Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9907697.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hannibal_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Will_Graham/Hannibal_Lecter
  Character:
      Hannibal_Lecter, Will_Graham
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Underage_Drinking, Dubious_Consent, Will_is_15, Hannibal_is
      a_Cannibal, The_meat_is_human
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-24 Words: 4468
****** The abyss ******
by Anonymous
“Will Graham?”
 
Hannibal stood in the doorway of his office, looking at the waiting room where
there was only one boy sitting. His head had perked up at hearing the name and
slowly he rose to his feet and shuffled into the office with nothing further to
say.
 
“Good morning Will, I’m Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Do you understand why you are
here?”
 
Normally he would encourage a patient to sit first, but the boy seemed nervous.
Fidgeting on the spot, not daring to look up and meet his eye. Something had
him worried, but instead of answering his question the boy gave a gentle shake
of his head.
 
“Could you please answer my question Will. You will not be judged for your
response, I am here to help you.”
 
“It has been ordered by the court and if I don’t follow it I may actually be
charged… Are you going to ask how that makes me feel now?” spoke Will, his tone
was not sarcastic but there was some anger held in it, directed more at
authority figures than Hannibal himself.
 
“I’m not like other therapists, have you seen someone before?”
 
“Just school psychologists.” Answered Will shortly, moving from his spot to go
and stand next to the bookshelf. His eyes roaming the covers before he looked
up to the second story and the many more books. He could not help but to think
of Dr. Lecter reading every single one of the books, even with his obvious
accent his grasp on the English language was superb.
 
“Well you may find some of my methods unorthodox compared to others before. Do
you read much Will?”
 
“They say we can lose ourselves in books, but we can also find ourselves in
there too. It offers me an escape from the reality of which I am trapped in and
is helping me to shape my own future.”
 
There was a slight smirk of pride on Hannibal’s lips, seeing potential in the
boy already. While he may have been quiet, it was not because he was dull, he
was insightful and careful. There was a secret he was still hiding, one he
believed that linked with the eye contact he had been avoiding.
 
“You must have read a wide selection, what has been your favorite so far?”
 
Will paused for a moment, tilting his head as he thought before giving a shy
smile for a brief second before it vanished. “Fairytales. Not the ones that are
told today, the original pieces like the Grimm brothers. The ones that taught
us to be afraid of monsters but also people.”
 
“Our minds can concoct all sorts of fantasies when we don’t want to believe
something.” Hannibal watched Will touch the spines of the books, reading the
titles. “Do you often see monsters when you look at people?”
 
“Not everyone is a monster Dr. Lecter… Some people are just…” pausing, he tried
to think of the right word to describe it.
 
“Weird.” Smiled Hannibal, admiring the way the boy looked up and briefly
glanced at his eyes. “Its fine to be weird Will. I’m weirder than you will ever
be.” He moved to sit in the chair, gesturing for Will to sit opposite as he
crossed his legs and observed him shuffling closer, trying to figure out
exactly what the boy was seeing. That it was more empathy, too much
understanding that must have frightened him. “Have you ever had any tests Will
or been diagnosed with something that you felt was not correct?”
 
“Like Asperger’s?” Will sat down and shook his head gently, slouching his
shoulders to make himself appear smaller. “I’ve been told I have an active
imagination.”
 
“Is it why you avoid eye contact?” Hannibal pushed, challenging the boy to
either meet his gaze or speak, or he could shut down. Whatever reaction
occurred it would give him a direction to head next.
 
Will briefly glanced up before he then decided to look into the doctors eyes.
“Eyes can be misleading, you see too much or you don’t see enough.” He looked
back down at the floor, feeling strangely quiet. Normally when he looked into
people’s eyes he could understand the emotions and experience them at times as
well, but he did not have that. It was strangely quiet and peaceful, pleasant.
 
“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your
values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at
your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”
 
The words shocked Will who for a moment looked the doctor in the eye and held
that contact hard. It was normally himself who spoke of such truths, watching
as others would recoil or run from him. Instead of doing what most others did
he stayed in his seat, almost glued to it as he cleared his throat and looked
away.
 
“You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” He muttered, foot giving a slight
twitch as he looked longingly at the door to the exit planning an attempt to
run. It only occurred to him then that if he did run, he would be brought back
before the court to face charges.
 
“I disagree… I find you quite intriguing.”
 
Will wanted to glare at the man, but he was on thin ice as it was. Trying to
read the doctor was difficult, his poker face was brilliant. “I’m not some
object you can use for your pleasure.”
 
Hannibal spoke while he admired the boy. “I’m aware of that, and it seems that
you would rather this fiasco with the courts went away as soon as possible.”
The effect was instant and he knew he had his answer when he saw the lift of
eyebrows and the tilt of Will’s head. The boy would do anything, anything to
make it go away.
 
“What exactly are you proposing?”
 
-
 
A hand dived into the pocket to grab the piece of paper again to read the
address for the umpteenth time. Pulling it out to look at the elegant
handwriting, written from a fountain pen that was worth more than all the
clothes he was currently wearing.
 
Finally, he found the street and started to walk down until he found the right
number then headed to the doorstep and knocked. Shuffling on the porch in the
cold as Will thought to himself ‘How did I agree to this?’.But this would be
far easier than going back through court, and the doctor had said his record
would be clean. It was already done, all he had to do was spend a night with
him now and it would go away forever.
 
“Good evening Will, please, come in.” greeted Hannibal, opening the door and
watching the boy jump in surprise. He could sense the boy was nervous, could
smell it on him. The scent of fear and anxiety mixed with cheap aftershave and
shaving cream. The very thought of Will shaving his neck with a razor made
Hannibal salivate, a trickle of blood from a nic on his skin that he would love
to lick off.
 
Ushering the boy in, he closed the door and took his coat, hanging it up before
he looked at the clothes Will was wearing.
 
“Down the hall, third door on the left is the bathroom. There is a suit hanging
up that you are expected to be wearing. Dinner will be ready in 45 minutes. I
expect you to be clean-shaven,” spoke Hannibal as he indicated where the
hallway was, pausing at the end as he looked from Will’s jaw to his groin and
said “Everywhere.” With that, he left Will standing there stunned, heading back
towards the kitchen to finish his preparations.
 
Finally, Will moved. His feet walking casually to the bathroom but he felt as
though he was floating. All he had agreed to in the office was to spend an
entire evening with the man, he had ideas of what it would involve, but he had
not calculated for this. It made it feel as though this was a date, not just
sex like he had thought.
 
When he entered the bathroom, looking at the floor until he closed the door.
For a moment he stared at the suit that hung on the back of the door, lost for
words, then he finally moved closer and slipped the clear plastic from it and
felt the fabric. Smooth, sleek and certainly expensive. Everything in this
house seemed to be expensive. Was Will simply another piece that this doctor
was collecting?
 
Shaking the thought from his head, he mentally recited to himself to stay calm
as he stripped and showered, doing as asked and shaving. It was easy to shave
along his jawline, there was no stubble, the razor was better quality than the
one he had used hours ago. It ran smoothly down his neck and did not leave a
mark.
 
He swallowed though when he came to hold himself, bringing the razor down as he
started to shave away the pubic hair, there was not much and it was simple,
then he did the rest. Small movements, so careful and delicate because he did
not want to cut himself down there.
 
When he was finished, he tossed the razor in the bin before he turned the
shower off and dried himself. Grabbing the suit he started to put it on, only
pausing when he found the jocks that had been hidden in them, the design that
left his ass exposed. He had seen them before, had a set thanks to some of the
boys in school cutting out the seat in his underwear when he had been in gym
class. But this made him feel wanted, that someone actually liked him. Even
though the doctor was far older than he was, he actually found that it was nice
to be wanted by someone. He thought on it as he put on the finishing touches
and then tried to tame his hair, having little success.
 
Leaving the bathroom, he followed the scent of food and wandered into the
kitchen where he paused to watch the doctor work. Seeing his back turned to him
as he pressed down on something on his chopping board, his hair falling
gracefully with the movements while the lights above highlighted the motions of
the back and shoulders. Yet Will could not deny the way the doctors ass seemed
to squeeze and move.
 
Will was so hypnotized by it he did not see Hannibal turn his head to look at
him, his eyes skittered away when he heard him.
 
“Dinner is almost ready, if you want to make yourself comfortable in the
dinning room I will be along in a moment.”
 
“I can help, I don’t mind.” Spoke Will, wanting more to do something to
distract his brain.
 
“There is no need, please.” Hannibal said, turning to face Will now.
 
With the doctor turning Will could see the meat on the chopping board, or the
organs at least. The set of lungs uncooked, flattened. It was surprising, yet
Will did not know what to expect, then he also did not know what offal tasted
like. Instead of speaking or refusing, Will gave a small nod and went through
to the dining room, seeing his table set only for two with the candles lit. The
seats directly in the middle and across from each other. He was still standing
there debating where to sit when Hannibal came through carrying a tray, the
doctor said nothing however, only flashing a smile at Will before he set it
down and then pulled out a seat.
 
“Please, sit.”
 
The gesture was innocent enough,, but Will felt his heart beat faster as he did
as asked. It felt as though he was far away, watching the doctor pour them each
a glass of wine his mouth felt dry.
 
“I’m not of age.” Will stated, despite knowing that the doctor knew this
information, was fully aware of what he was doing and the consequences of his
actions. Yet he still stated the obvious, only having a smirk of satisfaction
from doctor Lecter as he sat down opposite him now.
 
“It’s paired with the meal… It’s sweet, but if you prefer to drink something
else-“
 
“It’s fine.” Will grabbed his wine glass, lifting it up as he took a sip
straight away, his eyes casually glancing at the man to read him, not wanting
to put a foot wrong. There was only the briefest flicker of annoyance from
doctor Lecter.
 
Hannibal tilted his head as he looked at his glass, swirling it gently before
bringing it to his nose and inhaling the aroma and then taking a sip before he
spoke. “You must not simply drink to taste the wine, but to taste for it’s
secrets. The poetry of flavors on your taste buds, let them tell you their
story.”
 
To Will it sounded absurd, he did as asked however and copied the doctor’s
motions with his own glass, taking a small sip at the end as he swirled the
liquid and tasted it more than before, swallowing after a while he licked his
lips.
 
There was complete silence during the process, he thought carefully on what he
tasted, what still lingered on his tongue. “Its dry, but sweet. Earthy. Like
the soil was rich.”
 
A smile, teeth bared for a second as Hannibal tipped his head a little in
acknowledgement. “The best wine does not come from fertile soil.” He sipped on
his own again, swirling it gently. “The stressed soil produces the finest of
wines, ones that should be savored.”
 
He had known in a way, since he had met the doctor and seen his home that he
would be a prize. Though he may not be put on display to see, his virginity was
going to be taken. Kept by the very man across from him. Savored by him. But
Will saw him in that moment, looking at the doctor who smiled and presented
himself as a cultured man. There was a darkness to him, one that Will found
alarmingly comfortable. There was also a truth, one that the doctor was not
speaking of.
 
“Wine brings light to the hidden secrets of the soul.” Will casually brought
the glass back to his lips, looking directly at the doctor as he held his gaze
for a moment. Only breaking to take a sip.
 
“In the absence of light, darkness prevails.” Hannibal spoke, picking up his
fork as he looked at Will. “Offal is best served when the animal has just been
slaughtered, the meat can be cooked the same day unlike the muscle that needs
time to set. My butcher found the pig to be garrulous.”
 
Will watched the doctor smile at him again before he started to cu into the
offal on his plate, setting his own glass down he picked up his own knife and
fork and copied. The previous conversation resonated in him, for reasons he did
not wish to dwell on.
 
The three courses passed quick, it may have been the three glasses of wine that
Will had drunk with the meals that made it feel that way. Yet he found himself
more relaxed as he stood and followed the doctor into his living room, sitting
on the couch as he fiddled with a loose thread on his jacket.
 
“Is everything alright Will?” Hannibal asked gently, sitting next to him as he
took his hand.
 
Will gave a small sigh, he couldn’t help but to answer with the truth. “This…
It’s not what I expected. It’s so… It feels more like a conversation between
friends when I expected you to just fuck me.” He spat out, feeling his cheeks
heat as his mind pictured doctor Lecter naked.
 
“Is this what you thought or is that what you wanted?” Hannibal gently pried,
curious.
 
“Its what youwanted.” Will spoke, looking at those thin lips. “I saw it before,
at your office, at the table tonight. You want me, all of me… And I… I want you
too.”
 
“Clever boy.” Hannibal whispered leaning in to kiss along Will’s jawline,
making his way to soft open lips that welcomed the attention.
 
“Is that your professional opinion doctor?” Asked Will breathy.
 
There was no reply, only a nip of teeth at Will’s chin that made him jump and
groan in pleasure as he felt his cock hardening at the attention. Hands coming
to pull at the doctor, desperate to feel flesh.
 
“I’m your first, as you are mine.” Will groaned, feeling needy as he grabbed
the man’s tie. “You’ve never done this before… Not with someone underage… Not
with a patient, have you doctor Lecter?”
 
Instead of answering straight away, Hannibal kissed Will’s lips again, letting
his tongue explore, Will simply humming in pleasure at the movements of it.
“No, but the way you say my name. You have thought on this, it was not only my
desire you sensed… Do you enjoy calling me by my title?” He smiled, cupping
Will’s face and gently stroking his cheek as he looked into his bright blue
eyes, seeing the lust the boy had for him.
 
Will simply gave a shake of his head, trying to turn his gaze away from the
older man, but he held him there and he could not truly look away. There was a
fierce blush dusting his cheeks, not only from the wine but from being caught
out.
 
Hannibal licked his lips before he spoke. “Perhaps something different?” He
casually stroked Will’s cheek again. “Hannibal?... Daddy?”
 
“Doctor Lecter, please-” Will was silenced by a finger pressed to his lips.
 
“I like you using my title.” Hannibal smiled.
 
Will wanted to nod, to agree. Deeply embarrassed by being caught, he coud say
no, disagree or argue or he could keep going. He wanted to speak, to say
something, but instead he opened his mouth and took the doctor’s finger and
sucked gently on it, letting his tongue run up, down and around the digit as he
gave a gentle moan.
 
To Hannibal it was exquisite, he had not imagined the boy to be as bold as he
was or to have such an effect on him. His own cock hard and eager to take the
boy’s virginity, but he didn’t want to let him go after just tonight, he wanted
to keep him in his home, in his bed. To claim him as his and his alone.
 
“I think we should move to somewhere more comfortable.” Hannibal whispered,
taking his finger from Will’s mouth to kiss him instead as he turned his body,
arms grabbing the boy and hoisting him up as he continued to kiss him. His
hands grabbed Will’s ass, pinching and playing with it as he headed towards his
bedroom.
 
It was easy to let the boy down once he was at the foot of the bed, undoing his
clothing as Will toed off his shoes and kicked them aside. Once he was naked he
was pushed back, falling onto the bed as he looked up at the doctor, smiling
playfully as he watched the older man undress himself.
 
“What if I wanted to pull the clothes off you?” Will asked, wondering why he
had been pushed back and not allowed to help.
 
“I take pride in my possessions.” Hannibal spoke casually, neatly placing his
clothes over the back of the armchair before he crawled onto the bed and over
Will. Hands grabbing the boys wrists and bringing them above his head. “And I
enjoy seeing you naked on my bed, waiting for me to join you.”
 
Will could feel his cheeks burn at the remark, thinking of what the doctor must
see. Instead of speaking, he arched up to kiss the doctor hard. His legs moving
to wrap around the older man’s body and pull him down, feeling the hard cock
against his body. The skin on skin contact made his own cock leak, caught
between his own belly and the doctor’s.
 
“Fuck me.” Will whispered, nipping at Hannibal’s ear lobe, playing with it.
Letting his tongue slip into the man’s ear and frolick. When he heard the groan
come from the doctor he smiled, slumping back onto the bed as he looked up at
him. “I want to feel you inside of me. To fuck me. Cum inside of me.”
 
“Remarkable boy.” Hannibal groaned, letting go of Will’s wrists to lean over
and open his bedside draw, taking out the lube as he sat up over Will. Letting
his own ass touch the boy’s cock, rub against it as he felt the wetness. He was
amazed at what Will did to him already, the feelings that he brought out. Ones
Hannibal had not felt in decades, now he had them for this beautiful creature
that was so pliant beneath him. Coating his fingers in the lube, he gently
started to slip them between Will’s cheeks, around his entrance and finally
push a digit in past the tight ring of muscle.
 
“Doctor Lecter!” Will cried out, tilting his head back as he exposed his neck.
Something that Hannibal immediately took advantage of by swooping in to suck
near his adam’s apple, leaving a hickey behind that would not be easy to hide.
 
It was easy to get lost in the sensation of having the doctor open him up,
feeling his finger probe deep inside him exploring places he had never paid
attention to. The sensation was euphoric, his cock aching, better than when he
jerked himself off looking at the magazines he had found. Better than any
faster he could think of when he had done it.
 
Suddenly he felt a hand wrap around his cock, eyes snapping open as he looked
down and watched doctor Lecter slowly stroke it, his bangs falling in front of
his dark eyes, his mouth open and panting slightly. Will came instantly, the
sensation of everything overwhelming, his cock shooting a rope of cum over his
belly.
 
He was breathless when he collapsed on the bed, starring up at the ceiling. The
few seconds he had to breath were taken instantly when doctor Lecter leant down
and licked his orgasm from him, first on his cock, then up his body until he
kissed him. Unable to turn away, Will opened his mouth and tastedhimself on the
doctor’s lips.
 
So lost in the kiss he didn’t notice the second finger that pushed in with the
first, yet on the third he groaned. Pain and pleasure making him squeeze his
eyes shut as he simply felt for a second, the fingers inside of him and the
doctor’s lips upon his body.
 
“You’re very slick. Nice and ready for me now, tell me how you want it.”
Whispers Hannibal, lips brushing gently against Will’s ear.
 
“Hard,” Says Will.
 
He wants to feel doctor Lecter’s cock, to suck it, taste his cum and then kiss
him back. To see his face when he takes his cock in his mouth and licks on his
head. To know every inch of it and worship it. Instead he gasps as he feels it
sliding between his cheeks then entering him, diving so much deeper than
fingers and Will can’t breathe until doctor Lecter pauses.
 
“Fuck me.” Will mutters, he wants it, despite the pain. The pleasure that he
feels is electric, so much better than anything he can do himself. And he feels
doctor Lecter move his hips, feels the cock within him draw back before surging
forward. Hitting something inside of him that makes him moan in pleasure.
 
“That would be your prostate.” Hannibal speaks as he starts to thrust his hips
again, feeling the tightness from the boy beneath him. Taking all of him and
still wanting more.
 
There is no response from Will, only canting his hips. Looking up into the
doctor’s face when he opens his eyes, feeling the unshed tears in them
threatening to spill, but he wants to come again. “More, please.”
 
A flash of teeth as Hannibal leans in before kissing the boy gently, stealing
his breath as he feels Will’s hands move to his back and scrape along his
flesh. They will both bare the marks of their union, perhaps one day Hannibal
thinks he will be able to introduce the boy to restraints, some light bondage.
How he would love to see Will in a collar on his knees, head in his lap as eyes
looked up. Opening his eyes, he see’s Will looking at him as he pulls away. So
close to release again.
 
“Doctor Lecter!” Will cries, silenced suddenly when the older man puts his hand
over his mouth.
 
Will bites on the flesh, making Hannibal groan as he stills deep inside.
Looking at the boy so disheveled on his bed, underneath him pushes him over. He
cums hard, fucking Will through his own orgasm as he takes his hand away and
listens to the boys moans of pleasure, feeling his hands grab onto his body.
Once there both finished, he pulls away. Leaving the boy on the bed as he goes
to the bathroom and grabs a wash cloth, wetting it in warm water before coming
back to wipe Will’s release from his chest.
 
“Is your mind quiet for once?” Hannibal asks gently, running the wet wash cloth
over Will’s skin and cleaning him with ease. He is meticulous, but so gentle.
 
Licking his lips, Will nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs, having been lost in the post
orgasmic bliss. It was peaceful, so abnormal for him. But he found himself
enjoying the sex, not feeding from someone else’s emotions. It was his own, and
he wanted to do it again despite the dull ache he felt now.
 
“Don’t go inside… Stay here, talk to me.”
 
“What did you see in me?” Will asks suddenly, unable to help himself. “What
makes me stand out?”
 
“You’re extraordinary imagination, as well as your ability to empathise-“
 
“I understand you… You’ve never had someone like that before?” Will asks,
curious.
 
