.
The first time, it had been an innocent thing. Most of the population weren’t aware that anything had shifted between him and Tom after all, and Charlotte Barton had still been under the tentative impression he liked her as more than a friend since Slughorn’s party. He couldn’t blame her.
But apparently Tom could blame him well enough.
The look in the other’s eyes was of an insatiable darkness. Harry’s mouth immediately went dry. The wand his...boyfriend seemed to tame a word, and lover too pretentious...that Tom was twirling idly through his fingers hardly made him feel better either.
Tom was dangerous at the best of times. Tom with his wand out and that particular edge to his expression was deadly. Harry’s throat bobbed, shoulders squaring in preparation of a fight.
“Tell me,” the other murmured, voice like caramel. “What oversight did I make?”
“Oversight?” Harry questioned, warily.
“To make you feel I was remotely okay with sharing you?” The tone was still so almost conversational, that it was jarring. Harry’s hand slipped towards his own pocket, and in an instant his wand was soaring into Tom’s fingers.
Harry folded his arms, eyes narrowed.
“You can’t be pissed off with me, when we never specified exclusivity. Also, you are seriously overreacting about this.”
Tom’s head tilted, something fluid and predatory in the movement.
“As I said, it was my oversight.” Riddle wetted his lips. “And one I fully intend to correct tonight. Strip.”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“What?”
“Don’t act obtuse.” Tom’s eyes gleamed. “I know you heard me.”
“What are you going to do if I don’t?” Harry growled, shoulders stiff.
“Oh, nothing,” Tom shrugged, elegantly. “We both know I don’t need to threaten you, when you’re not going to walk out that door anyway. Not over this. Especially not over this. One, because you’re curious over where this is going, and two because you fancy me more than you fancy Miss Barton.”
Harry blinked at that. Tom’s smile only broadened, sharp around the edges, as he sprawled against his armchair in a performance of nonchalance.
“Unless,” Tom added, “you do in fact fancy Miss Barton more. Because then I take it all back, and we might start having some problems here.”
Harry huffed; not sure if he should be aroused, amused or horrified. Maybe all three at once. But, despite everything, he didn’t feel particularly threatened. Tom was dangerous, yes, and there was a certain wired tension emanating from the other, but it wasn’t the type that was poised to attack or harm him. It was just there, a restless sort of projection of Tom himself.
The Slytherin Heir’s brows rose at his lack of response, expectantly.
Harry considered his options. Damn Riddle for being right about the curiosity.
He tossed his robe into Tom’s face and started unbuttoning his shirt.
“So satisfy my curiosity, what is it you have planned?”
“I wouldn’t wish to ruin the surprise,” Tom purred. “Boxers off. Everything off.”
Harry hesitated a second, noticing Tom was making absolutely no effort to undress himself. Still dressed impeccably in every layer of his uniform, buttoned up, tie tucked in, hair smooth. Everything seeming perfectly angelic and proper, except for the expression on his face.
Sometimes he could see why Tom had been mistaken as a devil child.
“Aren’t you planning to take any of that off?”
“No,” Tom was smiling again. “At least not yet. This is about your pleasure, not mine. I mean, I’ve clearly been…neglecting my proper duties.”
Yeah, that was slightly terrifying. As much as he could feel himself perking up with greater and greater interest on what exactly was going through Tom’s head. At least he was still pretty sure the other wasn’t intending to murder him.
“Yes,” Harry raised his brows, sarcastic, “and being fully clothed whilst the other person is completely exposed says nothing about power, and playing with power.”
The whole thing was a power fantasy!
Tom gave an innocent smile, and the wand twirled in his fingers again.
“I won’t start anything more without your permission.”
Now he was suspicious. Intrigued, but incredibly suspicious. Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly. The smile broadened to a rather shark like grin, and damn it if it didn’t make a hot burst of tension coil in his spine.
He supposed it was never as simple as submissive and dominant with them. Of course it wasn’t – they were both bloody dominant! He stared back, meeting the challenge in Tom’s eyes, suddenly glad he had no homework due tomorrow.
He stripped the rest of the way, clothes in a neat pile next to him.
Tom’s gaze raked appreciatively down, lingering on his already hard length with a small smirk, before up to his face once more. To be honest, Tom didn’t look entirely unaffected by the drawn battle lines either.