“Yes… It has been a long time since I had someone like that in my life, someone
who can see me and is not afraid.” Hannibal says, keeping hi eyes to Will
instead of looking to the photo of Mischa on his dresser.
 
“Why would I be afraid?”
 
“If you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you… You’ve
been staring Will, but you are no longer alone in that darkness. I am standing
right beside you.” Hannibal whispered as he leaned in close, his hand cupping
Will’s cheek.
 
Will closed the distance between them, kissing the doctor gently on the lips.
“I’m glad were not alone anymore.”
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
cefully
acquired a job insisted that its therapists dress like penguins. Whatever had
happened to good old-fashioned white coats?
Today was Tom Riddle’s fourth birthday, if Harry’s memory served him right.
Truthfully, this child didn’t look much older than that. The first one Harry
had picked had looked a little too old, but, well, mistakes were made.
Harry pulled a package from his other pocket and waved his wand, returning it
to its rightful size. It was a box, about the size of a book, and it was
wrapped in colourful paper. Slytherin green paper, because Harry appreciated
the irony.
He had studied about this, about people like him, and he had specialized in
behavioural modification and for the past two weeks he had worked with victims
who had lived through what he was planning to do. Perhaps seeing the effects of
his plan on other people should have made him rethink things through, but it
didn’t. It only instilled the need he had to do things right. He had to set the
behavioural trap correctly, to offer Tom natural reinforcers2 that would easily
be accepted, but could not be rejected without Tom first modifying his
behaviour. Those others, the ones who had created Harry’s patients, had done
something wrong, something Harry would have to avoid doing. Harry would have to
make sure to bait Tom completely, correctly; to lure him in, and once trapped,
he wasn’t ever letting go.
Originally he had planned to kill Tom. Killing Tom would rid the world of him,
rid the world of Voldemort, but it would never repay Harry for the pain and
humiliation he had suffered through for a decade. The suffocating terror he had
felt for those first few years, falling asleep praying for death only to wake
up alive and still a prisoner; that would never be forgotten by him, could
never be erased. Tom’s death wouldn’t go far in making that up to Harry. There
would have to be more. There needed to be a better punishment, a worse fate in
store for Lord Voldemort, if there were any hope of Harry ever feeling clean
again.
He needed absolution: for his capture, for his failure to defeat Voldemort
sooner, for his compliance with his own treatment. Should he have tried harder
to escape? Maybe killed Voldemort in his sleep, despite knowing the man still
had two Horcruxes left? Harry wasn’t a Horcrux anymore. Voldemort had removed
the soul fragment himself after Harry’s attempted escape in the Ministry, but
there was still Nagini. Harry had always comforted himself with the thought
that one day Nagini would have to die, and then – and then finally – he could
smother Voldemort while he slept. She didn’t die. Apparently the Horcrux would
keep her alive for as long as Voldemort lived. After learning that, Harry had
thrown all thoughts of killing Voldemort out of the mental window. Death, while
Voldemort’s biggest fear, was too good for him.
“An eye for an eye, after all,” Harry whispered to himself as he slowly walked
down the hill towards the Orphanage.
He didn’t think he was a bad person. He just wanted to do what was right. But
hadn’t he once read somewhere that the worst killers, the worst men, were the
ones who killed in the name of good? Harry scoffed lightly at his own thoughts.
What did it matter? He was going to Hell anyway, he knew. His rape and
imprisonment hadn’t been his fault, but the fact that he had failed himself,
his friends, and his world at the Battle for Hogwarts was. He should have
killed himself those first few days at Malfoy Manor, when he had the chance,
destroyed the Horcrux himself, or even killed Nagini! But he hadn’t. He had
been weak and afraid, shaking terribly he remembered, but he had tried to look
strong and at first he had refused to scream. But he was still a
disappointment.
Harry told himself it was about saving the world as he made his way towards the
curled up form at the base of the hill. Watery blue eyes looked up at him, the
gaunt face pale and blotchy from crying, and Harry didn’t feel so much as a
pang of sympathy for the poor creature. It wasn’t about saving the world, he
finally admitted to himself. Though it would be a nice bonus. And it had never
been about saving himself, because what was worth saving?
No. This was about revenge.
XXX
Tom didn’t look up as he made his way from the food queue to the table at the
very back of the canteen where he always sat. The table was mouldy and dirty,
but it was his, because no one else wanted it. Tom always sat there alone,
which suited him just fine, and it was right beside the door to the courtyard
and the rack where they were meant to leave their empty trays and dishes. The
problem wasn’t leaving the canteen; what troubled Tom was how hard it was to
get his food and get to his table without someone tripping him or shoving him
or taunting him.
For all of his life Tom had lived at Stockwell Orphanage. He was born here,
Mrs. Cole had told him, moments before his mother had died. She had just enough
time to name him apparently, before she had abandoned him to this hell.
It wasn’t that Stockwell was a bad place to live. Mrs. Cole and Martha and the
others were all very nice, and lots of children got adopted on a regular basis,
and they even had their own rooms when they reached the age of ten, which was
great because each room had a real iron bed, a wardrobe and a chair. The
Orphanage was always clean as well, and there were maids to pick up after the
children, even though Tom strived to keep his section of his shared room neat
without being asked. Everyone loved living in Stockwell Orphanage, at least the
ones who didn’t remember any other way to live. Those whose parents had died
and left them, those who had lives before coming to Hell, they didn’t like it
all that much. But they were better off than Tom. At least the others liked
those children.
No one was ever going to adopt Tom. He was never given new things, like
blankets and clothes, as he was always told there wasn’t enough to go around.
But the others his age all got new shoes and Tom was given a pair two sizes too
big for him that one of the older boys had grown out of! Mrs. Cole didn’t like
him much; Tom knew that. He was young, not stupid. It was because Mrs. Cole
didn’t like him that the other children got away with destroying the things Tom
did have and being so cruel to him all of the ti-
“Ouch!” Tom cried. He had tripped over someone’s leg, and landed hard on the
stone floor. He didn’t look up to see who had purposely tripped him, choosing
instead to look at the mess he had made of his breakfast.
“Happy birthday, freak.” Eric Whalley said, smirking. He was only two years
older than Tom, but he was friendly with some of the bigger boys so he got away
with bullying an awful lot.
Mathew Rogers and Rickson Jenson both grinned down at him, mouths wide with
cruel smiles.
“Oh, is it the freak’s birthday today?” Mathew sneered, knowing full well that
it was. Tom was the only child in the orphanage whose birthday wasn’t
celebrated. Last year, Martha had tried to throw him a party, but no one had
come, so now they just didn’t bother with him anymore.
Rick was almost 14. Soon he would have to leave Stockwell, to go find a real
job and leave Tom behind. Mathew wasn’t as old, but Tom would only have to wait
two more years until they were both gone. But he knew there would be others,
other bullies, and he needed to toughen up if he was to survive them.
For the first time in two years, since they had started to notice the strange
things that happened around Tom and since the bullying began, Tom tried to
stand up for himself. “I’m not a freak.” His words were barely more than a
whisper.
“Yes you are,” Rick said, giving Tom a shove as the boy tried to get to his
feet. Tom fell onto his porridge, slipping onto his bum. “Freak!”
“Freak! Freak!” The other two copied.
“Of course you’re a freak. No one loves you, no one wants you, you didn’t even
get a birthday card from Martha, and we all know she’s the only one who can
stomach you! You’re an ugly, stupid freak and-” And that was all Tom could bare
to listen to. Without cleaning up his spilt breakfast, he ran towards his table
and out through the door beside it.
When he was in the courtyard, he kept running, right up to the railing that
surrounded the building and its grounds. There was a hole at the back, beneath
the shadow of a tall hill that hid the other houses in the area from view. Tom
was still small enough to wriggle under the fence, fitting his body into the
burrow dug by a fox or a badger or some other cornered animal. Obviously, the
animal must have been escaping from one of the children, because why would it
have wanted to dig its way in?
Tom threw himself down at the base of the hill, leaning against the trunk of
the willow tree that grew there. If anyone were to look for him, they’d be able
to see him just fine, which meant that he wouldn’t get in trouble for
disappearing and so he wouldn’t be punished, though he probably would have to
clean the canteen tonight because of the mess he made. It hadn’t been his
fault, but he always got the blame and there was no point trying to argue with
that. He had tried once, and the lights had flickered on and off until Mrs.
Cole had started crying and just slapped him round the face. Tom hadn’t tried
to argue with her since.
He turned his head to the side when he heard footsteps. It was strange for
someone to actually come after him, unless they were telling him to go to bed.
He looked up, watery blue eyes meeting emerald green orbs that were firmly
fixed on his blotchy face. Tom reached up to rub at his eyes, brushing away the
tears, as the stranger looked him over.
“Can I help you?” Tom whispered.
“I heard it was your birthday,” Harry said softly. He lowered himself down to
the ground, moving slowly so as to give Tom time to get up and move away if he
wanted to. Tom stayed where he was, and he didn’t even flinch. His eyes widened
though, shock covering his face, and Harry smirked at the child’s reaction. It
seemed Tom wasn’t quite as cynical and cruel as he had been when Dumbledore had
first found the boy: he wasn’t even on his way to becoming the terrifying child
Harry remembered Tom to be. Good, Harry thought. He knew it had been a good
idea to catch Tom young.
“How did you know that?” Tom gasped.
“Oh,” Harry said with a shrug, handing over the carefully wrapped present,
“I’ve been to the orphanage a few times.” That was the truth at least, it was
how he had run into Eric something-or-other, the boy he had mistaken for Tom.
“That’s for you.” He nudged the present with his hand, shoving it across Tom’s
lap where it had fallen.
Tom finally picked it up, turning it over in his hands carefully. “For me?
Really?” He sounded so pitiful, yet so hopeful, that Harry couldn’t help but
allow his lips to twitch slightly. He nodded, and Tom’s whole face lit up. He
ripped off the wrapping paper, making no comment on the colour, but that had
been for Harry’s benefit after all. “The Catcher in the Rye”, Tom read the
title of the book, very slowly pronouncing his words and Harry’s grin widened.
He had known Tom Riddle was clever. He had been the best and brightest student
Hogwarts had ever seen, but to be able to read so clearly at the age of 4! It
was stunning. Harry had contemplated buying a children’s book, but they were
all so dull and simple and he didn’t think it would entice Tom in anyway at
all. Even if Tom hadn’t been able to read The Catcher by himself, after a few
more visits the boy would probably have accepted Harry’s offer to read it to
him. In exchange for more gifts, of course.
“I want you to read it, Tom. It’ll be good for you.” Harry stood up then,
running his hand quickly through Tom’s dark hair. “You’ll see that bad things
happen to young boys who lie.” And with that Harry walked away.
Tom watched the man leave, his eyes narrowing slightly as they settled back on
the book. He wasn’t a liar, so why would that man said that to him? He had been
to the orphanage though, Tom remembered with a sniffle. They had probably told
the stranger all sorts of horrible things about him. If the stranger was
looking to adopt someone, he definitely wasn’t going to choose Tom! So it
didn’t matter that the man thought he was a liar.
But then why had he given Tom the book? It was Tom’s first birthday present,
his first anything actually that had been solely his and not second hand. The
man, whose name Tom didn’t even know, had given the gift to him instead of all
the other boys and girls he could have chosen at Stockwell. Maybe, Tom allowed
himself to hope. Maybe Rick was wrong, and someone did want him?
XXX
January 28th 1931.
Tom was crying at the base of the hill again. Harry watched him in silence,
biting his bottom lip as he thought things through one last time. It had been
almost a month since he had last seen Tom face-to-face, though he had been
watching the boy in secret. He had another copy of The Catcher in the Rye in
his pocket, because he knew Tom hadn’t finished reading it yet and some of the
older boys had burnt the book three days ago. Tom hadn’t stopped crying since.
Harry hadn’t wanted to come on too strong. It was what scared most people off.
Everything had to be timed right, everything needed to be perfect. Tom had no
parents to befriend, there was no legitimate reason to seek Tom out at the
orphanage except to adopt him, and Harry wasn’t going to do that!
He had stayed away for a month, but now he felt it was time to intervene in
Tom’s life again.
“Why is it, every time I see you, you are crying?” Harry asked teasingly,
sitting himself on the ground beside the child, his back pressed to the willow
tree’s trunk. “Is my face ugly or something?”
Tom’s head snapped up, his mouth open in shock before a smile lit up his face.
“You came back!” Tom shouted. “You really came back! I knew you would. None of
the others believed me, and they took my book, but I knew you’d come back.”
“Here,” Harry said, handing him the replacement copy of The Catcher. “I thought
something like this might happen. Children are cruel, Tom, but they grow up
eventually. You just have to remember that. Anyway, I’ll tell you how it ends.
The boy is a pathological liar, he can’t help himself, and he ends up in an
Institution like where I work talking to doctors about why he lies.”
“You’re a doctor?” Tom asked quietly, shifting away. “I’m not a liar. Even if
they said I am, I’m not!” Tom pleaded, begging Harry to understand. He didn’t
want to go to an Institution. Only bad boys went there, and he wasn’t bad, he
wasn’t. He wasn’t!
“Good. I don’t like liars, Tom.” It was hypocritical of him, considering, but
it was part of the role he had to play. Lying was a necessary evil if Harry was
going to get Tom to trust him. “How much of the book did you read?”
“I was half way through. I share a room, and I didn’t want any of the others to
know I had the book. Sometimes,” Tom’s voice had dropped to below a whisper,
and Harry had to strain his ears to hear. “Sometimes, when my clothes don’t fit
right, I can make them shrink.” He looked up quickly, trying to gauge Harry’s
reaction, but the man stared down at him with a blank face. “Mrs. Cole thinks
I’m stealing, but I’m not! They’d think I stole the book too. But I told them
about you, Eric Whalley and Rickson Jenson anyway, because they kept saying
that no one would want me, or want to be near me. You were. You do, right?”
“Well that depends on you, Tom. If you’re a good boy, then yes, I’ll want you
very much.” Harry spoke slowly, keeping his face blank, “but I don’t like boys
who do bad things.”
“I won’t be bad, I promise!” Tom swore, jumping to his feet and lacing his
fingers in front of his chest like he was praying. “But sometimes things just
happen. I can’t help it, I swear I don’t mean to do it.”
“I see.” Harry drawled, getting to his feet as well. “Hmm, those shoes look a
little big for you. I suppose we should get you a new pair?” Tom turned his
head, gaping at Harry as if the man were crazy. “What? If I’m your friend, it
wasn’t very friendly of me to disappear for a month, now was it? You have to
let me make it up to you!”
“What am I gonna tell Mrs. Cole?” Tom whispered, his eyes darting around
warily.
“Well I suppose I’ll have to introduce myself. Maybe we could stretch the truth
a little, tell her I’m a cousin?”
“Lying is wrong,” Tom told him with narrowed eyes.
“Yes, it is.” Harry smiled. “But so is stealing. Do you want her to think you
stole, Tom? I’m going to buy you some shoes either way. You deserve them.”
Tom’s face lit up again at the word ‘deserve’: he had never been told he
deserved anything other than a beating in his life.
“Ok, we’ll think of something to tell her.” He bit his bottom lip. “There’s a
charity store that sells shoes over that way,” Tom said, pointing over the
hill.
“I was thinking of taking a train to London proper.” Harry waited to see how
far he could stretch this second meeting with Tom. Any well-adjusted child
would refuse to go so far away with a stranger, but an abused child? Harry
supposed at Tom’s age even he would have been willing to run away from Privet
Drive with the first person who was kind to him. But would Tom? “I needed to
get a few things for myself anyway. Are you even allowed to go into London?”
Tom thought about it for a moment. “Of course. They don’t care what we do as
long as we’re back for supper and bedtime. But…” He bit his lip again, and
Harry worried for a moment that Tom would refuse to go further than Vauxhall
Road, but then Tom spoke again. “All of the shops in London are expensive, sir.
You don’t need to waste good money on me.”
“And why is that?” Harry asked, already knowing what Tom would say.
Harry had read Simon’s works, while he had been studying.4 He knew that the
first steps to ensuring that psychological manipulation was effective was
knowing what your chosen victim’s vulnerabilities were, and having the
ruthlessness necessary to exploit them or harm your victim if needed.
Controlling aggressive behaviour was also important, and Harry had promised
himself that no matter what Tom did, and no matter how angry Tom made him, or
how much Tom reminded him of Voldemort, Harry would not hurt the child.
Not yet.
And anyway positive reinforcement is superior to punishment in altering
behaviour,5 or so he had learnt.
Tom scuffed the ground with the toe of one shoe. He mumbled, “I’m a freak, and
I’m ugly and stupid and don’t deserve nice things.”
Harry reached out, slowly, giving Tom plenty of time to move out of reach, and
cupped the boy’s chin. “You are not ugly. In fact, I’d say you’ll be a rather
beautiful boy when you’re older. And stupid? Certainly not! After all, you read
half of Sallinger’s masterpiece without help, and I bet you understood every
word? You are not a freak, Tom. You are… different. But, just like all little
boys, you do deserve nice things. I promise you that.”
Harry was wary about telling Tom he was ‘special’. Tom enjoyed knowing he was
different to everyone else, better than them. But Harry would wait until they
knew each other better before dropping the bombshell that was magic onto the
boy. If Tom knew sooner that he wasn’t the only one who could do ‘things’ then
maybe when the time for Hogwarts came he wouldn’t believe he was so much better
than everyone else.
“Now, shall we go to London, or will Vauxhall do?”
Tom offered him a shy grin, his young face full of trust as he looked up at
Harry. “London please, sir?” He said.
“London it is, Tom,” Harry replied with a chuckled. He threw an arm out,
dropping it around Tom’s shoulders and pulling the boy in for a quick but firm
hug. “The name’s Harry, by the way.”
Tom tensed a little at first, but when Harry didn’t move his arm after a
minute, Tom relaxed. They walked to the underground, Harry’s arm around Tom’s
shoulders, bent over slightly so that he could actually reach the child, and
Tom practically melted into the adult’s side the longer the touch continued
for.
Every now and then, Tom would smile up at Harry shyly, almost as if he were
checking that Harry was really there. In one of Tom’s hands, he held onto The
Catcher, and the other hand would come up to squeeze Harry’s fingers cautiously
before tucking itself into Tom’s trouser pocket. Harry smirked when the boy
wasn’t looking, making a show of pulling his arm back, only for Tom to reach up
and grab his fingers again, holding tight long enough for Harry to settle his
arm around Tom’s neck once more. The child’s first hug, and already Tom was far
too attached for his own good.
Harry almost chuckled out loud, but he refrained. He did allow himself another
smirk though.
This was going to be too easy.
XXX
December 31st 1931. 5 years old.
“Harry?” Tom asked softly.
The elder Wizard looked down at the boy, slowly lowering the book he was
reading. This was the first time Tom had come to his flat, a year after they
had first met, and while Harry had immediately sat down and started to read Tom
just stood in the doorway nervously.
“What if I dirty something?” He asked, wringing his hands in front of his
stomach.
“You won’t. And anyway,” Harry said teasingly, “You have to come inside if
you’re to get your birthday present. I left it in the bedroom, through there.”
He pointed at the only other door in the room.
Harry’s flat was small and pokey but it was all he could afford before he
‘acquired’ his job. He was planning to save what money he didn’t spend on Tom
and buy a bigger place for after the boy started Hogwarts. His plan should be
almost complete by then, and when that happened Harry had betted Tom would
demand to sleep over. It was a one bedroom, situated just off of the living
room, which was right as you came in the front door. The bathroom was on the
other side of the bedroom, and awkwardly so was the kitchen. It was a pain in
the arse to cook food and have to carry it through the bedroom so you could eat
at a table. So instead, Harry had used a part of his second pay cheque (the
first spent paying off his flat) to buy a nice dressing table. He ate his
dinner on that most nights now, when he wasn’t eating out with Tom.
Harry leant back on the sofa, raising “The Picture of Dorian Grey” over his
head so he could read it without having to strain his neck. He got two pages
read before he heard a bang and a gasp from the bedroom.
“Oops,” Harry mock sighed, “should have put those away first.” He lowered the
book and marked the page before dropping it onto the sofa.
Harry watched Tom from the doorway silently. It was rather amusing, though
Harry had expected it. Tom had been a thief in his original timeline, and while
he didn’t think Tom would take anything from him, there was no doubt that the
boy would have had a snoop through his things. Which, actually, was what Harry
had been counting on. He had left the photos out purposely, turned upside down
and carefully slotted halfway underneath Harry’s copy of The Catcher. Harry had
brought a camera out with them about a month ago, taking photos of Tom while he
scowled in the park, and Tom had obviously wanted to see if Harry had kept the
photos of him.
“I didn’t mean to! I didn’t know they weren’t-” He trailed off, dropping his
eyes to the carpet before running the back of his hand over his nose. “Why do
you have those?” The child asked, not yet old enough to be disgusted by the
images.
“This one,” Harry lifted the first photograph and held it out for Tom to see. A
part of Tom knew he shouldn’t look, but he looked anyway, because Harry wanted
him to. If Tom was any older this probably would have been a lot harder: he
would have heard adults talking, would have probably known children at the
orphanage who had been sexually abused by parents or foster parents, (had Tom
actually spoke to the other children at Stockwell), or he might have even read
about it. But as it was, the five-year-old listened trustingly as Harry lied to
him. “Is my friends daughter. Her name is Anna.”
( warning: child porn )6
The picture was of a little girl, who couldn’t have been more then six or
seven. She was lying back on a bed with her legs spread and both of her hands
pressed to her chest, hiding where her breasts would be once she had some.
“Here’s another one,” Harry told him, pulling out a second image. It was ‘Anna’
again, but this time there was a man lying on top of her, and Anna had her face
turned towards the camera, her eyes squeezed closed in pain. “She looks like
she’s enjoying herself,” Harry mused. “Oh, this is Jason! He’s my last
neighbour’s son. He’s adorable don’t you think?”
Harry held the photo out and Tom took it. The boy must have been about three,
and he was posed on his knees with his mouth open. Right at the edge of the
photo, Tom could see someone else, someone older, with his trousers down.
( warning ends )
“NO!” He shouted suddenly, shoving the photo back at Harry. “That’s wrong.”
Harry gathered the remaining four photographs off of the bed, knowing that Tom
had already looked through them, and put them and the one’s of ‘Anna’ back
under the book on the vanity table. “What’s wrong? The photographs? That’s
perfectly normal, Tom. It’s how children tell adults they love them. See,
that’s Jason’s father.” Harry waved the photo Tom had thrown at him, the only
one he hadn’t put away.
“But he’s a man.” Tom said with gritted teeth.
“What? Only mothers can love their sons?” Harry clenched his fists for a
second, before saying, “I’ll have you know my father loved me very much.”
Tom looked up at him, his eyes narrowed and his forehead creased as he thought
about what Harry had said. “The nuns that come to the orphanage sometimes told
us that it’s a sin to love another man.”
“But Jason’s a boy.” Harry said slowly, as if expecting Tom to not understand
him.
Tom scowled at him. “I know that! But he’ll be a man when he grows up. So it’s
wrong.” He crossed his arms over his chest, turning his face away from the
photograph Harry still held. “I don’t want to see it anymore.”
Harry nodded slowly, but put the photo away like he was asked. “You’re over
intellectualising everything, Tom.”7 Tom’s forehead creased, and Harry chuckled
as he realised that Tom hadn’t understood the word. “It means you’re too clever
for your own good. There are bad people out there who will prey on that. But
anyway, did you like your present?”
Tom allowed a soft smile to settle on his face. He moved over to Harry and sat
on the edge of the bed beside his older friend. He picked up the photo album
from the bed, his fingers caressing the soft leather cover. “It must have been
expensive.” Tom mused.
No matter how many new things he received from Harry, he always seemed to
expect to be given something cheap or second hand the next time they met. When
Tom had stopped protesting and had just started to take the gifts when given,
Harry had realised that Tom was warming up to him.
“It was expensive.” Harry smiled, “but you deserve it. I thought you could put
some photos of your friends in there.” Harry opened the cover of the album, and
Tom gasped as the man ran his fingers first down the palm of Tom’s hand. “I put
some photos of us in there.” There were the photos from that day in the park,
and Harry chuckled at the scowl in every one of Tom’s photos. He had taken one
of himself when he had gotten home and added that to the album as well.
Tom turned the page, and gasped again. “This is you?” He asked quietly, drawing
his finger slowly down the length of the image of a fully naked Harry.
“I was seventeen. There was a man who… loved me, so I made him happy.” Harry
cringed; talking about Voldemort like he wanted what the man had done to him
made his stomach twist into knots, but he could hardly tell Tom the truth.
Harry was completely naked in the photo, and he was sitting back on his ankles
with his legs spread into a V, much like ‘Jason’ had been. Except Harry’s mouth
was closed into a thin line, and his arms were stretched up over his head with
his hands bound together. Harry could remember that day. It had been a month
before his 18th birthday and Voldemort had left him tied up, naked, for the
entire time, only releasing him as a birthday gift from a merciful Master.
“You’re tied up!” Tom gasped, his eyes moving away from the photo’s crotch area
and to the hands that were bound.
“He liked that.” Harry admitted. “Seeing me submit to him. He liked that.”
Harry shook his head, clearing away the thoughts of things that he would never
let happen again, and he smiled at Tom. “Anyway, I should probably take that
one out. After all, you think loving another man is wrong.”
“I don’t.” Tom drew the album away from Harry’s outstretched hand. One of his
palms was pressed onto the photo, protecting it from view or from being taken
away. “They said it was, the nuns said it was. But if you do it, it must be ok
then, right?”
“Well… I love you, Tom.” Harry smiled shyly over at the child, a blush staining
his cheeks. When Tom blushed in return, Harry thanked Merlin for all the
practise he’d had at acting. It was coming in handy. “But I can stop if you
want?”
“NO! No, it’s fine. I bet the nuns are wrong anyway. They always lie, you know.
They tell me I’m bad when I haven’t done anything wrong, and they say I’ll go
to hell, and that I’ve the devil in me. But I’ve never done anything wrong! So
maybe they’re making this up too? I mean,” Tom scratched at the back of his
neck, suddenly looking like the child he really was, “if you love me, then it
can’t be wrong can it?”
Harry didn’t answer that. Instead, he folded his hands in his lap, keeping them
away from the album Tom was protecting, and said, “Do you have any other photos
you’d like to put in here?”
“I don’t have any friends.” Tom admitted in a whisper. He closed the album
softly, his fingers still caressing the cover.
“You have me!” Harry lifted Tom’s chin. He leant in quickly, pressing his lips
to Tom’s cheek softly before pulling back with a smile. “I’ll always be your
special friend, Tom. You won’t ever need anyone else.”
Tom smiled at him. For the first time in a year Tom was the first one to lean
over, and he hugged Harry.
XXX
March 15th 1934. 7 years old.
The past four years had been pleasant enough. Tom hadn’t actually been a hard
child to get along with, Harry had found. The 32-year-old smiled softly to
himself as he waited at the base of their hill for Tom to appear. He had
actually started to like spending time with Tom. He no longer thought of the
boy as Voldemort, but that wasn’t enough for him to change his plans. His plans
were already in motion, and –what was that saying? – you couldn’t unring a
bell.
Harry’s eyes narrowed as he heard running footsteps. Tom was always excited to
see him, but he never ran. Harry had taught him it was undignified, something
only a Mudblood would do, and while Tom hadn’t understood that word he had
easily accepted what Harry was saying as the truth.
“Tom?” Harry called softly, pushing himself up off of the ground.
As the boy had grown, he had had to find a new way to escape from the orphanage
when he didn’t want anyone to know where he was. Tom had contemplated lying and
telling Mrs. Cole he was going to London, but Harry didn’t like liars. It was
just as easy to climb up the ash tree in the courtyard and jump over the fence,
and it had been to climb under the fence. Tom had found it strange that the ash
tree seemed to bend for him, helping him reach its branches, but if Eric
Whalley tried to follow him the tree would always just be that much too high
for Eric to reach, even though Eric was taller than Tom.
He had told Harry about it once, and Harry had just laughed and told Tom, “The
ash tree is very similar to the yew tree. You have an affiliation with the yew,
Tom, and the ash is just taking care of one of its brother’s own.”
“Tom?” Harry called again, frowning.
Tom came into view then, and he was running, and crying. He had turned seven a
few months back, and he had hit a growth spurt. Harry had always been short,
and when Tom threw himself into Harry’s arms his head slammed into Harry’s
chest, knocking the breath from him. Tom nuzzled against his chest, wiping his
tears onto Harry’s shirt, as Harry’s arms came up to wrap around the child’s
shoulders.
“What is it, Tom?” Harry asked after a few minute of letting Tom cry. The boy
pulled back with a sniffle, and tilted his head up. Harry smiled softly,
knowing what Tom wanted, and he nodded once before leaning down to press his
lips against the child’s. It had become their way of comforting Tom when the
boy was upset enough to seek Harry out. Usually when Tom cried, the boy
preferred to be on his own. That was usually because a couple had shown an
interest in adopting him, and then had changed their mind because of the things
Mrs. Cole and the other children said about him. But not much else made Tom
cry, except for that time when—
“Oh Tom, no!” Harry whispered, “tell me you didn’t push another child out of a
window?” It had taken several ‘Obliviate’s’ and countless visits to the
Ministry of Magic, and an ‘Imperio’ to take care of Helen Doyle’s death.
“No!” Tom hissed, tilting his head up again.
Harry kissed him again, brushing their lips together lightly and then pressing
down harder as Tom leaned into his touch. “What is it?” Harry asked again,
giving the boy another kiss, his tongue flicking out to swipe over Tom’s closed
lips.
Tom had grown used to Harry hugging him and kissing him. Now, whenever Tom was
upset, he would tilt his head forward slightly and raise his chin, and Harry
would give Tom the kiss he was silently asking for.
“Tell me what’s wrong?”
“They killed her!” Tom shrieked, pulling away from Harry and throwing himself
onto the ground. He pressed his face into his arms, and Harry watched the boy’s
shoulders shake for a minute before he sat down on the ground and gathered Tom
onto his lap.
“Killed who, Tom?”
“My friend.” The boy whispered fearfully. He had never told Harry, terrified
that Harry would think he was lying, or would hate him for being a freak, or
leave him because Tom was trying to replace him. “She was a snake.” He admitted
softly. “They find me, and tell me things, the snakes do. But she was nice. She
used to sleep in the same room as us, and wake me up if one of the other boy’s
tried to do anything or take my stuff.” Tom was curled in Harry’s lap now, but
he looked up, reaching up with his hands to cup Harry’s face. “You’re still my
special friend though, right? I swear I could talk to her, Harry, I swear! I’m
not lying and I wasn’t trying to replace you!” Harry shifted, Tom’s weight on
him doing unmentionable things to his anatomy, but Tom gave a cry and pressed
himself tighter against his friend. “Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not going anywhere, Tom. My legs are going numb,” Harry said. He shifted
Tom, straightening his legs and pushing Tom down them, away from his groin.
“Who killed your snake?”
“You believe me?” Tom whispered. “I told Mrs. Cole because I didn’t want to lie
to her, and she said that Eric and the others had probably saved my life. She
said the snake was probably trying to kill me, that’s what it means when they
get into the bed with you. I tried to tell her, Harry, but she told me I was
lying! She called the nuns over. And they said I was going to hell, because I’m
evil and a liar and it’s no wonder no one wanted me.”
Harry squeezed the child’s waist lightly, but didn’t interrupt. “There was this
woman, and she was so beautiful. I like to imagine she looked like my mum, and
Harry! She asked if I wanted to go home with her! And she was there, she heard
what the Sister said to me, and she just left. She left me.”
“Hush now, child. Remember, I don’t like boys who do bad things. Eric Whalley
will get his, I promise. You just have to be patient.” Harry let Tom cry
against him, until the boy had calmed and pulled away. Blue eyes brightened as
they landed on Harry’s face, and Tom leant forward to kiss his friend again.
“There’s something I want to tell you, Tom. I should have told you sooner, but
there are people who don’t want you to know yet. I was afraid they’d find out
you knew and take you away from me, but you’re old enough to keep a secret now.
You can keep a secret, can’t you Tom?”
“I can!” The child promised.
“If you tell anyone, Tom, I can never see you again. And then I’d miss you,
because I love you.” Harry bit his bottom lip as he tried not to chuckle. Tom’s
eyes were watering again, and his face had paled in fear.
“No, no! I won’t ever tell, I promise. Don’t go!” Tom’s small hands were
clenched into the wet fabric of Harry’s shirt, holding on for dear life, and
Harry closed his own hands over Tom’s and squeezed.
“I can speak to snakes too,” he whispered, his mouth pressed right against
Tom’s ear. The boy shuddered, warm breath ghosting over his skin, and he felt
something that he had never felt before, but he pushed it aside because he also
felt surprise.
“You can?” His voice was light and hopeful, desperate to know he wasn’t the
only freak in the world.
“Yes. Not many of our kind can, though. It’s sort of inherited. You got it from
your mother, I’d say, and I know I got it from my father.8 You remember the man
who loved me?” Tom nodded, eyes wide as he hung off of every word, “He was able
to speak it too. All of his mother’s family could. It’s called Parseltongue,
the serpent language.”
“But… does that mean we’re related?”
“Probably, but very distantly if that. It wouldn’t make any difference, Tom,”
Harry promised him before leaning in and waiting. Nervously, Tom’s lips met his
own. “It doesn’t make this wrong, and it doesn’t stop me from loving you.”
“I love you too, Harry.” Tom breathed, licking his lips. “Since we’re related,
can I come live with you?”
“Well,” Harry said, pretending to think about it, “we’d have to share the same
bed, and… no. No, we couldn’t. They’d know, and they’d take you from me, Tom.
They could make me forget you even existed, and I wouldn’t know any better when
you’ve left me and I’d never go searching for you. I couldn’t bare to lose you
like that, against both of our wills.”
“How could they make you forget me?” Tom questioned, his eyes lowered in
disappointment.
“This is the secret part, Tom. You’re a Wizard. Just like me.” Tom’s head
snapped up. His eyes were narrowed, and Harry scowled as he recognized the
cynical Tom Riddle from Dumbledore’s Pensieve memories. “We can do magic. Magic
is how they could make me forget you.”
“Prove it,” the boy spat. He crawled from Harry’s lap, his legs drawn to his
chest protectively as he glared at the man who had promised never to lie to
him.
“Ok, this is a wand. Witches and Wizards use it to channel magic.” He held out
his Holly wand, allowing Tom to take a good look at it, before he pointed it at
the willow tree that stood watch over them, the only witness to Harry’s
actions. “Incendio,” he said loudly enough for Tom to hear clearly. The tree
burst into flames.
Tom gave a cry, scrambling away from the burning tree and he looked over at
Harry with horrified blue eyes.
“Aguamenti,” Harry whispered, and a jet of water shot from the end of his wand,
towards the willow tree. The flames disappeared, and Tom stood and made his way
towards the tree. The base of the trunk was blackened, but the top of the tree
looked fine. Some of its swaying branches were bare now, it’s leaves burnt
away, and Tom reached out to grab one, only to gasp as it crumbled to ash in
his hand. “I don’t know how to heal the tree,” Harry told him with a shrug, “I
was never very good at Herbology in school.”
“School?” Tom asked, turning away from the tree.
“Hmm, yes. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” Harry tucked his wand
away. “You’ll be invited there when you’re eleven. That’s when they were going
to tell you that you could do magic. The cracks that appear in the wall, Helen
Doyle flying out of the window even though you never pushed her, speaking to
snakes, the way the temperature drops in the room when you’re very angry: all
of that is you doing magic, Tom. And when you go to School, you’ll learn how to
control it so that you don’t hurt anyone, even when you are angry.”
“Did you ever hurt people with your magic?” Tom asked, glancing up at Harry’s
face.
The man looked down on him blankly, and then smiled, “only when they were bad.”
XXX
August 12th 1935. 8 years old.
Tom was sleeping beside him in the bed. They had been sharing the same bed for
three months now, even since Harry’s application to foster Tom had been
approved. Since it wasn’t an adoption, the Ministry of Magic didn’t need to be
notified, which meant that no one would find out about Tom until his Hogwarts
letter came. That suited Harry perfectly.
His fingers brushed back Tom’s fringe lightly, caressing the smooth skin of the
child’s forehead. He was going away for the weekend. The orphanage was taking
them all to some little coastal town for a few days to soak up the air, sea and
sand, and Harry was partially funding it. It was going to cost a lot, but Harry
didn’t mind. After all, he was from the future, he knew which businesses were
going to make it big and he had happily invested what money he did have into