Harry suddenly couldn’t help but wonder if this had ever really been Charlotte Barton at all, or simply something that had been building for a while now, and Tom only now had a justification or excuse.
The Slytherin looked like he was concentrating on something for a moment, most likely the room. Harry couldn’t say he wasn’t anticipating some clues as to where the hell this night was supposed to be going. Though, in that sense, the permission thing was a relief as much as he was pretty sure there was a catch behind it all.
A pair of handcuffs appeared.
Nothing too unusual, though Harry did jolt. They’d never actually used a separate restraint, planned, instead of hands or ties and simply who pinned who down at any given time.
“Hands, please,” Tom said, almost tease in his voice. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, aware that a threshold – at least for this night – was going on here.
“You sure this is about my pleasure?” he returned, lightly, though a smirk did flitter across his lips. He stepped forward, and Tom reached out an unnervingly gentle hand to turn him, fingers sliding over his shoulder, to secure his hands firmly behind his back.
“Of course,” Tom purred, lips grazing across his ear, deceptively soft before a hint of teeth and crueller things. “After all, if you’re restrained, you’re not required to do anything.”
He should not be getting off on this so quickly. But he had to admit it was…interesting, at the very least.
Harry twisted his head to study the other, not trusting the pretence of innocence as a second. It made him more uneasy than the lingering darkness ever could. Tom pressed a sharper kiss to his lips, but quickly pulled back, hands resting on his hips.
“See, that might be sweet if I wasn’t aware of your complete incapability to altruism,” Harry murmured. Tom laughed, before his face turned serious, and quick as a flash he’d grabbed Harry’s chin tightly, tilting his head up a little, lips against his throat.
“And yet you’re still going along with this. My beautiful idiot…I said I wasn’t going to up the level without your permission, I never said I wasn’t going to thoroughly ruin and pluck you to pieces beneath my hand until you’re so far gone that you’ve forgotten your own name and having nothing left but me.”
Harry swallowed. Shit.
Tom’s lips dragged up, slowly, all but nuzzling against his throat until he pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek. Harry could feel the material of Tom’s robes pressing flush against his back.
“High ambitions. You sure your self- control is up to it?” Harry managed. Whilst he was pretty sure he didn’t trust Tom in a lot of things, he was pretty confident that for all the man was a sadistic bastard he wasn’t about to step back from where Harry was currently leaning on him slightly, without some kind of warning. “I mean,” he continued, wetting his lips, “we both know that me being cuffed in front of you is doing more to you than it is to me.”
It was taunting, as much as anything, and Tom’s hand, still gripping his throat, abruptly tightened and pulled to force Harry up onto his toes, leaning back entirely onto Tom’s own body weight, breathing a little harsher and more strained than before.
It just made him laugh.
Oh, it had to drive Tom nuts to have him in cuffs but still not be in complete control.
“Yeah?” Tom returned, breath ghosting over his lips now with the way he had Harry twisted, and with the Slytherin Heir’s height advantage. “You’re not thinking of her right now, are you?”
“Oh I don’t know,” Harry’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “She’s very cute, can you do cute?”
“I’m a good actor, Harry. I can do anything.” A hand wound around his torso, keeping him pressed flush as Tom’s hips canted forward, fingers dragging down over his torso. “But we both know sweet won’t make your heart pound like…this.” Tom’s palm came to a stop, measuring each thud against Harry’s ribcage.
Harry did consider saying something flippant like ‘you’re adorable when you’re jealous’ – but, well…
“No,” he said, softly. “It doesn’t.”
He could tell he’d made the right choice in not actually making a complete mockery of whatever feelings of insecurity or possessiveness Tom might be feeling, when the other kissed him. With….surprising sweetness.
Then it vanished as he was spun dizzying and pushed back, knees hitting the sofa and buckling, so he tumbled backwards sprawled against the cushions. Tom was on him seconds after that, mouth far more ferocious and claiming this time. Teeth, and tongue and hunger.
Harry’s hands automatically jerked, where they were trapped behind his back – eager to run his fingers through the thick strands of Tom’s hair. To ruffle up that irritating neatness when he knew he himself must be starting to look dishevelled by now.
Then he remembered the cuffs again, growled in frustration, and bit Tom’s lips instead.