them, and now he was turning over a rather large annual profit without having
to do any actual work. That wasn’t including the money he was being paid at his
job, especially now that he had been promoted. Apparently, fostering a
‘damaged’ kid was seen as a good thing where he worked.
“Tom, wake up.” Harry shook his shoulder lightly. “You don’t want to be late.”
Tom woke slowly, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back. He
pressed himself against Harry, and nuzzled the man’s neck lightly. Tom had
always been a very sexual person, charming and charismatic. While it was still
too early for his hormones to have kicked in, being around Harry was awakening
the instinct. They had watched a porn film together a week or so ago, and while
it had been hard for Harry to find one that used the words ‘I love you’ several
times, he had done so. Ever since, Tom kept asking why Harry wouldn’t touch
him.
Harry rolled Tom away from him, urging him towards the bathroom. “Go on, you’re
going to be late. Get washed up.”
Tom gave him a pout, but obediently rolled from the bed. When the bathroom door
closed behind Tom, Harry brought a hand to his face and sighed into it. He had
sex with Voldemort several times, but he had never been in charge. Experience
was the key to manipulation. Harry didn’t know what he was doing; he didn’t
know how to have sex with someone else instead of someone having sex with him.
Despite the fact that Harry had successfully modified Tom’s behavioural
patterns, if Tom knew that Harry was inexperienced, Harry would no longer be in
control. That was the way people like Tom worked. They liked to be in charge,
they loved to take the lead and subjugate others to their will. And that would
be fine. But Tom wouldn’t be doing that to Harry, anyone else, but not Harry.
Not again.
That was why Harry was sending Tom away for the weekend. Mrs. Cole had
mentioned wanting to plan a trip for the children, and she had politely asked
if Tom could remain behind with Harry. Harry had told her to take Tom along,
and when she had tried to refuse, Harry had offered to pay half of the cost of
the trip, in advance. However, Eric Whalley was too sick to go. Harry had made
sure of that.
With the right potions ingredients, it actually hadn’t been that hard to mimic
the effect of the Weasley Twins’ puking pastiels. He had the antidote sweet in
his jacket pocket, draped over the back of his sofa, the one he had been
planning on wearing when he dropped Tom off for the bus. Then he would kindly
offer to take Eric off of poor Martha’s hands, to look after him for a few
days, because Lord knows Harry would be lonely without Tom in his bed.
“I’m ready,” Tom said, hands on his hips, “and you’re still in the bed. Get up,
now.”
“Spoken like a true fishwife, Tom,” Harry teased. He slid from the bed,
unconcerned that he was completely naked and half hard from his deliciously
naughty thoughts. Harry knew Tom was watching him, so he made a show of
stretching and rolling his shoulders, arching his back and pushing his hips
forward before he bent over to pick up his trousers. “Well,” Harry said over
his shoulder, “are you gonna eat something here, or catch a crab for breakfast
at the seaside?”
With a blush on his face, Tom left for the kitchen. Harry didn’t need to turn
around to know that Tom was still peeking at him from around the edge of the
kitchen door, just like Harry knew Tom examined him when he thought Harry was
sleeping. And Merlin, Harry thought, remembering, Tom’s hand had felt good on
his cock.
XXX
August 13th 1935.
It had taken a day to convince Martha to allow Eric to go home with Harry. She
was the only staff member left at the orphanage, because of the number of
children going on the trip, Mrs. Cole and every other staff member were
required by law to accompany them. Martha had been left alone with the under
2’s and the children who were ill. Harry had to give the woman credit. She had
lasted a day before she had sent him a telegraph, almost pleading with him to
take the child he wanted for a few days. She was contacting all of the old
fosterers, handing over sick children to families who would mind them until
Mrs. Cole came back, because she couldn’t cope with them and the babies. It was
a testament to her strength of character that she had lasted a whole day. Eric
had been in Harry’s company less than half an hour and he was already fit to
kill the boy.
“I don’t feel well!” Eric whined again. They were in a carriage, being pulled
along by two black horses, and the coachman kept looking back over his shoulder
and sending exasperated looks at Harry. “This taxi is making me feel worse! Why
can’t be walk?”
“You told me you were too sick to walk,” Harry said through gritted teeth. He
couldn’t wait to get back to his flat. The moment they were alone he was
shoving the antidote down the boy’s throat, whether Eric choked on it or not.
“We’re almost there.”
“Why do I have to come with you?” Eric whinged. “I bet you’re a freak like
Riddle! I want to go back to Martha! I WANT TO GO BACK!” The boy flailed in his
seat, his fist knocking into Harry’s jaw, and what was left of mild-mannered
Harry Potter from his old world suddenly fled.
His hands were around Eric’s throat, squeezing his thumbs down just under the
boy’s chin. Whalley gasped and bucked, making horrible choking sounds as he
clawed at Harry’s hands with his own. With tears in his eyes, the ten year old
looked up at Harry, terrified and silently pleading.
“If you ever speak about Tom like that again, I’ll kill you,” Harry promised,
breathing into the boy’s ear so that the coachman wouldn’t hear him. The man
had probably noticed anyway, but corporeal punishment was a big thing in the
1930s apparently, and this boy was a poor, unimportant orphan. No one would
complain if Harry gave the whiny brat a few slaps, but with what Harry had in
mind for the weekend, it was best that no one hear him outright threaten the
boy’s life.
Harry withdrew his hands, sitting back against his seat calmly as if he hadn’t
just attacked the child. Eric gripped his own throat, swallowing convulsively,
and he scooted across the seat as far from Harry as he could get without
falling out of the carriage. Wide brown eyes stared at him, watery and red-
rimmed, but Harry ignored the pitiful looks he was being sent. He felt no
sympathy or compassion for the little bully. In fact, he felt nothing for
anyone in this time except Tom, which was strange enough. He had come here to
hurt Tom, not to grow fond of him, but Harry supposed he could do both. Real
psychopaths knew that it was necessary to hurt their victims sometimes, a
counter balance to all of the positive reinforcement they had to give to make
the victim trust them in the first place. No one could be all good all the
time. Not even while pretending.
“Stop your snivelling. We’ll be home soon and I have some medicine lying around
that should help with your cold.” Whalley gave a gasp, probably afraid of being
poisoned as well as choked, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
As they climbed out of the taxi, the coachman came around to hold his hand out.
It was the same man who usually carted Harry and Tom around, and he was used to
helping lift Tom down, but as Eric went to place his hand in the coachman’s
Harry knocked it aside. “That won’t be necessary.” He handed over some money,
more than was necessary. “Keep the change,” he said, staring into the Muggle’s
eyes, “and your tongue silent.”
Harry took Eric by the shoulders and steered him towards the front door of the
flat. He lived on the second floor, and it was a bit of a chore to force the
boy up the flight of stairs separating Flat 13a from 13b, but Harry managed it
with a wandless ‘Levicorpus’ that had Eric sprawling up the last few steps and
landing in a pile in front of Harry’s door. “Home sweet home,” Harry muttered
as he shoved the boy through the open front door. “First things first, eat
this.” He held out the sweet that he had been keeping in his jacket pocket.
“It’ll make you feel better. I’d rather you not throw up on me or my things,
especially while I’m… educating you.”
“Educating?” Whalley mumbled, hesitantly reaching for the sweet.
Harry waited until it was in the boys mouth before closing his hand over the
lower part of Eric’s face. “Chew and swallow, boy.” He ordered. “Yes, you’ll
have to study while you’re here, despite the fact that it’s a weekend. But
well, it’s not typical schoolwork, so we’ll call it our little secret. In fact,
it’ll be a learning experience for us both. I dare say it might even be fun,
for me.” He added the last part with a chuckle, removing his hand from
Whalley’s face. “Come on, I need to examine you.”
Eric turned wide eyes on him, but Harry ignored the look in favour of man
handling the boy into the bathroom. He stopped to grab a clipboard and a pen,
and then followed, locking the bathroom door behind him.
“Ok, strip.”
“Wha-? No! NO WAY!” Eric shouted, backing away from Harry.
“Oh it’s all profession, I promise. See, I have a clipboard, and if you want
I’ll get my white coat. I’m a doctor, didn’t Tom tell you? I work at the
Institution. St Brutus’ Centre For Incurably Criminal Boys. It’s a nice place
to work,” Harry confided in him.
“Tha- that’s not what it’s called!” Eric stammered worriedly. “It’s a
hospital!”
“Oh, it is? Of course, my mistake, I’m getting confused with my last job at the
Asylum.” Harry lied easily.
Harry was trying very hard not to laugh, but Eric’s reactions were just too
funny. The boy’s face kept alternating between red and white, and if he changed
colours any more Harry thought he might faint. But it was amusing, and Eric had
it coming. It had been one of Eric’s favourite taunts to use on Tom: that he
was a freak, that they’d send him to the Institution or the Asylum, that when
Harry started fostering him it was so he could do experiments on Tom.
Harry was going to enjoy this weekend. The fact that he was using Tom’s worst
nemesis just made things all the sweeter. Tom was his to hurt, and only his. No
one else had the right to cause Tom pain. Not Mrs. Cole, or Eric Whalley, or
even Albus Dumbledore. It was Harry’s turn to take charge now, not Voldemort’s;
the tables were turned.
Tom was his.
XXX
August 14th 1935.
Harry had resorted to cursing the Muggle in the end. It was the only way he
could get the boy to get into the same bed as him. It wasn’t like Harry had
actually done anything to Eric anyway, so he wasn’t sure what the boy was in a
snit about! The boy had spent all morning sulking, and threatening to run away
back to the orphanage because he wasn’t spending another night with a
paedophile.
Harry merely chuckled, ticked off something on his clipboard and carried on
trying to work. It was easy to ignore the noise Eric made. It had been equally
as loud back at Privet Drive when he was trying to do his homework, but he had
always managed fine.
“Are you listening to me?” Eric shouted, leaning over Harry’s sitting form and
trying to seem intimidating. He looked like a spoilt child who wasn’t getting
his way, and Harry rolled his eyes in response. “I’m not sleeping here again! I
feel fine now so you can send me back! I don’t want you near me any longer!”
It was almost endearing how quickly Eric had gotten over his near
strangulation. Almost. At first. But right now, Harry was finding the boy’s
lack of fear of him very, very annoying. “Look!” Harry hissed, glancing up from
his work, “you’re starting to really annoy me you brat.”
“And you’re a sick freak!” Harry’s fists clenched on his lap. “I bet that’s why
you want Tom, isn’t it? Cause he’s a good little whore, and a freak like you! I
bet he loves it, what you do, what he lets you do! Well I’m not like him, and I
won’t le-” The boy gave a scream, cutting into his own words as Harry’s fist
flew towards him and nearly broke his nose. The boy fell backwards, landing
painfully on the ground, sobbing as he brought his hands up to his face.
“I was going to wait until tonight, but I find I can’t wait any longer. I’ve
always preferred to do things in the harsh light of day anyway. It helps you
see what you really are. That’s much healthier than hiding away in the dark
anyway. Trust me,” Harry said, waving his clipboard, “I’d know.”
“What are you? NO!” Eric tried to kick him, but Harry grabbed him under the
arms and dragged the boy to his feet.
It wasn’t as easy as it was made look on TV, but Harry managed to throw the boy
over his shoulder like a fireman and carry him into the bedroom. He punched
Eric again, stunning him, and then laid him on the bed. The child blinked a few
times, but was too shocked to actually try and escape. Harry locked all of the
doors leading away from the bedroom, and added a Ward just in case. With a
smirk, he let Eric see his wand as he placed a Curse around the room that would
prevent them both from speaking about what would happen anywhere other than
back inside of the bedroom.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” With a wave of Harry’s wand the boy was naked.
Eric gave a cry, curling up to cover himself, but as Harry moved towards him he
jumped from the bed and tried to run. The door didn’t budge, and Harry smirked
as Eric started beating on the wood with his fists.
“Oh please! Please let me go.”
“I will.” Eric’s face transformed instantly, going from desperate to relieved,
and then just as suddenly back to terrified as Harry spoke again, “when I’m
finished.”
( warning: rape & violence )
Another wave of his wand had Eric flying backwards onto the bed. The child gave
a groan as he landed, rolling to the side as he tried to make another run for
it.
“This is getting tedious,” Harry muttered, tapping his wand off of his leg.
“Crucio!” Harry listened to Eric scream, writhing on the bed, naked and flushed
and clawing at the skin of his face, whimpering pathetically between pain
filled shouts.
He wondered, briefly, if Tom would sound as beautiful screaming.
A flick of his wand, and Eric fell silent, except for the occasional gasp and
whimper.
“Now let’s try this again. Do not run; there is no point. I need to practise,
because practise makes perfect and experience is the best teacher. I am sorry,
well no, I’m not, but I thought it would make you feel a bit better. Does it?
If I say I’m sorry?” Eric didn’t answer. He curled his legs towards his chest
and buried his face in his knees as he cried. “Hmm, anyway. I need to be in
control, and to remain in control I need to know what I’m doing. So this is how
it’s going to work. I will do something to you and you will truthfully tell me
how it feels. Feel free to just scream if it hurts to much for you to talk,
ok?”
Without waiting for a response, Harry climbed onto the bed. He grabbed both of
Eric’s ankles and pulled, dragging the child down the bed and straightening out
his legs. Harry pushed them apart, crawling up the bed to kneel between them,
and he smiled softly down at the child.
“Now, now, don’t cry.” Harry whispered, one hand coming out to brush the tears
from Eric’s cheek. Voldemort had always hated it when Harry cried during sex.
He had claimed it was distracting and insulting, and Harry had to say he
disagreed. Watching Eric cry made Harry’s cock throb, and he used his hand, wet
with Eric’s tears, to palm himself through his trousers.
He muttered something under his breath, and Eric gave a scream as all of
Harry’s clothes vanished. The struggles started again, and Harry reached down
to squeeze on the boy’s throat, effectively silencing him.
Voldemort had originally taken Harry dry and unprepared, and Harry had
remembered feeling as if he were being torn into two pieces, ripped apart at
the seams so roughly that he would never again be able to fit back together. He
had screamed and cried and begged for it to end. Voldemort had enjoyed himself,
but not Harry’s tears. For the first year, he had ignored it, taking Harry
roughly, painfully, almost punishing the boy with every thrust of his hips and
razor sharp jab of his cock. But that hadn’t lasted. Eventually Voldemort had
started pleasuring Harry, as well as himself, using his fingers and his tongue
inside and on Harry, making the boy pant and beg for more. Harry knew every
step by heart: how to prepare himself, what to use, at what point he was
stretched enough, which positions were the least uncomfortable or least
painful.
He had never been on the giving end before though. For his first time, he
wanted to do things right.
He brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking and licking on them obscenely,
knowing that Eric was watching him with wide, horrified eyes. The fingers
probed at Eric’s opening, and the boy gave another cry and tried to shove Harry
off of him, writhing from side to side, trying to dislodge the finger that was
pressed fully into his arse.
”GET OFF!” He screamed, trailing off into a gasping sob as Harry unmercifully
added two more fingers. “AH!” He cried, turning his face away as his tears fell
faster.
“So,” Harry said to himself, “impatience is a no-go.” He would have to remember
to take his time with Tom. Tom’s body was so much smaller than Harry’s own the
first time Harry was subject to this. By the time Voldemort felt it was right
to prepare Harry for sex, the boy’s arse was so used to it, that a quick
finger-fuck wasn’t any different to a slow one in terms of pain. Forcing his
fingers into a child, without scissoring them first, apparently hurt the child.
Three fingers had always been enough for Harry, and Harry pulled his hand back
and eyes the red-rimmed hole with curiosity. Would he even fit? He had always
thought Voldemort wouldn’t fit inside of him, no matter how many times he was
taken Harry’s heart always skipped a beat at having something so large pushing
into him. Eric was smaller than Harry had been. Maybe he should use an extra
finger?
He decided not to. If only to see if it would hurt that much more than the
fingers had. He had to know for sure, after all, so that way he wouldn’t make
the same mistake with Tom. If he took Eric from behind it would be more
comfortable for the child, and that was the position he intended to use for
Tom, but hadn’t he once promised Tom that Eric Whalley would get his? Harry
smirked, the corners of his lips pulling up so high that he unintentionally
bared his teeth at the trembling boy beneath him.
He laid himself down, covering Eric like a blanket. Harry released a moan; the
feeling of his cock nudging lightly against the boy’s arse was a most welcome
feeling. He had paid for whores since arriving in the year 1930, but none of
them had been male, and the prospect of them all put together had never been as
arousing as the thought of taking this one boy. Harry rocked forward, slowly
bouncing his cock against the child’s bum, and Eric let out a terrible whimper.
It was as if he were in terrible pain, broken and bleeding and he had no way of
calling out for help: there was just that whimper, low and tortured as it was,
and as Eric let it out again, Harry lined up his erection and pushed.
A scream wrent the air. Eric bucked beneath him, pushing with his arms, and his
legs were flailing about, desperate to get Harry off of him, out of him. But
his efforts were barely noticed. Harry drew back and rocked forward
immediately, losing himself in the tightness and the heat that surrounded him.
Something sticky ran down his balls and inner thighs, and Harry knew that he
had made the boy bleed, badly most likely.
He would have to be slower with Tom, gentler. But until that time, he was free
to enjoy himself over and over again with Eric.
When Harry felt it building inside of him, the pooling heat in his lower
stomach and the tightening in his groin, he groped beside him on the bed. His
wand in hand, he pointed it at the screaming child, thrusting in and out and in
and out as Eric cried and begged and whimpered, and he cast, “Crucio!”
The boy gave another heart-wrenching scream, his back arching like a bow as he
wailed. Harry grunted, loudly, but in satisfaction as Eric’s seizing muscles
milked every last drop of his release from his cock. He collapsed on the boy,
ending the spell, and panted heavily against the child’s neck. Harry smiled,
listening with fondness, to the boy as he cried softly, attempting to curl into
a protective ball but unable to due to Harry’s weight on top of him, and that
made him cry harder.
Their lips met, and Eric tried to resist, tried to keep his mouth closed, but
Harry was hard again and he thrust back into Eric’s body without warning. A cry
left the child, his mouth opening for a moment, before Harry stole it and the
sound he had made in a kiss.
“I had thought you were a useless brat,” Harry admitted, pausing to release a
low moan and give a particularly hard thrust of his hips, “but perhaps you are
good for something after all.”
( warning ends )
 
Eric would have to be returned to Stockwell Orphanage the following morning. He
wouldn’t be able to speak about what had happened, the Curse would prevent
that, but Harry would need to heal some of the child’s internal injuries unless
he wanted to risk some sort of investigation. He had planned to tell Martha
that he and Eric had fought, that Eric had run off and been knocked down by a
taxi carriage. Horses could do a lot of damage to someone who run under their
hooves: but none of that damage would be to Eric’s anal cavity, so Harry would
heal that, if only that.
This had been done with the thought of practising for Tom, to gain experience
and knowledge so that he could seduce Tom, to fuck Tom, with himself firmly in
charge of the proceedings. Harry would take the lead, and now he knew what to
do, and how to do it. But he was enjoying himself too much to stop. They had
the rest of the afternoon and the night. Eric wasn’t going anywhere just yet.
Harry had planned on making it, when it happened, a better experience for Tom,
better than the first time Harry had suffered through at Voldemort’s hands.
Voldemort might never know what was happening, but Harry was enjoying the
revenge he was handing out nonetheless. One day, in the future, someone would
tell Tom that what Harry had done to him was wrong, and when that day came, and
Harry was proven to be a monster, he would laugh and rejoice because he knew
that Tom wouldn’t care. He would still love Harry, still crave Harry, and still
miss Harry’s presence.
Tom would be just like Harry then.
They would both be suffering the same fate, and that was the only suitable
punishment for Lord Voldemort. It was just what he deserved.
“Please let me go?” Eric whispered as Harry flipped him onto his stomach.
“When I’m finished,” Harry repeated before losing himself in the rhythm of his
thrusts and the feeling that surrounded his length. Tom would be better,
sweeter in some way. But the waiting was just as sweet.
XXX
December 31st 1936. 10 years old. 9
This was the first time that Tom would be seeing the magical side of London.
The boy watched avidly as Harry tapped out the correct sequence on the brick
wall behind The Leaky Cauldron.
Harry wouldn’t put it off any longer, feeling that it was best to let Tom see
how different and special Wizards really were before Dumbledore attempted to
show the boy in a year and a half’s time. Dumbledore’s attempt at introducing
Tom Riddle to the Wizarding World hadn’t gone so well in Harry’s original
timeline, and now that he owned Tom, Harry felt reluctant to let Dumbledore
have that much sway on the boy. Anyway, seeing things with Harry would put
things into a different perspective than if Tom had seen them alone. This way,
Harry could talk Tom out of any foolish ideas he may be persuaded to believe
in. Harry had met someone like Draco Malfoy on his first day in Diagon Alley;
who was to say the same hadn’t happened to Tom?
Harry had decided to take Tom sometime that week, but it was only that morning
that he had decided for definite that they would visit the Alley today. That
morning had been a good one. They had woken up in bed together, Harry
completely naked and Tom half dressed like always. The only difference this
time being that Harry had woken up with his cock in Tom’s mouth. Harry had
watched Tom in silence, except for the occasional moan that he couldn’t hold
back, and he had kept his hands off of the boy completely, choosing instead to
fist them in the pillow by his head. He had made no move to stop Tom’s
ministrations. In fact, Harry had rather enjoyed them. When he was finished,
and Tom was coughing and wiping a trace of semen from his mouth, Harry had
grabbed his chin roughly and hissed, “where did you learn to do that?”
“I- I,” Tom stuttered, averting his eyes in embarrassment. “Was I not good? I
tried my hardest, Harry! And I swallowed like the book told me too!”
“Book?” Harry said, his eyes narrowing in thought. He had thought, for one
fleeting moment, that Tom might have done as he had and found someone to
practise on, but he had immediately pushed the thought from his mind. Tom’s
personality wasn’t like that. If it had been anyone other than Harry, Tom’s
idea of ‘practising’ a blowjob would be forcing his cock down their throats.
Unfortunately, brushing aside the thought hadn’t dispelled any of the
irrational jealousy that the thought had stirred up. The green monster was
alive in Harry’s chest again, and this time it wasn’t focused on Ginny Weasley.
“What book?”
“I snuck out to the library while you were in work last Monday. I was in the
adult’s section, and I was careful not to be seen, I promise. But, here, I took
the book.” Seeing Harry’s blank expression, Tom paled and shook his head
furiously. “I’m bringing it back, I swear, I am! I just didn’t feel comfortable
reading it in the library!” He hurried from the bedroom, and returned with a
book that he had hidden only Merlin knows where in another room of Harry’s
flat. “Here.”
And he handed Harry a copy of An Introduction to Sex Education10 and Harry took
the book with a chuckle. He opened the front cover and smiled to himself. Trust
Tom to find probably the only Karma Sutra of their time in the local library.
Harry had handed it back with a smirk, and then he lay back down, spreading out
on the bed. “You were very good, Tom,” he praised, feeling satisfied at the
flush that stole over Tom’s skin. “Except for the choking part at the end, but
feel free to practise whenever you wish.”
Tom had accepted the offer immediately.
They arrived at the Alley later than Harry had originally intended to, but that
morning’s activities wouldn’t be regretted. That Tom had instigated,
practically twice, without being asked or cajoled was brilliant for Harry. He
was playing his part well, and Tom had fallen, hook, line and sinker into the
behavioural trap.
When Tom had finished looking around with awe, Harry turned to the child. “So,
Jason,” Harry said, using the fake name they had agreed upon. Jason, of course,
being the toddler in the pornographic photos that Harry had once shown Tom, and
still had at home in a drawer. “Since it is your birthday, where would you like
to go first?”
“A bookshop,” Tom immediately stated. Harry wondered why he had bothered to
even ask. From Harry’s flat to The Leaky Cauldron their time was spent by Tom
asking if Wizards had any sex-books about homosexuals. Muggles didn’t, of
course, and Tom had guiltily admitted to searching for some in the library
before resigning himself to reading about sex from a women’s point of view. “I
would really like to find something decent to read,” and as he said the word
‘decent’, Tom turned to Harry and smiled widely.
Harry felt his cock jump in response, his eyes focused intently on the pale
lips that were spread and parted, and he imagined himself sliding his prick in
between them, stretching that mouth further and wider until Tom was all around
him.
“Sorry,” Harry said suddenly, “I missed that.”
Tom rolled his eyes, probably knowing what had Harry so distracted, and he
brought one finger to his mouth to suck on lightly as he said, “I would like to
find something to read that would educate me on how to fuck you.”
Harry’s hand came out suddenly, and for the first time he hit Tom. His fist met
Tom’s cheek, and the child’s head snapped to one side as a soft exhalation of
surprise and pain left his mouth.
“Understand one thing, Tom, if you understand nothing else in life.” Harry
leant down, until he was eye level with Tom. Harry’s hand wrenched Tom’s head
to the side, making them face to face, and Tom lowered his eyes submissively.
With his lips pressed right against Tom’s ear, Harry hissed quietly, “I will be
fucking you.”
“Yes Harry,” Tom said softly.
When Harry pulled away, he steadfastly ignored the crowd of Witches and Wizards
and children that his behaviour had gathered, and instead reached down to
thread his fingers with Tom’s willing ones.
“Come on, Flourish & Blotts is over here.”
Tom followed him willingly, not wanting to think about what would happen if
Harry got angry enough to leave him here in this strange, magical, unfamiliar
place.
“Don’t leave me?” Tom breathed as Harry steered him into the bookshop.
He had already forgiven Harry for hitting him. It had been the only time, after
all, and the Muggles at the Orphanage had always done worse to him when he had
been younger and less able to defend himself. Harry loved him. Harry must have
had a reason to punish him, why else would he have done it? There was a logical
explanation for everything, Tom thought, and Harry’s burst of anger was no
different. The Wizard had a temper; everyone knew that. It was why Mrs. Cole
was so quick to cave into his demands, why she had allowed a second term of
fostering without so much as asking Harry to fill in any paperwork, and Tom
could still remember what Eric Whalley had looked like over a year ago, after
Tom’s trip to the seaside, after Eric had spent the weekend at Harry’s house.
Tom knew better than to do anything bad or to lie or steal. He only borrowed
things, like that library book and he always returned them; he never lied,
unless he had Harry’s permission, about things like using accidental magic; and
he would never, ever, do anything evil or wrong or cruel that he knew Harry
wouldn’t approve of, because he couldn’t bare the thought of Harry not loving
him anymore.
“Please don’t leave me?” Tom repeated as Harry maintained his silence.
Harry handed him a book, entitled “The Joys of Homosexual Intercourse”, and
offered him a soft smile, though he didn’t apologize. “I won’t leave you if
you’re good.” Harry promised.
“I knew you were going to be in charge. When, you know, we have, you know,” Tom
stuttered with a blush on his cheeks. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. The
book said it was making love ‘to each other’, regardless of who was on top,
right?” Tom looked so confused, his eyebrows lowered and his forehead furrowed,
and he looked at Harry with wide and innocent eyes, despite the things he had
seen and done, and Harry felt a warm smile replacing the forced one he had been
wearing.
“Of course, when it is making love.” He agreed diplomatically. He should
probably use this conversation to differentiate between ‘making love’ and
‘dominating’ someone. They were two different experiences, two different ways
to have sex, and Harry would soon be subjecting Tom to both types, and more.
“But when we fuck,” he bit his bottom lip as he said it, making the word sound
more like ‘fuh-uck’, than ‘fuck’, and Tom let out a soft moan at the sound, “I
will be in charge.”
“Of course, Harry,” Tom acquiesced. He reached out his hand, the one not
holding the book, and Harry laced their fingers together before bringing them
up for a kiss. Tom tilted his chin up immediately after Harry had lowered their
joined hands, and without evening checking if someone was watching, Harry leant
down and stole Tom’s mouth in a kiss.
“You are mine.” The words were low and possessive, and Tom shivered at the
tone.
“Yes, sir,” he agreed, his hands and shoulders shaking. “All yours.”
Harry kissed him again, pulling Tom tight against his chest, and forcing his
tongue into the ten-year-old’s mouth. Tom’s tongue lay dormant, occasionally
flicking upwards to taste the underside of Harry’s tongue as it explored Tom’s
mouth, but never once did Tom offer resistance. He submitted himself wholly to
Harry’s touch and kiss and possession.
He was Harry’s now.
And he knew it.
XXX
***** Part III *****
Words: 14,434
The_Abyss_3/4
December 18th 1937. 10 years old. 1
( warning: sex & underage )
A hand caressed the length of his thigh and Tom smiled softly to himself. The
hand moved, up and down, teasing the skin of Tom’s leg, and Harry’s other hand
was gripped tight around the child’s cock. Tom hummed lightly, tilting his head
back so that it rested on Harry’s chest. The elder Wizard was spooned behind
him, holding him closely against his front, and his own penis nudging against
Tom’s arse.
“Harry,” the boy moaned. His hips rocked backwards, pressing himself wantonly
against Harry’s erection. “Please, please,” he begged in a breathy whisper.
The hand that had been on Tom’s thigh moved lower, slipping down between their
sweaty bodies, and a finger pressed firmly against the puckered ring of muscle
that guarded Tom’s entrance. The child gave a soft cry, biting down hard on his
bottom lip, as Harry unfalteringly pushed one finger into the boy. A second
finger followed, wet with only saliva. Tom groaned, his chin tucked against his
chest, and he curled over slightly as if trying to protect himself from the
pain, but he didn’t ask Harry to stop and his hips kept undulating in time with
Harry stroking his cock. Tom gave a hoarse cry as Harry’s fingers rubbed firmly
against his prostate, and he flung his head back, his mouth remaining open as
he panted.
He didn’t ejaculate, but he did release a whimpered, gargled moan, as his hips
jerked sporadically. The middle finger of Harry’s other hand was pushing
against the slit of Tom’s penis, his nail scrapping at the sensitive head, and
the child nearly blacked out from the sensations that raged through his young
body.
When Tom had stopped trembling, Harry removed his hands, curling his fingers so
that they scrapped against Tom’s insides and the flesh of his softening penis.2
“Sit up, Tom,” Harry instructed in his bedroom voice. It was husky and low, his
words almost rolled off of his tongue in a purr as Harry leant forward to drip
them sensually into Tom’s attentive ear.
The child scrambled to his knees, turning himself to face Harry who was still
hard and spread across the bed. A soft smile curved up Tom’s lips, and he
crawled onto Harry, sitting himself directly in the man’s lap. Though he had
yet to be penetrated during sex, Tom knew that this was his favourite position,
though it was likely not Harry’s. Harry indulged him, on special occasions:
like this one, as his Hogwarts letter was due soon. Tom was very careful to sit
so that Harry’s cock was wedged between the cheeks of his arse, and he rocked
back slowly, forward and back, and smirked smugly to himself as Harry gave a
harsh groan of pleasure as Tom bounced on his lap.
When Harry came across his bum, it was with a shout of Tom’s name, and his
nails digging painfully into Tom’s side as he ground himself up one more time,
shuddering as his orgasm washed over him. Harry petted the pale, nail-bitten
skin softly, pushing Tom to the side and watching blank faced as Tom swirled
his pale fingers through Harry’s sperm and sucked them into his mouth. Navy
eyes locked onto Harry’s green ones, and Tom licked and sucked the come off of
his own backside as Harry watched him transfixed.
“You should stop now, Tom,” Harry warned in a soft voice, “unless you plan on
taking something else into that greedy mouth of yours.”
( warning ends )
Tom’s face flushed crimson, and he turned his head away in embarrassment. He
seemed to have no problem performing acts of a sexual nature, nor talking about
them, but when Harry teased him about performing such acts Tom would suddenly
become shy and unsure, as if afraid that his performance hadn’t been up to par.
Tom slid from the bed, wiping his fingers against his bare thigh. Harry watched
him, still sprawled out across the bed, as Tom crossed to the kitchen and
opened the window. An owl swept into the room, dropping a letter onto the bed,
and then perching itself on top of the dresser. The photos of Jason and Anna
and those other children were still there, turned upside down, under Harry’s
copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and the owl scratched at the book in agitation,
as if knowing exactly what was hidden beneath it. It turned its head, cocked to
one side, eyeing the couple of Wizards with a scary kind of intellect, and
Harry was very tempted to kill it.
Tom’s shout of excitement distracted Harry from his murderous thoughts.
“I got in! The School you went to accepted me, Harry! I got in!” He whirled
around, unashamedly naked and launched himself onto the elder man.
Harry clung to him, caressing his back with rough hands and wide-splayed
fingers, under the watchful eyes of the owl. “Congratulations. I told you that
you would, didn’t I? Would I lie to you, Tom?”
“Of course not!” Tom said, sounding scandalised by the very thought. “Do you
want to hear what it says?” Tom asked, sitting back on Harry’s thighs with his
legs spread on either side of the man. Harry watched the boy, excited and
innocent still, and he nodded. “To Mr. Harry’s Tom,” he started off and then
frowned. “What is your surname anyway, Harry?”
“It’s Potter,” Harry informed him after a moment’s silence. What harm could it
do to tell Tom? The boy didn’t know any other Potters, and there weren’t any at
Hogwarts during Tom’s time anyway (just before and afterwards).
“How come that name wasn’t on the letter?” He asked curiously.
Harry sighed. “You aren’t a Potter. So they can’t use that name. Now, what does
it say?”
“To Mr. Harry’s Tom, the Only Bedroom, Harry’s Flat, Vauxhall Road, London.”
Tom smiled, turning the parchment over so that he could read its actual
contents.
“Dear Mr. Tom,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and
equipment.
Term begins on September 1st 1938. We await your owl no later than July 31st
1938.
Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall.”
Tom finished reading, and folded the parchment back up into a neat, tidy
square. He handed Harry the equipment list and smiled widely. “Can we go to
Diagon Alley soon?”
“You may be getting a little ahead of yourself there. Your first year at
Hogwarts doesn’t start until September of next year.” Harry said, laughing
softly.
“I know that! But I want to get a head start on the course work. Do you know
how many books I could read between now and September, Harry? A lot! That’s how
many!”
Harry nodded his head in silence, too stunned by Tom’s sudden resemblance to
Hermione to remember how to speak. That would have been like something she
would have said. He agreed to take Tom shopping for his school supplies early,
but not quite that early. Instead, he promised to take Tom on holiday for his
birthday. It was in a fortnight. “Where would you like to go?”
“The seaside,” Tom said firmly.
The Orphanage had taken them a few years ago, but Harry hadn’t gone with them.
Instead, he had remained behind to look after Eric Whalley, and while Tom had
never asked either male what had happened during that weekend, there was no
doubt in the younger Wizard’s mind that Eric had experienced something that Tom
had yet to know for himself.
Harry.
XXX
December 31st 1937. 11 years old.
There was a cold wind blowing, and Tom hunched himself over, burrowing his face
into his scarf to protect himself from its chill. Harry walked along side him,
a smile on his face. Both Wizards were dressed in the full works: hats,
scarves, gloves and furry coats. Tom even had Wellington boots on! Harry had
taken care to tuck the child’s trousers into his boots carefully, which had
been a good idea actually, since Tom’s first course of action upon arriving at
the seaside was not to check into their inn, but instead to rush straight into
the ocean. Harry had left him playing, and busied himself renting out one of
the small cabins that lined the coast.
There were hotels and inns further in the town, but Harry preferred the privacy
that residing on the actual beach would give them. It would be a little more
expensive, but the extra money would be worth it in the long run.
It was their second day of their holiday, and Tom still seemed to be enthralled
by the ocean. He looked once at Harry, and after receiving a nod, made his way
to the waters edge, his back straight and his shoulders back. It was only once
his feet made contact that Tom forgot about acting like a proper Wizard, and
indulged in being a kid. He kicked water at the nearest other child, ignoring
the girl’s screech of anger, and then laughed as she ran away from him. He
turned back to look at Harry, and the man merely raised an eyebrow, not
bothered by his unkind behaviour. It hadn’t been anything life threatening,
merely average childishness, and so Harry let it pass, as he generally did.
Their cabin was only a ten-minute walk away from them, on the end of a short
line of cabins and mostly isolated. Harry planned to use it to its full
advantage later that night, the last night of their short holiday. But for now,
Harry sat back on one of the sparse deck chairs sprinkled across the sand, and
chuckled lowly as Tom terrorized a few of the other children. Parents glared in
his direction, but Harry ignored them, and when one boy who reminded Harry a
little too much of Dudley Dursley got splashed in the face because of Tom,
Harry laughed out loud. It was loud enough to catch Tom’s attention, and the
child turned to grin at Harry widely, proudly.
It was only with his back to the other children that one of them was brave
enough to shove Tom over, knocking the boy on his arse in the water. While
Harry thought Tom probably deserved it, he still stood and made his way to
intervene before Tom could even think about revenge of any sort.
“I don’t want to be here anymore.” Tom groused, kicking sand up with his shoe
petulantly as Harry led his further down the line of water. “Let’s go somewhere
else.”
“You wanted the seaside, Tom, so we came to the seaside. There isn’t much more
than sea and side, I promise you.” Harry said with a sigh, looking down at the
grumpy and wet boy in annoyance.
“There is something else!” Tom exclaimed, remembering the cave that had so
fascinated him the first time he visited the ocean. Amy Benson and Dennis
Bishop had gone exploring together and Tom had trailed curiously after them,
but neither child had been willing to go into the cave with Tom, though all
three stood together and looked inside. They hadn’t let Tom go in on his own
either, which honestly Tom wasn’t too bothered about. He’d much rather explore
the cavern with Harry there. “I bet you’ll like it. Come on, it’s this way!” He
took Harry by the hand and tugged.
With a shake of his head, Harry acquiesced and allowed Tom to drag him away
from the cabins and the sand and the other tourists. They were almost out of
walking space, the ground completely washed away by sea, and Harry scowled as a
wave broke over his toes. Tom pointed out into the distance, and Harry could
see a cave a few miles over, seemingly floating in water.
“How did you discover that?” Harry asked, frowning.
“Our hotel was closer to that side, than this side. There’s more sand here
though, so it’s nicer, but it was only a five minutes walk from where Mrs. Cole
let us play to that cave.” Tom paused, nibbling on his bottom lip. “I was
wondering what you were getting me for my birthday?”
Tom rarely asked about gifts though he had at last begun to expect them. Harry
shook his head, indicating that he had yet to purchase anything. This didn’t
surprise nor upset Tom. He was rather used to being taken shopping for gifts.
While Harry loved him, Harry was also terrible at shopping for others.
“I want to visit the cave with you for my birthday.” Tom said, squaring his
shoulders, as he stood up straighter, hoping to be taken seriously.
“Ok.” Harry said. Tom blinked, expecting more of a fight, since usually Harry
only gave him expensive things, and then he grinned widely and wrapped his arms
around Harry’s waist. “Hold on tight, and don’t move.” Harry took a quick look
around, and upon determining the coast was clear (literally), he apparated them
both to the mouth of a cave he and Dumbledore had once explored together.
“Wow!” Tom grinned, “It’s creepy in here.”
“Trust you to like it.” Harry gave Tom’s shoulder a tap, a mockery of a playful
punch. “Let’s go then?” He asked, and Tom happily took the lead, rushing into
the cave without waiting for Harry.
When the child was finished exploring, he found Harry lying down on the floor.
There was dust everywhere, except near Harry and Tom grinned as he realized
Harry must have magicked the dirt away. Tom lowered himself down, sitting
beside Harry’s knees, and he smiled over at the elder Wizard trustingly. “Thank
you. For coming here with me.”
“You’ll be at Hogwarts this time next year,” Harry said softly.
“No I won’t.” Tom said, laughing. “I’ll be home for Christmas, this time next
year, remember?”
Harry turned his head, a small smile flitting across his mouth. “Only if you
aren’t having fun at school. I used to spend Christmas at Hogwarts, you know.”
“Well.” Tom’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll be spending it with you! Unless you
don’t want me?” His eyes lowered, lashes feathered against his pale cheeks, and
Harry reached over to tilt Tom’s chin back up.
“I will always want you.” Harry said, “If you’re good.” Tom offered him a shy
smile, and scooted closer. “In fact, I had planned to give you a birthday
present tonight at the cabin, but if you’d rather explore an abandoned cave-”
Harry trailed off, shrugging his shoulders.
“What was it?” Tom asked sounding horrified. What if it had been something
amazing? What if Harry sent it back to the store?
“You’re eleven now. I was at Hogwarts when I was your age, taking care of
myself, practically an adult. The same can be said for you, can’t it Tom? You
aren’t a child any longer.”
“Of course not,” Tom exclaimed. He rather preferred to be thought of as an