The other boy just laughed at him, sitting up after a moment, still straddling him, drinking in the sight of him, chest pushed forwards as his shoulders were pulled back by his arms.
“Gorgeous,” Tom declared.
“Yeah, aren’t you lucky,” Harry smirked. “And I suppose you’ll do.”
“Oh, I’ll do, will I?” Riddle growled.
“Just about. You scrape by,” Harry started to tease, before making a soft sound as Tom’s mouth latched onto his neck again, sucking and ravaging the skin. His head tipped back, throat bared, lips slightly parted in quiet pleasure – and didn’t that just have Tom all but purring with approval.
It actually was rather adorable.
It became less adorable as his frustration grew, want surging through him. He ground his hips forward, eagerly, only for Tom to roll his own back at the same time, denying him the friction.
“Fuck, you’re a bastard,” Harry groaned. Tom’s hand caressed his cheek, and he kissed him again, hard, leaving him dizzy and panting for air. Euphoric with each raw breath reminding him alive, and achingly hard.
“Just taking my time on you,” Tom murmured, though the wicked expression said otherwise. “We’re normally so rushed. It’s rather lovely watching you squirm for once.”
“I’m dating a madman.”
“You love it.”
But Tom did shift them, pushing Harry onto his back instead, as the sofa morphed just as quickly to a bed, fine linen and all, and then finally – finally that arrogant mouth closed around his length. He gave a moan of pleasure, nearly melting, and felt Tom grin.
He half wondered if he should be seriously worried to have Tom’s teeth there. Was still trying to wrap his head around the shock, because…yeah, Tom had shoved him down so that he wouldn’t be kneeling like he would be if Harry was still sitting on the sofa, but still.
Even in the intoxicating waves of pleasure, it was this, more than anything else, that made him actually snap to attention.
Tom was seriousabout this, whatever this was leading to. It was that, the hint of actual affection or…something, on top of whatever the hell else they had, that had him hurtling towards climax after all the teasing.
That, and the quick bob and thrust of Tom’s mouth .
He was raw sensations, legs splayed, breath harsh.
He felt the tension coil, muscles tightening and – and the bastard had pulled back, gripping him by the base, that bloody smirk on his lips as Harry cried out, eyes wet with frustration, writhing and bucking against the hand.
“Oh no – come on – you’re not – Tom – fuck – please.”
“Come now,” the smirk only broadened in Tom’s narcissistic amusement with his own word choices, “I thought you said I was the one who was going to have self-control issues here?”
Harry couldn’t think. His hips bucked up, magic crackling, lips and skin swollen and
marked by kisses.
“Fuck.”
“Yes, we’re getting to that.”
Yeah, Tom was too amused. Harry all but bared his teeth, eyes flashing. It just made the twat raffle his head as Harry was yanked back away from the release he so desperately craved. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to calm down quickly.
Tom straddled his hips again, keeping them firmly pressed against the sheets, and slid his tie undone around his neck. He let it hang over his shoulders, deftly unbuttoning his shirt as Harry watched him with glazed eyes.
The shirt was cast aside with a careless movement, leaving the green tie still stark against Tom’s pale shoulders, hanging over his chest.
“God, you’ve planned this all out, haven’t you?” Harry’s voice was hoarser than he would have liked to admit.
“Who’s Charlotte Barton again?” Tom’s lips crushed down on his own once more.
Harry didn’t move immediately, aware of the hand still hovering on his shoulder.
Could remember all the times that had happened, in detail or otherwise.
His throat thickened.
Or is there some other reason you are so attached to Britain?
For god’s sake. Harry jerked his shoulder away.
Come home. Just…come home.
Everything rang in his head and he’d completely lost his appetite.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Voldemort stated. Harry snorted, not even remotely surprised by the comment. He pulled away, turned around, folded his arms – more tired now than he had been last night. The Dark Lord observed him quietly. “You should let me take care of things. Take care of you.”
Harry looked at that unfamiliar face. Felt nausea rise in his throat.
“What do you want now? Aside from the obvious.”
“You don’t look well.”
“Your face tends to have that affect.” It was childish, but god, this day had sucked from the moment he woke up. This was not how he imagined his life to be. It was probably somewhat true anyway.
Voldemort’s lips thinned, but he seemed about to push that comment away.
The second after that, Harry threw up on his shoes.