adult, a very short adult, but mature and capable nonetheless. Mrs. Cole didn’t
really bother to take care of the older kids, and Tom much preferred to be left
to his own devises and under Harry’s care than subject to the rules and
regulations that had plagued his early childhood.
“I think it’s time I started treating you like an adult too, hmm?”
Tom narrowed his eyes, avidly watching Harry’s face for reassurance. The elder
Wizard watched him calmly; eyes smiling and mouth smirking and Tom couldn’t
tell if Harry really meant what Tom thought he did. He would just have to risk
it. With shaking hands, he peeled off his gloves and scarf and dropped them to
the ground in the dirt. The buttons of his shirt were opened slowly, and Tom’s
fingers trembled and slipped and missed under Harry’s predatory gaze. And
still, Harry didn’t confirm or deny Tom’s suspicions. But Tom continued to
undress.
Eventually, he was kneeling naked, shivering from the cold of the air and the
cave’s floor. Harry reached over, grabbed hold of Tom’s arm and pulled the boy
into his lap. “Are we really going to, you know?” Tom asked shyly.
“If you can’t say the word, then you can’t be considered mature enough to-”
Tom’s mouth dropped open and Harry moved to shove him away, but his mouth
sealed harshly over Harry’s words, swallowing them with furious kisses. “I want
you to fuck me!” His hands were still shaking, but Tom’s jaw was set with
stubbornness and his chest was heaving in lust, and Harry felt his groin
stirring again. “I need you to fuck me.”
“I bet you do,” Harry murmured.
( warning: sex & underage )
His mouth was against Tom’s neck, nibbling lightly on the pale skin available,
and his long fingers were making quick work of his belt and fly. He had been
waiting so long. Harry couldn’t remember quite how long he had been waiting to
taste Tom, to enjoy and claim and own him, but it had been such a long time he
knew. But the wait was over. Tom would be his. Tonight, Tom would be all his.
When Harry was undressed as well, after what seemed like an age had passed, he
leant forward to press his mouth lightly to Tom’s throat. The child tilted his
head back, offering himself willingly up to the elder Wizard. Without any
prompting whatsoever, Tom crawled into Harry’s lap. This was the position he
favoured as Harry rubbed against him, this was the way he’d prefer to have
Harry, but Tom knew it wouldn’t be this way. Harry wouldn’t let him have that
much control, especially not for his first time, but he could enjoy it while
Harry was distracted, head thrown back and groaning as Tom ground down slowly.
Harry looked up at the boy, eyes half-lidded and his mouth open. His hands
moved to Tom’s waist, gripping tight enough to bruise as he twisted, flipping
the boy onto his back and moving to hover over him.
“Uh huh,” Harry muttered against Tom’s pale neck. Light kisses were pressed
across soft skin, one after another until Harry reached Tom’s lips, and he
stole him in a furious kiss. “I am in charge here, my little Tom.”
“Yes!” Tom hissed out, agreeing immediately as Harry’s hand slipped from his
waist to his groin, fondling him.
“You are mine, Tom,” Harry said, his voice soft and raspy; a consequence of
spending more than a year screaming under Voldemort’s torture and never having
been healed properly even after nine more years as the Dark Lord’s whore.
“All yours,” Tom whimpered, Harry’s hand stroking him with long, sure
movements. “Please, please, please Harry,” he begged, writhing on the dirty
cavern floor.
Harry moved so that he was kneeling over Tom, and Tom pulled his legs up and
pushed them apart, bearing himself to Harry’s view. This wouldn’t be the first
time that Harry had put his fingers inside of Tom, but it would be the first
time Tom was fully penetrated, the first time that Harry would love him
completely, wholly, the way adults and lovers were meant to.
“Do it now, Harry.” Tom commanded, arching his back, pushing his arse forward
as if to encourage Harry to take him then and there, unprepared.
Harry considered it. He looked down on Tom, kneeling between the boy’s spread
legs, and considered spitting on his hand and rubbing it on his cock, then
pushing forward, forcing his way into the boy, the way Voldemort had forced his
way into him.
But no, that would be detrimental to his plans. Tom needed to love this, so
much so that even when he realised that he had been abused and manipulated for
the majority of his childhood he would still crave Harry’s touch. Tom needed to
always belong to Harry, regardless of whether Tom wanted to or not. That would
be his vengeance on the Voldemort that would never exist. Harry would own him,
completely, always.
So he pressed one finger to Tom’s closed mouth, waiting until the boy opened
his mouth and sucked the finger inside, tongue swirling around the digit
wantonly, before he continued to stroke Tom’s cock. Tom ended up sucking on
four of Harry’s fingers, before the adult deemed them wet enough, his cheeks
bulging and his lips puffy and red from being stretched. Harry pulled his
fingers out, dipping his head down to press a slow kiss to the wet lips that
parted instinctively for his tongue.
“Lift up your hips, Tom,” Harry whispered. His fingers probed at Tom’s
entrance, the puckered muscle protested at first, before relenting, allowing
Harry to push one finger inside first and then another, twisting and stretching
and scissoring, until eventually all four were inside opening Tom up for him.
The child was flushed and panting, and while Harry knew Tom was enjoying it,
the boy couldn’t hide the winces as pain lanced up his spine with every writhe
and wriggle. Harry couldn’t wait to see the boy crying out beneath him, from
pain or from pleasure; it didn’t matter to him at this point. He was painfully
hard, ready and waiting, and all that was missing was the lube on his cock.
He didn’t have to say anything. Harry merely curled his fingers into the hair
at the back of Tom’s head, and the boy sat up. He crawled forward, lying on his
belly so that his mouth could reach Harry’s cock and without hesitation Tom
wrapped his lips around the swollen flesh and began to suck.
Tom found himself still lying face-first on the ground when Harry pulled away
from him. A hand on Tom’s shoulder stopped the boy’s attempt to sit up, and
Harry shuffled on his knees around the boy so he was once more behind Tom.
“Lift your hips again.”
Harry’s fingers were prodding him again, nails scrapping at the sensitive skin
around his entrance and behind his scrotum and then down the underside of his
hard cock. And then he was lining himself up, one hand gripping the base of his
erection and the other squeezing Tom’s left hip tightly, and then he was
pushing forward, slow for the first attempt and then harder the second time
when Tom tensed up.
“Relax, Tom, or it will hurt more. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I-I know,” the boy whimpered, his cheek against the floor and his hips raised,
gripped tight by long tanned fingers, and Harry was leaning over him, pressing
kisses to his pale shoulders. Harry tried again, this time managing to get the
head of his cock inside before Tom tensed up too much for him to move.
“Relax,” Harry said again.
He reached to the side, scrabbling for the wand that was tucked into the pocket
of his discarded trousers. One hand grabbed hold of it and without Tom noticing
Harry managed to cast a preparation spell on him: it was something he had
learnt at Voldemort’s hands, spells to stretch and lube him, spells to make him
feel so full already that by the time there was a cock inside of him he felt
empty in comparison. To know there were such spells, ones that would have taken
a second to cast compared to the time that would have been wasted manually
preparing him, spells that Voldemort had chosen not to cast, had angered him.
But he used one now on Tom, and the channel that was clenched tightly around
the tip of his cock relaxed suddenly. Harry pressed inside, in one smooth
thrust, burying himself (or as much of himself as he could, considering the
size of Tom’s body) into the willing child beneath him.
Tom gave a gasp, panting heavily with his eyes squeezed closed, and feeling
charitable Harry waited a moment for him to adjust to the strange feeling of
being filled. The child was the first to move, pushing his hips back, fingers
scrabbling against stone as he tried to push himself up, to give himself more
leverage, to make more of Harry fit inside of him. He only had to look back
over his shoulder to see that some of Harry hadn’t gone inside of him, and
realistically he knew he was small, he was eleven for Merlin’s sake, but he
still wanted to have all of Harry, every inch of him. At Tom’s thrust, Harry
drew back, watching as his cock slipped from Tom’s body, revealing itself an
inch at a time, red and ready, and he looked at Tom’s hole, puckered and
bleeding just a little but clenching around his length as if trying to keep him
inside.
He pushed back in, hard. And Tom cried out.
“More!” He gasped, as Harry struck his prostate dead on. “More!” He shouted
again, as Harry reached down to squeeze his balls softly, before rolling them
in the palm of his hand. That hand was back on his cock again; Harry’s free
hand on Tom’s hip still.
They moved that way together; until Tom began to buck wildly beneath him, body
tensing like a bow, and Harry reached down to clamp his fingers around the base
of Tom’s cock, stopping his approaching ejaculation. Harry pulled back, pulling
Tom with him so that the boy was lying flat on the ground, with his legs spread
at an uncomfortable angle. Harry continued to thrust above him, within him,
their position meant he could only manage quick, shallow jabs of his cock, but
it also meant that with every one of Harry’s thrusts Tom’s cock drug against
the stone ground. It was a torturous sort of pleasure; the boy was so close to
his orgasm, and yet the pleasure that had been Harry’s hand was now the rough
friction of the floor, of stone against his flesh and it was probably going to
scratch or cut him, but Tom didn’t care right then. He pressed down, against
the ground, beginning to enjoy the pain as it was coupled with the pleasure of
Harry’s rubbing his prostate with his cock at every movement.
And when Harry came, he gave one last harsh jab, making Tom scream out and
something tear within him. But as Tom screamed, star exploded behind his eyes,
and his body jerked as he released himself against the dirty floor and his
stomach.2 He lay, panting, in Harry’s arms, Harry having collapsed on top of
him and wrapped his arms around Tom’s neck loosely.
( end warnings )
“I love you,” Tom whispered, his mouth moving against stone.
Harry pressed a kiss to Tom’s shoulder blade, mouth moving so lightly that Tom
couldn’t hear the words, but he could feel Harry’s lips writing them onto his
skin: “I love you.”
His heart beat fast in his chest. His back and bum hurt, very much in fact, and
Tom considered asking for a pain-relief spell of some kind, but then decided
against it. For the rest of his birthday he would welcome the pain, he would
cherish it, keeping it for the night as a reminder of what he now was.
Harry’s.
XXX
July 12th 1938. 11 years old.
“Tom,” Mrs Cole said as she pushed open the door to his little bedroom in
Stockwell Orphanage. “There’s someone here to see you. He says he’s a teacher.”
“He can come in,” Tom offered in a soft voice. He sat at the edge of his bed,
with his hands folded in his lap, and he tried to calm his nerves because there
was no way someone could revoke his invitation to Hogwarts. They couldn’t do
that, not after having already extended the invitation. Which meant that Harry
had been right and a Professor was coming to speak to him, because they thought
he was Muggleborn.
Tom chuckled then, shaking his head at his foolishness. Of course Harry was
right. Harry was always right, and he never lied: Tom should have known better
than to doubt Harry, but he had been so nervous as the year passed and no one
came to tell him about Hogwarts. But they were here now, and Harry would laugh
at his silliness and whisper ‘I told you so, love’ against the shell of his ear
as they curled around each other in Harry’s wonderful bed.
“Hello Tom, my name is Professor Albus Dumbledore.”
“Hello, sir.” Tom didn’t know this man, but he knew better than to be
disrespectful to an adult. Because that was rude, and Harry hated it when
people were rude.
In his hand was his Hogwarts letter, half scrunched up and half hidden behind
his back, but Dumbledore caught sight of it. “Ah. So you got a letter! I must
say, your name wasn’t on the Register and so I had assumed, wrongly it appears,
that you’d have no idea what I was speaking of.” The redheaded man smiled
jovially, but Tom only stared calmly back.
“Harry explained it to me.” He whispered his voice low and carefully pitched to
the way Harry preferred to hear him speak: soft and seductive, drawling out the
words while hands skimmed over exposed flesh. “I’ve accepted my place at
Hogwarts already.”
“Harry?” Dumbledore asked. “Would this be the Mr Harry Mrs Cole was referring
to?” Tom just kept staring. “She said I was lucky to catch you, that you
usually stayed with your foster father, a Doctor Harry someone though no one
seems to know his surname off the top of their heads.”
“Potter,” Tom offered, knowing that Harry wasn’t making a secret out of it, so
he didn’t bother either. “And yes, sir, that’s him. It was his home to which my
letter arrived.”
Dumbledore held out his hand, “may I see it?” A moment passed, before Tom gave
a soft sigh and held his hand out too. The parchment transferred persons
easily, though Tom looked a little reluctant to give it away even for a moment.
“To Mr Harry’s Tom,” Dumbledore read from the back of the parchment, the part
that would have served as the front when it was folded up correctly. “The only
bedroom, Harry’s flat, Vauxhall Road, London…. Well…” He trailed off, not
knowing what to say, but many thoughts were floating through his mind, all of
them rather worrying. “Only bedroom, you say?” He asked, shaking the letter
lightly before handing it back to Tom.
Tom snatched it from him, hurrying to tuck it away safe within his pocket in
case Dumbledore tried to steal it.
“He only has a small flat. He wasn’t expecting to take me in, you see, and well
it wouldn’t be fair of me to make him move homes. He’s saving up though. While
I’m in Hogwarts he’ll have time to work more so he’s going to earn more and
look for somewhere else for us to live.” Not to say that Tom wouldn’t insist on
sleeping in the same bed anyway, but at least then it wouldn’t look so
suspicious to people like Albus nosy Dumbledore, Tom thought petulantly. What
did it matter where he slept anyway? Anywhere was better than the orphanage!
“Tom,” Dumbledore began to say, before pausing to bite his bottom lip
nervously. Mrs Cole had rambled on and on about Harry but Dumbledore hadn’t
paid the Muggle much attention because after all he had journeyed there to
speak to a Tom Riddle, not a Harry. Though thinking back on it, the number of
times both Harry and Tom had been mentioned in the same sentence was rather
worrying in light of the ‘only bedroom’ issue.
“How come my surname wasn’t on the letter?” Tom asked suddenly.
“What?” Dumbledore asked. “Oh, I see. Well, my boy, as you weren’t registered
by your parents you shouldn’t have been sent a letter. Those are written by a
magical artefact, not looked over by humans, so the lack of surname would have
gone unnoticed. With the assumption that he is also a Wizard, since he already
spoke with you about your acceptance letter, I can only surmise that because Mr
Potter is fostering you, you were partially accepted into his family and so
couldn’t use your name, but because you were not adopted you couldn’t use his
name either. And so, you were left nameless. Though I am here to formally
invite Tom Marvolo Riddle to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this
coming September first.”
Tom nodded his head lightly, understanding what the Professor meant. “So, am I
going as Riddle or as Harry’s?” Tom wondered. He looked rather put out once
Dumbledore responded with ‘Riddle’ instead of the answer he had been hoping
for.
“I mean no offence but as your future teacher and thus guardian for the year I
must ask, has Mr Potter ever touched you in an inappropriate manner?”
“Define inappropriate.” Tom crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, while
Dumbledore raised one ginger eyebrow in surprise.
“In a manner that you don’t like, or that shouldn’t happen between a child and
an adult, or in a way that makes you feel pain or discomfort or embarrassment
or confusion.” Tom didn’t answer, and unknowing in which way to interpret the
child’s silence, Dumbledore released another sigh. “Mr Riddle, I propose that
you spend the remainder of the summer at this orphanage, and I’ll have local
authorities investigate Mr Potter, for his own good of course. What do you
think?”
Tom’s lips curled back, almost snarling at the elder Wizard. “HOW DARE YOU?” He
screamed, launching himself forward with his hands out, pushing at Dumbledore’s
chest, trying to shove the intruder out of his room. “NO! NO!” Tom screamed
hysterically, terrified of being separated from Harry. This was what Harry had
warned him about, Tom thought, when the children had murdered his pet snake and
Harry had admitted that they both had magic. This was what Harry said would
happen if anyone found out that Tom and Harry knew each other. They were trying
to take Harry away, to keep Tom away from him; they couldn’t, Tom screamed,
they wouldn’t!
“GET OUT!” Tom shrieked. His magic fluctuated around him, sensing his fear and
confusion, his anger, and it surged out, lashing at anything and everything it
could reach in an attempt to protect its host. Like the time Tom had shoved
Helen Doyle out of a window accidentally, and the time he made cracks appear in
the canteen walls, and the time Billy Stubb’s rabbit had just floated up in the
air and dropped down dead, Tom’s magic was reacting to his emotions.
Dumbledore raised his hands up, trying to placate the boy. Mrs Cole and Martha
came running into the room, screaming about the wardrobe, bed and table that
were shaking as if caught in an earthquake, and the child that was trembling
with so much rage they could taste it in the air.
“Get him,” Mrs Cole hissed. Martha ran from the room, knowing where Harry
worked and knowing he must be at work if Tom was willingly spending time at the
orphanage; she ran to find him.
Albus watched, as the staff tried to calm Tom down unsuccessfully, and he
watched as Martha came back, panting but happy as Harry ran into the room after
her and pulled Tom into his arms. Albus watched as the boy relaxed completely,
with Mr Potter’s arms around his shoulders and his face buried into the crook
of Harry’s neck as he sobbed lightly and his magic calmed down and Harry
whispered soft words of reassurance into Tom’s ears that Albus only wished he
could hear.
There was something very… odd about this situation, he decided.
XXX
September 1st 1938. 11 years old.
“Oi,” a loud voice called from over his shoulder. “Mudblood!” It called again.
Tom sat stiffly at the Slytherin table. He had only been sorted moments ago,
and the feast had barely started, but that was obviously enough time for the
elder boy to have passed judgement on Tom.
Or, rather, his surname.
“Mudblood,” the boy said again, shoving Tom’s shoulder so hard that Tom who had
been trying to eat ended up stabbing himself in the cheek with his fork.
“Riddle isn’t a Pureblood name. You don’t belong here, scum.” And then the boy
walked away.
Tom watched him go through narrowed eyes, laying the fork slowly down on his
plate. Children were cruel, Harry had told him, they’d grow out of it, Harry
had promised him, don’t react to them or they’ll target you more, Harry had
suggested to him. He glanced over at the staff table and found Dumbledore
staring at him. Adults were stupid too, Tom thought, thinking about the
Professor telling him that he would be enrolled as ‘Tom Riddle’.
He’d much rather be known as Harry’s.
XXX
November 13th 1939. 12 years old.
“Hey, Mudblood, I’m talking at you.” That same voice called again, and Tom
gritted his teeth at the sound of it. “Oi, learn some respect, filth, and
answer when once of us address you.” He gave Tom a shove, and the boy toppled
forward down the last three steps of the staircase they were all standing on.
Tom had hoped the staircase would move before Prewitt and his friends caught up
with him, but he hadn’t been so lucky, and instead he had jogged down the
stairs, trying to escape the fourteen year old boys chasing him, and was almost
off the stairs when they grabbed him and pushed. He wasn’t hurt, just
humiliated, and his ink vial had smashed against the ground, breaking all over
and destroyed his Transfiguration essay: as if Dumbledore didn’t already
dislike him enough.
“What do you want?”
“You could drop dead?” Prewitt suggested, while his friends chuckled and Tom
hauled himself to his feet. “Or you could go back to your filthy Muggle parents
and never come back. Oh wait!” They laughed harder, “You don’t have parents, do
you! Not even Muggles wanted to keep you, Mudblood!”
They left him there, shaking with anger and humiliation, late for
Transfigurations with no homework to turn in, and a taste for revenge heavy in
his mouth. But he held himself back, because Harry wouldn’t like him if he
misbehaved.
XXX
November 28th 1939. 12 years old.
Tom was at Hogwarts.
Tom was probably still being bullied at Hogwarts, as his weekly letters often
consisted of complaints about his fellow Slytherins picking on him and the rest
of his year mates shunning him. Harry had always replied with the same crap
about being the only person Tom needed, that Tom would ever need. But, he
thought with a frown, if that also worked the other way around?
Since Tom had been gone, Harry had been having dreams; more like reoccurring
nightmares, where he would live through the memories of his past as he slept,
unable to escape until something Voldemort did or said shocked him awake. He
found he missed waking to the feel of Tom curled against him.
Harry lay in his bed, without Tom beside him, too afraid to drift back to
sleep. It had been eight years since he had escaped from Voldemort, fleeing
into the past and conditioning Tom to behave as Voldemort had forced Harry to
behave. But the memories still haunted him, and Harry still woke hard and
panting despite dreaming about the Dark Lord of everything vile and evil.
This was what he wanted Tom to suffer through, Harry thought, eyes slipping
closed. To hate and to hurt, and yet to want, need, desire, desperate for more
despite how depraved it was, how wrong and sick and painful; forever haunted,
marked by someone else, unresponsive to anyone else. There would only be Harry
in Tom’s life now, and one day Tom might hate that. But he would still love
Harry.
He slipped back into sleep. And then he was there, back at Malfoy Manor, on his
knees before the Dark Lord Voldemort, surrounded by Death Eaters and the
Minister for Magic and his entourage. He was naked, and Voldemort was sitting
behind him, hands massaging Harry’s shoulders gently as his fingers trembled.
“I’ve changed my mind,” the Wizard whispered, voice deadly and low.
Harry bit back a gasp of relief, thighs trembling as Voldemort hauled him to
his feet. He prayed for one stupid second that he would be spared, that someone
would take pity on him. The gathered Wizards looked outraged and disappointed,
because Voldemort had offered them all a turn with Harry Potter, to punish the
boy for something that he couldn’t even recall and to reward the Minister for
his recent electoral win. They had all looked forward to taking their turn
behind Harry Potter, with the boy on his hands and knees, spread and screaming
for them, and yet here was Voldemort, revoking his promise.
He was a jealous and possessive man, and it had been his anger at Harry
attempting to attack him that had motivated such a reaction, such a promise
from him. Normally, he would never have considered loaning his pet to anyone
else. Harry was his concubine, his whore, and only his. But Harry feared having
others use him, touch him and abuse him. Voldemort knew that Harry could barely
tolerate him touching his body, and he knew that Harry would never repeat that
same mistake if he used this punishment on him. But now, watching those Wizards
tent their trousers and salivate over his Harry was making rage bubble within
his chest.
“I’ve changed my mind.” He said again, and no one dared to complain this time.
“Harry is mine. And only mine.”
Harry tried not to cry, the relief so strong within him that at first he didn’t
notice Voldemort lead him towards the back of the sofa instead of the door.
Then Voldemort was pushing him forward and down, bending him over the back of
the sofa, and pushing forward, forcing him into Harry’s unprepared body,
stealing one of those other men’s pleasure for his own and making Harry scream,
right there, in front of everyone. Those men sat and watched him, some stroking
themselves through their robes and others pulling their cocks free, watching
Harry write and struggle beneath Voldemort’s brutal grip.
“Mine,” he snarled, “all mine,” and Harry shot up like a light, gasping and
panting in his bed with his pyjama pants sticky with his seed.
XXX
January 19th 1941. 14 years old. 3
He had been putting up with it for three and a half years. Three and a half
years of bullying and abuse and turning the other fucking cheek because it was
what Harry would want even though Hogwarts was supposed to be different, and
yet it was so much like living at the orphanage that some days Tom wondered why
he even bothered. Three and a half years, and now Tom had had enough.
Prewitt curled around himself on the floor by Tom’s feet, and the younger
Slytherin looked down at him with an angry scowl.
“Enough,” Tom whispered, thinking back on what he had discovered earlier that
day in the library. Harry had known. Harry must have known. It was hereditary,
Harry had told him years ago, back when Tom was still a child. Parseltongue was
hereditary.
He cast a curse on the elder Slytherin, watching with glee as the boy screamed
and writhed before him, at his mercy when Tom had no mercy to spare. “I am the
Heir of Slytherin,” he whispered and Anthony Prewitt barely heard him over his
screams. By this time tomorrow, everyone would know who Tom was. He wasn’t a
Mudblood. He wasn’t even a regular half-blood, because he was the Heir to
Salazar Slytherin and in his mind that made him as Pureblooded as the filth who
was crying and begging at his feet. More so, in fact, Tom thought, looking down
on the pathetic mess and casting another Dark curse.
“You will bow before me now, Prewitt.” Tom told him, “All of you will.”
When he left the boy alone, Prewitt was only capable of crying and shaking. He
would later be taken to St Mungos for treatment, but no one would be able to
prove that Tom had done anything to him, though Harry could guess once news of
the boy’s attack hit the newspapers.
He had written to Harry that same night. His quill denting the parchment as in
his anger Tom pressed down to hard, ripping the sheet in places. He scrawled
angrily, questions about Salazar Slytherin and why Harry had lied to him.
Harry had only replied with one sentence, and as he read it Tom felt his fury
reach boiling point. How dare that hypocrite! Tom thought angrily, how dare
Harry! He promised himself that he wouldn’t go back, wouldn’t crawl for someone
who would lie to him, told himself he’d stay at Hogwarts this summer, that he’d
finally take up the offer Dumbledore had been trying to force on him since his
first year. Dumbledore wanted Tom away from Harry, and Tom wanted as much space
between them as possible right now. He told himself, as he re-read the one line
letter, that he wouldn’t miss Harry at all, even as his body still ached from
the times Harry had taken him over the Yule break.
“I never lied to you, as you never asked.”
Tom set the note on fire with a flick of his wand and a whispered spell, and he
watched as it burned, fighting back the urge to reach out and rescue Harry’s
note, to horde it with the rest of the things Harry had ever given him or
written to him. He was pathetic, he thought, as the letter turned to ash.
XXX
December 22nd 1941. 14 years old.
Tom had managed to avoid Harry for the summer between his fourth and fifth
year, but he hadn’t spent a birthday alone since he was four-years-old, and he
didn’t want to start now. So when Yule came around again, Tom refrained from
signing the register that meant he would be staying at Hogwarts, instead he
packed his things and followed his school-mates to Hogsmeade to board the
Express home.
Home. He had thought about the meaning of the word for the entire train ride,
and he was still no closer to understanding what it meant. Did it mean that as
long as Harry was with him, he was home? Or was Hogwarts his home, where he was
taught things and could experience things, and now had a group of followers who
succumbed to his every whim? Or perhaps the orphanage was his real home, the
place where he had been born, where he had started life? Though he was fourteen
now, the summer that he had skipped out on would have been his last year at
Stockwell. He would never have to go back, Tom realized. He could spend all of
his time with Harry now, or at Hogwarts, and when he graduated, surely Harry
would still desire and love him.
But he was angry with Harry still, for keeping things from him, for keeping
secrets even if Tom could admit the man hadn’t actually lied. Did he really
want to go back to Harry?
He couldn’t go to the orphanage. The train was almost at King’s Cross Station
now, so he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts. Merlin, he thought, had he even told
Harry that he was coming back? Would Harry even be there to collect him?
Harry was there, waiting with his arms crossed while he leant back against the
wall. He looked patient, and he stayed silent until Tom approached him.
“Dumbledore wrote and said you were returning for the break.”
“Yeah,” Tom said softly, scuffing his shoe against the ground. “I’m still angry
with you.” He told the elder Wizard, following dutifully as Harry led the way
out off of the platform and down into the underground, to catch a train to
Vauxhall Road.
Harry didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, and Tom half regretted his
brash words. He wasn’t angry enough to compensate for Harry ignoring him, or
hating him, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. He didn’t have it in
him, not now, not yet, not after having been away from Harry for so long, not
after escaping physical abuse for so many years. The fear just wasn’t in him
anymore, and Harry knew it too. But that would change soon, Harry promised
himself, glancing at Tom’s sullen expression from the corner of his eyes.
( warning: sex & underage )
The moment they closed the door to Harry’s little flat behind them, Tom turned
and pushed himself hard against Harry’s chest. He wouldn’t apologize, but he
could do this. He would offer himself up, he would enjoy every moment with his
lover, and he would revel in the feelings that only Harry could stir up within
him. He would pant and moan and scream and Harry would know that he was
forgiven without Tom ever having to say a word.
“You owe me,” Tom hissed against the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry pushed the
teenager backwards, until Tom lay sprawled across the small sofa. Without
hesitation, Tom rolled onto his stomach, his legs still hanging over the arm
rest, and said, “You didn’t tell me. The least you could do is fuck me.”
And so Harry did. Tom loved every second of it, even though Harry’s grip was
harsher than normal, and his thrusts were furious and painful, and the adult
kept biting down on his neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood. When Harry
came, he snarled against the back of Tom’s neck and pulled away, leaving the
boy still hard and writhing, but unattended to. Tom rolled over, his legs still
spread, still offering himself to Harry, as he stroked himself hurriedly,
desperate to orgasm. Harry’s come was smeared across Tom’s arse and thighs,
dribbling out of the clenching hole, wet and sticky, and mixed with a hint of
blood.
Tom slept after his orgasm, eyes closed in bliss, never knowing that Harry had
raised his wand to him and cast him into sleep. And as Tom slept, Harry cleaned
him up, and gathered him into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest.
( end warnings )
It was time for Tom to be reminded of what he truly was. No more of this Heir
of Slytherin greater-than-thou nonsense. No more backchat or backbone. It was
time for Harry to remind Tom of who, exactly, was in charge in this
relationship.
When Tom woke, it was hours later and there were horribly loud noises echoing
all around him. Air raid sirens, Tom realized, because they were in the middle
of a war. He was no longer at Hogwarts, where they were safe and protected, and
he was obviously not inside of Harry’s flat, where magic would keep them safe.
He was back at the orphanage, even though he was too old, and he was lying on
the floor in a room with everyone else, all crushed together as the noises
wailed around them, warning and terrifying them in equal turns.
“Why am I here?” Tom asked, trying to sit up. He could barely move without pain
lancing up his spine and down his thighs. Harry had been brutal with him, but
Tom didn’t regret it, didn’t resent it. But it was making it hard to move, and
Tom needed to move, needed to go and get back to Harry, but Mrs Cole was there
with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back to the floor.
“Mr Harry said you didn’t have anywhere else to go until you graduated. He’s
agreed to pay for your board and keep, and we’ve agreed to continue housing you
until you turn eighteen and leave that boarding school of yours.” She told him,
her voice nasally and cold. She looked down on him, the lines of her face
standing out against the paleness of her skin, and her mouth turned down as she
eyed the bruises along the side of his throat.
Tom’s hand came up to cover Harry’s marks. His heart was pounding in his chest,
with fear, with the shame that accompanied crying in front of an audience, and
with hopelessness. Had last night been Harry saying goodbye to him? Harry had
left him, truly, he thought to himself, trying to make the words sound right in
his mind. How could this be? Harry had loved him…
Tom gasped, his eyes flying to meet Mrs Cole’s. “Did he say he was coming
back?” She shrugged at him, before walking away to comfort some of the younger
children who had also begun to cry. Maybe Harry thought Tom didn’t love him
anymore, and that was why he had left. Had Tom driven him away?
He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face into his arms, continuing to
sob quietly as the sirens blocked out all other sounds but the frantic,
terrified beating of his heart.
Harry was gone.
XXX
December 29th 1941. 14 years old.
It had been seven days. The sirens had been wailing almost constantly, and as
secluded by magic as Tom had been for the last year and a half he hadn’t
realised how much the war had been affecting London. It was terrifying, to be
locked inside of the orphanage for fear of a bomb dropping on his head if he
ventured outside. He was too afraid to make his way to Harry’s flat, to see if
Harry was still living there, waiting for Tom. He couldn’t find any owls or
pigeons flying about, and so he couldn’t send Harry a letter. And Harry still
hadn’t come back.
It had been seven days, but Tom had finally realised how stupid he had been.
He should have come home last summer. He should have thrown himself into
Harry’s arms on platform nine and three-quarters and never have gotten angry
about the Slytherin thing. Who cares about Slytherin, Tom mentally shouted.
Harry was gone, and that was all that mattered now. Harry was gone and so
nothing else could matter.
“Hello Tom,” a voice softly said.
He had been lying on his bed in his old bedroom because the staff hadn’t gotten
around to housing anyone in it yet. Harry had made sure it was still free for
him, Tom was sure. Usually he spent his days crowded in the shelter with the
others, but today was the first day in a week that there had been no signs of
the German planes, and it had been deemed safe for the children to sleep in
their appointed rooms.
But at the sound of the voice, he sat up straight in his bed, eyes wide and
disbelieving.
“You’ve come back!” He breathed, heart racing. He couldn’t quite believe what
he was seeing. After seven days without Harry, he was there now, standing
stiffly in front of Tom as the boy ran forward, pressing his face to Harry’s
neck and sobbing desperately. “Don’t ever leave again! Never leave me! I’m so
sorry, I am, I’m so sorry. I’ll never, ever, ever behave like that again. I was
stupid and foolish and angry, and I shouldn’t have been because I should have
known that you’d never lie to me, or do anything to hurt me. I’m such an idiot!
No wonder you hate me,” Tom finished with a distressed sob. “Don’t hate me,” he
added in a whisper.
“I don’t hate you, Tom.” Harry told him, hands lightly running up and down
Tom’s back. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”
“I’m sorry!” Tom breathed, tilting his head back and raising his chin. He
waited, hoped that Harry would do what he wanted, because surely Harry couldn’t
have forgotten what the chin movement meant after only seven days.
Harry gave a soft sigh. “Last chance, Tom. I don’t like people who don’t behave
themselves.” Harry leant down slightly, because Tom was nearly as tall as him
now when he stood up straight, and he brushed his lips lightly over Tom’s
pursed ones, comforting and assuring him the way they used to do when Tom was a
child in need of reassurance.
“Never leave me,” Tom begged, hands shaking as he reached up to cup Harry’s
cheeks. He pulled the man’s head down for a real kiss, and Harry melted into
the touch, having missed the touch of the younger boy.
“Only if you behave.” Came the standard reply, and Tom nodded feverently,
clinging tightly to his saviour and abuser, and Harry smirked smugly into Tom’s
black hair, pleased that his plan had worked and a little surprised by how much
Tom had fallen apart without him. It made him tingle inside, just thinking how
completely Tom actually did belong to him, how desperately Tom needed him now.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Tom’s head, before pushing him back towards the
little orphanage bed. With a wave of his wand the door was closed and Tom was
naked. Without needed to be touched, Tom was hard and willing and ready, legs
spreading on either side of Harry’s hips and back arched, offering himself up
like he had been trained to do.
And Harry grinned again.
Then he took him, uncaring who would hear Tom scream, because Muggles could be
Obliviated easily. And when the sirens started to wail again, Tom ignored them.
He didn’t push Harry away and run towards the shelter to cower and hide.
Instead, he spread his legs wider, wrapped them tighter around the elder
Wizard, and bared his throat, because this was all that matter. As long as he
had Harry, he was happy. And Harry would keep him safe.
XXX
April 12th 1943. 16 years old. 3
Harry thrashed from side to side, bucking his hips and rolling his head. This
wasn’t happening, he told himself, as Tom hovered above him, pushing within
him. It wasn’t real. This hadn’t happened in twelve years, he told himself
sternly; Voldemort didn’t exist anymore.
But he was there, above him, within him. With each thrust of Voldemort’s hips,
Harry gave a soft cry. A part of him remembered this; a part of him revelled in
it. After nine years as Voldemort semi-willing whore, how could his body ever
forget the feel of the man above him, buried to the hilt inside of him, how
could his body ever link these sensations to the fear and loathing and shame
that had swallowed him whole for that one year, just one, where he had fought
back against every rape, against every humiliation. His body remembered. His
body craved, and though his mind screamed out in protest, his cock swelled and
exploded, seed coating his stomach and Voldemort’s hand and the man grinned
down at him, red eyes flashing and lips curled back mockingly.
“Come home to me, pet,” the Dark Lord whispered. “You can’t stay gone forever.
Eventually the spell will run out, and you’ll have to come home. To me.”
Harry’s eyes snapped open. His sheets were twisted around his legs, and his
pants were sodden and sticky, but his arse wasn’t hurting and that alone was
enough to calm him. It had been a dream. Nothing more than a dream. But as he
sank back into his pillow he thought about the words from his dream. Was it
possible, he thought? Had the Vorago spell had an expiry date or a counter
spell? Could it suddenly wear off and Harry would find himself drawn
unexpectedly back into 2008, or would the Voldemort of his past come back to
Malfoy Manor and find Anthony Moore tied up on the floor, wandless, and Harry
gone and conjure him back into the future?
Harry threw himself out of his bed, the one between the kitchen and the living
room in his small London flat, that he had never bothered to move out from. The
pornographic images he had shown to Tom were still lying face down beneath “The
Catcher in the Rye” and in the top drawer of the dresser they rested on was the
Dark Arts book Voldemort had gifted him with before he escaped. This book
contained the Vorago, and Harry flipped it open onto that page, the spine
creased in just that one spot as it was all Harry had ever bothered to read
from this book. But now, now it was time to research further.
XXX
Same time.
( warning: sex )
At Hogwarts, while Harry researched at home the spell that had started this new
life, Tom was doing research of his own. Abraxas Malfoy lay spread out beneath
him, flaxen hair spread like a halo around his flushed face. They were both
naked, and Tom’s hands were pulling lightly on the other Slytherin’s swollen
cock.
Tom loved Harry, he did, but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be
on top. The last time he had ever implied such he had been nine-years-old and
visiting Diagon Alley for the first time. And for the first time, Harry had hit
him. He hadn’t done it since, well unless you counted light spanking during
sex, but Tom didn’t, because Harry had really hit him, just because he
mentioned fucking Harry instead of the other way around. Tom knew Harry had
bottomed for that other man, the one who had tied Harry up and taken photos;
one of those photos was kept at the back of Tom’s photo album, and sometimes
Tom ran a finger over the straps of black leather on Harry’s body and wondered
if Harry would ever submit to him like that.
He wanted to know what it was like.
He wanted to know what it was Harry felt as he breeched Tom’s body, as he rode
him and used him and came within him. Tom wanted to know what it would be like
to be the one in charge, and he had wrote to Harry asking for permission to go
through with his experiment. Harry, being the amazing, wonderful man that he
was, had given Tom full permission to experience someone else, as long as Tom
topped. No one but Harry would ever be allowed within Tom’s body.
“Why can’t I-?” Abraxas trailed off as Tom pressed two fingers into him. “I
don’t want to bottom!” He said petulantly, before gasping in surprise as Tom
found his prostate.
“Only Harry is allowed inside of me,” Tom told him. With a whispered spell, one
that Tom didn’t really like because he much preferred the feel of Harry’s
fingers preparing him, Abraxas was stretched and ready for him, and Tom pressed
forward, sinking into the body beneath him that tensed and twisted as Tom stole
its virginity, as Tom split him open.
Abraxas cried out, and Tom knew it was from pain. He could remember how much
his own first time had hurt, but Harry had been there, rubbing him and
comforting him, and so Tom rubbed his fingers lightly across Abraxas’ hipbone
and whispered, “it is ok. It’ll be ok.”
And when they were done, Abraxas winced with every movement.
( end warnings )
Tom lay back on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, looking up at the stars and
feeling rather disappointed. There had been no flashing lights behind his eyes,
his heart had pounded but it hadn’t been the same, there was no gasping,
breathless feeling like he was about to die from the pleasure, and there had
been no Harry there to comfort him. All in all, Tom decided, his experiment was
a failure. Perhaps he would enjoy dominating Harry if the chance ever arose,
but until then, he would be content to be Harry’s, and only Harry’s.
“It’s wrong, you know.” Abraxas told him calmly as he redressed.
Tom continued to lie there naked, thinking about Harry and how long there was
left until he could see him again. His arsed clenched at the thought,
butterflies came to life within his stomach, and he was suddenly so excited by
the prospect of being taken again, unable to wait until May when his mock exams
would be over and he could go home and throw himself into Harry’s waiting arms.
“Hmm?” He asked, only half listening.
“He shouldn’t touch you at all, whether he tops or bottoms. That’s abuse. Tom,
he’s abusing you.” Abraxas reached forward to touch Tom’s shoulder lightly, but
the boy smacked his hand away.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tom chuckled lightly, ignoring the way Abraxas’ face had
pinched with worry and the way the boy limped as he made his way out of the
Astronomy Tower. He closed his eyes, comparing Abraxas to Harry, and knew that
Harry would always be the winner. It wasn’t abuse, Tom knew, because abuse was
wrong. And Harry was never wrong.
XXX
May 16th 1943. 16 years old.
Albus watched the boy.
Tom was the same as he ever was, brilliant, attentive, but underneath it all
there was a taste of darkness, a lust for power that admittedly was only kept
in check by Mr Harry. Though, that didn’t make what Harry was doing right, not
in the least. And Dumbledore worried for the boy, because surely, eventually,
he would see that it wasn’t right, and Harry would no longer be there to keep
him under control.
“Tom, my boy, can we speak?” Dumbledore asked, striding towards the handsome
teenager.
Tom, who had just finished the last of his mock exams, had been standing with a
group of fellow Slytherins. They were all fair-weather friends, he knew, those
who had shunned him for his earlier years at Hogwarts and now pasted themselves
to his side because he was the Heir of Slytherin and called him their Lord and
desired to know how to please him. But only Abraxas had ever been granted the
privilege to lie beneath him, pleasuring him with his body and mouth. But only
Harry would ever truly be able to please him, and the sooner Albus spoke to him
the sooner he could leave and see Harry again.
But he dutifully followed his Professor to the Transfiguration classroom. He
sat in one of the chairs, crossing his ankles beneath the desk and folding his
hands above it, and Tom waited.
He looked patient and polite, but Albus could see the intense dislike that Tom
tried but failed to completely hide, swirling in his eyes. Tom had never quite
forgiven him for that day five years ago when Dumbledore had suggested taking
Tom away from Harry. He didn’t think Tom would appreciate it again now, but
what kind of a person would he be if he didn’t even try? He had tried to
contact the Aurors but according to them, no one lived at the flat the letter
had arrived in, and there was no record of a Doctor Potter, a Mr Potter, or a
Harry Potter of that approximate age anywhere in the Ministry records.4 He just
didn’t exist and so there was nothing they could do about him. But Dumbledore
could try and keep Tom away from the man, even if they couldn’t keep the man
away from Tom.
“My boy, I have to recommend that you remain at Hogwarts again this summer. It
really would be beneficial to you, with the NEWTs fast approaching, and the
Defence Professor looking for an apprentice. You could spend the summer trying
the position out. I know you were interested in it a year ago.”
“How do you know?” Tom asked curiously. He had wanted to teach, ever since he
was thirteen and Harry had told him that he had once taught some of his friends
in secret because their Professor was useless. Harry had been a rather good
teacher, and Tom had hoped to be able to fill those shoes one day, but he
didn’t want Dumbledore knowing his hopes and dreams.
“I know many things, my boy. The walls talk.”
Tom turned his head, and beside him upon the wall was a very familiar looking
portrait. In fact, there was a matching one of this particular Wizard hanging
in the Astronomy Tower, but Tom was sure it had been empty that night, very
sure.
Though, while many people had secret trysts at Hogwarts, it was never enough to
warrant the attentions of someone other than your Head of House. That
Dumbledore was speaking to him meant it had something to do with Harry, and Tom
was half scared that the portrait had heard him tell Abraxas about Harry
touching him. But no, no, Tom consoled himself, because if it were wrong then
Aurors would have been involved by now. But it was only Albus Dumbledore, and
in the scheme of things he wasn’t really that important. So Tom pushed his
chair back and stood up, glancing coldly at the frowning Professor.
“I’m going home, sir. Please stop interfering with my life.”
Dumbledore watched him go in silence. He couldn’t make Tom stay; he couldn’t
force Tom to do anything. He wasn’t the boy’s legal guardian. He had considered
adopting him, keeping him in the Wizarding world where he would be safe, but to
do that he’d need the signature of Tom’s foster parents. He’d need Harry’s
permission; Harry, who no one but Tom could seem to find.
A man that apparently didn’t even exist.
XXX
July 31st 1944. 17 years old.
Harry had done his research. It was only a matter of time, he now knew, before
the spell would start to break down. It could take anywhere up to twenty years
to end completely, and Harry had already been in the past for thirteen of those
years. It could happen at any time, without warning, during the next seven
years. Harry would have no say in the matter, he would be taken by surprise,
blindsided and dumped back into his future. He might even be in the middle of
sex while it happened, or taken a dump, or any other manner of embarrassing
things could be occurring as he was tossed across time. No, he needed to have
control over this, and with that need for control at the forefront of his mind,
he had decided he needed to be the one to decide when he would return home.
There had been mentions of the counter-spell in several books he had managed to
track down, but so far he hadn’t found the actual spell. But when he did, when
he was ready, he would cast it himself, and wait fifty years for Tom to find
him.
But Tom would have to survive those fifty years. He would have to still be Tom,
and while Harry knew the boy would have to age partially at least, there was no
way he was engaging in activities of any kind with a man who looked every one
of his seventy-plus years!
Harry had found it, he’d stolen it, without having to kill the lonely old
women, or frame her terrified house elf. The Locket was tucked away within his
robe pocket, and Harry patted at the bulge lightly to reassure himself. Tom
stood by his side, pale and silent, and he looked up at the large, sprawling
mansion that took up most of their line of sight.
“This is where my father lives?” Tom asked in a soft voice.
“Does it bother you that he had all of this land, this property, and you’ve
grown up with nothing?” Harry asked, genuinely curious. He had been angry when
he had seen his house at Godric’s Hollow. Someone surely could have fixed it up
and he could have lived there with Sirius as his guardian. Instead, they had
left it broken and ruined as a memorial and shipped him off to the Dursleys. He
had been envious of the adjoining houses, all of which looked bright and
cheerful and welcoming in comparison to Number 4 Privet Drive, and he had hated
them all for one selfish second.
“It makes me angry. He abandoned my mother to die, he abandoned me, but I
didn’t grow up with nothing, Harry.” The seventeen year old smiled sadly at the
only person who had ever seemed to love him. “I grew up with you. So let him
have his riches and his bigotry. I have you. I don’t need anyone else.”
Harry gave the teenager a small smile before he took a deep breath and
whispered, “I brought you here to kill them.”
Tom threw himself backwards, gasping. The only thing that saved him from
sprawling across the pebbled driveway was Harry’s hands on his shoulders.
“What?” He hissed, looking horrified. Sure, as a child he had often imagined
the other children and the staff at the orphanage dying slow, horrible deaths
at his hands, but he had never once acted upon those desires. Even when Helen
Doyle had died, it had been an accident and Tom had been distraught; though he
had calmed considerably once he had realised that Harry wasn’t angry with him.
“Think of it not as murder, but as karma. They deserve it, they deserve this
for abandoning you, for hating you without even getting to know you first. They
left you Tom, they didn’t want you, but I did. I do! And I want this too! You
know we won’t always be together, right? Eventually they will manage to
separate us, but if you do this,” Harry said, pulling the Locket from his
pocket and thrusting it at Tom. “If you do this then we can find our way back
to one another. We can be together forever then, Tom.”
“What is it?” Tom asked, reaching hesitantly out for the shinning Locket.
“It used to belong to Salazar Slytherin. Your mother sold it while she was
pregnant, to raise money to feed herself and thus you. She gave a way a part of
her heritage, the only thing she owned that was worth anything, so she could
provide for you, and yet your father has all this money and he couldn’t even
offer you the most basic of things: food, shelter, warmth. There is a spell you
could use to enchant the locket, you could make it into a Horcrux and place a
part of your soul inside to keep it safe and no matter what happens we will
always find our way back to each other.”
Tom’s fingers curled around the chain of the Locket. He looked up at Harry with
wide eyes, and licked his lips nervously. “What do I have to do?”
“Kill them. Use the Killing Curse, I know that you know it Tom; I’ve seen you
practising on the neighbours pets. The Curse will split your soul, and then
focus on the locket, focus on pouring your soul into it. You’ll know it has
worked when you are unable to open the locket again.” Tom pried the edges
apart, and gasped at the painting of a serious looking man with a fuzzy, black
beard. “If you love me, you’ll make the Horcrux,” Harry added, growing
impatient with Tom’s silence. He had assumed that the boy would jump at the
chance to inflict pain on someone else, but apparently his fear of Harry
leaving him was still stronger than his desire to hurt. “I want this, Tom,”
Harry added, leaning forward to brush their lips together. “I won’t leave you
if you do this. This is to keep us together. Unless… Unless you don’t want to
be together anymore?”
“Of course I do!” Tom shouted, cheeks flushing red. “You won’t be
disappointed?” He asked then, in a meek whisper. Harry merely shook his head,
and Tom, as desperate for approval as he ever was; still that pathetic four-
year-old deep down inside, straightened his shoulders and turned resolutely
towards the front doors of Riddle Manor.
Harry left him to it. Walking into the village of Little Hangleton and
purchasing two bars of chocolate, because Tom would definitely need them. When
he came back, Tom was crouching on the front steps of the house, half-hidden in
the shadows beneath the overhanging porch, and the Locket was hanging from his
neck. Harry ignored him, stepping around him and into the house. Everyone was
dead. Riddle Senior splayed in the doorway of the dining room presumably killed
as he tried to escape. Tom’s grandparents were slumped on the table, sitting
side by side, both as dead as each other. Harry smiled to himself, unwrapping
one bar of chocolate and making his way back outside to Tom.
“I’m so proud of you,” Harry whispered, green eyes glinting, as he handed the
bar over. “Is there anything you’d like as a reward?”
“Make love to me,” Tom whispered, looking hopeful and sounding broken, and
briefly Harry regretted his decision. But Tom needed to have a Horcrux, and
this death was the only one Harry could justify. Strangers and helpless old
women were innocent to him, but this family, these people were the reason Tom
became Voldemort, the reason Harry suffered for years at his hands. They were
the only ones who truly had it coming, in his mind; the only ones he could
justifiably convince Tom to kill.
Harry shook his head and released a soft sigh. Then he reached down to pull Tom
to his feet, lacing their fingers together as he whispered, “anything you
desire, my love.” He led Tom back into the house, into the dining room where
three bodies watched them in silence as Harry began to strip. Against Tom’s
better judgement, he closed his eyes and allowed Harry to lead him.
XXX
October 18th 1944. 17 years old.
“Tom! Tom!” Abraxas shouted, but Tom didn’t stop of slow down. The Locket still
hung around his neck and it reeked of Dark magic and sin, but no matter what
Abraxas did or said Tom wouldn’t take it off. Harry liked the sight of it upon
him, you see, and Tom was happy as long as Harry was. “Tom you need to listen
to me!”
“What?” The boy finally turned around, eyes narrowed and lips turned down. He
placed his hands on his hips, and the golden Locket swung lightly on its chain,
until Tom reached up and pressed it against his chest.
“You can’t go back for Yule! You’re coming to my house and you have no choice
in the matter. There, I’ve said it. I’ve already told my parents, and now
they’re expecting you, and it’d be bad manners to change your mind at this
point!”
“Harry will-” Tom began.
“No. No more Harry! It’s always Harry this and Harry that with you, Tom. Can’t
you understand that what he did to you was wrong! People like him deserve to go
to prison! It was abuse. It was rape. It was wrong, Tom!” Abraxas screamed at
him, face flushed, and Tom remembered how the blonde had looked crying out
beneath him years ago as he enjoyed topping. “It’s wrong!”
“What is wrong? That I love him, that he loves me, Abraxas? Is this jealousy
talking?” Tom asked, with a chuckle, not sure if he should be amused by his
friend’s behaviour or not.
“I’m not jealous. I’m worried. He shouldn’t have ever touched you like he did.
Even Professor Dumbledore is worried about you, and I know the two of you don’t
get on, but he’s been trying to keep you both apart for your own good. What he
does to you… how long has it been going on?”
“I can barely remember when it started. But, Abraxas, it doesn’t feel wrong. It
can’t be wrong, because Harry said-”
“Adults can be wrong too, Tom. And they lie. All of the time, sometimes to
protect us and sometimes to hurt us, but you can’t always believe everything
everyone else says.”
“Then how can I believe you?” Tom whispered. His eyes were closed, and he
looked so hurt that Abraxas almost regretted this conversation, but it had to
be done. Tom had to know.
“Because I’m your friend.” Tom opened his mouth, probably to comment that Harry
was his only friend, or his only love, or his only parent, but Abraxas cut in
again. “And he is a paedophile who had been abusing you for years. So trust
me.”
“I need to think about this. I need, I need to think.” Tom told him, forehead
creased as he frowned. There would be research to do, things in the library
that he could read that would disprove Abraxas’ words (or, more worryingly,
prove them). This must have happened to other people before him, Tom thought.
He can’t have been the only stupid, pathetic, gullible child in the whole
world, right? There would be proof. Once he found it, Tom would decide what to
do then. “I’ll come to your home for Yule,” he told his silent friend, and then
he left the room, heading straight for the library. But before he started
researching, he wrote to Harry, to ask if it was true and to tell him of his
plans for Yule.
When Yule passed and Harry still hadn’t replied to him, Tom knew he didn’t need
to read more about psychopathology and grooming or conditioning to know the
truth. Harry’s silence was all he needed.
XXX
March 24th 1945. 18 years old.
Harry looked down at the parchment on the table. The spell was written on it,
there in front of him, within arm’s reach. It was almost over and he was so
close to having this all end. The punch line was fast approaching, and once the
spell had been cast Harry would know whether the last fourteen years had been
worth it. He would either find himself right back where he started, Tom having
gotten over the abuse and sworn revenge on Harry Potter, or he would land in a
whole new world, where Tom had never managed to overcome his training, his
desire to sexually submit himself to his foster father. Harry didn’t know which
would happen, but he knew he’d prefer the latter option.
His fingers traced the words on the parchment.
Beside him, on the sofa, sat a backpack, filled with anything of importance
that Harry was bringing with him. He picked it up, and slipped his arms through
the straps and rolled his shoulders until the bag settled into place against
his back. With his wand in his right hand, and the last letter Tom had written
to him in his left, Harry knew that this was the moment. This was his last
moment here, because when Tom returned that summer he would be too late.
Harry would be gone.
And then they’d all learn how well his plan had worked out.
XXX
June 9th 1945. 18 years old.
He was calling himself Lord Voldemort now. It was an anagram of his real name,
the name his parents had given him, the name Harry had used as he pounded into
his body, as Tom had clung naively to him. But he wasn’t that person anymore.
He was a different person now, a stronger person, and it was time that Harry
learnt he had crossed the wrong person.
Abraxas waited silently behind him, wand in hand, as Tom opened the door to
Harry’s little flat. The Locket hung around his neck, sparkling in the light
from the corridor, and then dulling as Tom stepped into the dark room. With a
flick of his wand the lights turned on, but there was no one within the room.
It was silent, and Tom searched through the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom,
before finding himself standing stupidly once more in the living room with
Abraxas at his back.
There was a piece of parchment on the table, with a spell that Tom didn’t
recognize written on it. Beside it, was the letter Tom had written, asking
Harry if he really was a paedophile, the letter to which Harry had never
replied. Lastly, there was one more letter, and with shaking fingers Tom picked
it up.
“Hello Tom,
It must be terrible of me, to not be there for you once you finally realised
what I had done to you. But, I suppose, I’m a terrible person. I wouldn’t have
done this if I wasn’t, now would i? But, really, you only have yourself to
blame. That man, the one I told you about, who tied me up and hurt me for his
pleasure, he was the man you would one day become if left unchecked. And the
world does not need two such people… Though I suppose there are now him and me,
so I have failed in that respect.
But I am confident that you will never be like us. It is too engrained in your
very being, the disease to please, the need to submit, the wild clenching
feeling you experience at the thought of someone above you or within you; I bet
you’re feeling it now, remembering how it felt to let me take you, aren’t you?
I told you the world would conspire to tear us apart, but I know you, Tom, and
I know you’ll horde that Horcrux close because deep down you can’t wait to see
me again. I will return to you, in time, like I promised; and Lord Voldemort
always keeps his promises, right? You’re standing there, reading my letter, and
telling yourself you can’t wait to see me so that you can hurt me for hurting
you, humiliate and punish me, like I humiliated you. To use me? But deep down,
in a place inside of you where even you are afraid to look you know that you
can’t wait for me to return because already you miss the feel of me pinning you
down, buried to the hilt in your arse while you scream my name.
But don’t worry, my Tom. That day will come soon.
Your Harry.”
Abraxas took a step towards him, hands outstretched to comfort his friend, but
Tom shoved them away. “I’ll show him,” the boy hissed, vowing revenge, “he’ll
be sorry.”
But secretly Tom knew Harry was right. And there were tears escaping his eyes,
because already Tom missed his friend and lover, and he wasn’t sure that his
anger would be enough to keep him until Harry came home again.
XXX
1 – Tom has one of those horrible winter birthdays, which means by the time he
is old enough to go to school the year has already started. He’ll be 12 during
the 2nd term of his 1st year, and so on, so when Tom graduates he will already
be 18 (as opposed to Harry, who turned 18 after he graduated).
2 – Young boys can get hard, they just cannot ejaculate until they reach
puberty and sperm starts to be produced. Orgasm can also happen, as it is due
to the stimulation of nerves, rather than the existence of sperm. My friend had
a younger brother, and when he was 1 they could never get a nappy to fasten on
him, because he was always erect. Apparently it was due to surges of adrenaline
(but don’t take that at face value: it’s been a long time since she told me
this). Puberty starts around 12 or 13 for boys, and as early as 8 for girls,
but some are early bloomers. Like Tom, who apparently started ejaculating at
11!
3 – I lost track of my maths at some point, and now I think the ages/Hogwarts
years in the latter half of the chapter might be incorrect. But as I said, Tom
has a difficult birthday, unlike Harry’s very easy to follow age-to-year ratio.
4 – Harry would be around 40 now. I am assuming that since there was such a gap
between the grandparents going to Hogwarts and having James, that they would
have graduated and married by now, but would still be fairly young, and James
doesn’t exist yet. So there’s Harry, who is 40, and there’s Harold Potter and
his wife, in their late twenties.
***** Part IV *****
Words: 3,363
The_Abyss_4/4
August 6th 2008.
When Harry woke he knew the spell had worked. He was back in the future, back
in Voldemort’s bed, in Voldemort’s mansion, with Voldemort’s arms around his
waist. Harry tensed, shifting a little to see if he could break the Dark Lord’s
hold and was very surprised to note that he didn’t hurt.
Not at all.
His arse didn’t burn or sting, and his back wasn’t whipped or beaten, and his
arm was only numb from sleeping on it all night. So either Voldemort didn’t
know that Harry had cast that spell, or he was saving Harry’s punishment for a
later date, or his plan had actually worked. Harry was tempted to lean over the
sleeping Dark Lord and check his arse, to press a finger inside and see how
lose it was, or not, but then if his plan hadn’t worked and Voldemort woke up,
Harry would be in for a world of pain. For fifteen years, Harry had escaped
that world, and he knew he wasn’t prepared to re-enter it. He couldn’t face the
pain again, especially not now, on his first day back. So he resisted the urge
to examine his ‘master’, and he slipped out from between Voldemort’s arms and
the sheets and off of the bed.
Standing at the foot of the bed, Harry looked around for clothing. He was
naked, as Voldemort always made him sleep, and again he was surprised to
realize he had survived the night unmolested. He savoured the feelings, the
lack of pain shooting up his spine, the fullness within him now compared to how
empty he felt after Voldemort pulled out of him each time. He would prefer life
to continue this way, he thought.
He grabbed a pair of trousers from the trunk at the bottom of the bed and
pulled them on. Harry threw on a robe as well, one that was hanging on the back
of the door. Barefoot, and half dressed, Harry left his and Voldemort’s
bedroom.
“Tempus,” he cast, followed by a spell to check the date. It was very early,
and it was only August 6th. It was the day after Harry had performed the spell.
He had arrived the very next day, but he knew the spell had worked, because
when he stopped to look in a mirror there were extra lines upon his face
brought forth by the extra fifteen years he had lived out in the past. He could
remember every noise Tom made beneath him, remember the shape of his face and
the line of his neck as he followed them with kisses, how his voice sounded,
how he smelled and screamed and writhed, and how Harry’s stomach did flips
whenever Tom said ‘I love you’. It had all been real, it hadn’t been a dream;
but he was back so soon, so no wonder Voldemort hadn’t punished him yet.
Anthony Moore had presumably escaped the room and when he realized Harry had
turned up not even a full day later he had probably, cleverly, kept his mouth
shut.
Harry had been allowed free reign of the mansion once his first year as
Voldemort’s whore was over. For the remaining nine years Harry had unwillingly
succumbed, allowed himself to fall into the trap of ‘master’ and ‘slave’ and
allow everyone else to believe it to be true. When he finally stopped
resisting, Voldemort had finally begun to care about him. He allowed him more
privileges, more benefits, he was trusted to a greater extent, gifted more
often and abused less, and in his own way Voldemort had loved him. Much like
Tom had loved him, and he had loved Tom. Did he love Voldemort, Harry wondered?
He had missed him, and craved his touch, and after ten years of conditioning
that was to be expected. He had dreamt of Voldemort several times after Tom had
started Hogwarts, but each time he had woken up sweaty and sticky, but afraid.
You didn’t fear someone you loved, did you? That wasn’t how it had worked. Tom
had never loved any of the people he had nightmares about, after all, and
neither had Voldemort.
Perhaps Voldemort and Tom were more different than even Harry had considered,
if he could love one and not the other after spending so much time alone
together. Though, he reasoned, perhaps it was bottoming he hated, and not the
man?
XXX
There was a Death Eater meeting that night.
Harry had been invited. He stood at the edge of the dais, covered with a long
black robe with its hood drawn up over his lined face. He was twenty-eight
years old, but he looked older and he felt much older than that. He was
actually forty-three, if you counted the years he had spent in the past, though
he didn’t look that old! Harry chuckled lightly as he thought about it. Those
extra years brought him closer to Voldemort’s seventy-something, and further
away from Tom’s lack of age. Which was more preferable, he wondered as Death
Eaters began to file into the room. To be closer to equal in age to Voldemort,
or to forever be Tom’s elder, his better?
Harry was distracted from his thoughts as Voldemort raised his wand and turned
to his audience.
“Welcome, my friends,” he hissed, sounding as terrible as Voldemort always
sounded. But Harry shuddered, the memories of Voldemort hissing at him in bed,
tongue flickering over Harry’s flushed skin as he spoke and pleasured him,
overwhelmed him, and he couldn’t help the rush of desire that shot through him
suddenly. He thought his legs might buckle, and he reached out to press his
hand to the wall at his back to steady him.
“And are we not friends?” Voldemort continued, red eyes on Harry’s face, and
mouth curving up into a knowing smirk. He knew exactly how he was affecting his
lover. “But, correct me if I’m wrong, friends do not attack their friends, do
they? Friends do not betray or harm their friends, or go behind their backs and
steal and lie to their friends, do they?”
There was a chorus of ‘no, my Lord’s’ then, echoing from each mouth in the
audience and around the room. Some Death Eaters shook their heads, some ducked
their heads as if worried they might be the ones at fault. Harry caught one man
swallowing heavily, hands shaking at his sides, and body trembling. When that
man looked up, Harry couldn’t hold back his gasp. It was Anthony Moore, and he
was staring at the Dark Lord in horror. Regardless of whether he had told
Voldemort about the spell or not, one of them was in trouble, Harry knew. And
Moore knew it too: his terror was so apparent.
By Voldemort’s feet, Nagini’s tongue flicked out to taste the air, and she gave
the snake equivalent of a chuckle before hissing, “He’s very afraid, Master.
How will we punish him?”
“However we see fit, my pet,” Voldemort answered, and his eyes left Moore and
locked onto Harry’s own. Though his face was hidden by the shadow his hood
created, his green eyes were bright enough to be seen, shining like beacons
from his face and attracting Voldemort’s gaze. His wand was pointed at Harry
and a curse flew towards him, taking the boy – man, really, he hadn’t been a
boy for some time – by surprise and actually knocking him off his feet.
Harry screamed. He writhed upon the floor, overcome by the strength of the
curse. He had forgotten how this felt, how terrible and strong and cruel
Voldemort could be. He had been away too long, and apparently it had been all
for nothing, Harry thought as Voldemort cursed him once more.
“We do not betray our friends, pet. I believe you owe our dear friend Anthony
an apology.” Voldemort lowered his wand. The fingers of his free hand tapped
against his lip calmly, slowly, even as his wand hand shook. It almost looked
as if he was afraid, but Harry knew he wasn’t. The Voldemort of his time hadn’t
known fear, hadn’t understood any emotion but anger and lust. And this was the
Voldemort of his time, the Voldemort he had left behind, and failed to reform.
Tom had apparently overcome Harry’s training. All of his hopes for a better
future, all of his dreams and desires for freedom were unravelling before his
eyes, and Harry stared resolutely at the shaking wand in Voldemort’s shaking
hand and remembered all of the other times it had been used to hurt him. And
all of the times it would be used to hurt him still.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, sounding hollow and broken. He had sounded like
that for the first few months after his first year as Voldemort’s slave, before
he had realized that fighting back won him resentment and pain, but giving in
earned him trust and care and small measures of freedom. That was after he had
screamed himself hoarse every night, fought and kicked and bitten, and was
punished. But before he realized that Voldemort actually cared for him, in his
own right, in some small way that could be manipulated by tears and soft,
whispery, pleading. It was how he had sounded before he came up with his plan.
But his plan was finished, useless, and he had nothing once again.
Voldemort’s mouth turned down, a frown marring his attractive features. He
watched Harry, concerned and confused, because he hadn’t seen Harry act like
this in a very long while. And surely it couldn’t have been because he had been
punished? Voldemort had punished Harry several times and the man had never
reacted so hopelessly before. It was concerning.
“Leave.” He hissed, bringing his wand up again to point at those too slow to
follow his commands. The Death Eaters took the hint, filing from the throne
room one after the other, until it was only Voldemort and Harry left within.
The moment the door closed behind his followers, Voldemort cast a locking charm
on it. Harry tensed at the sound, wondering what kind of punishment was coming
now, trying not to imagine what could be so brutal and depraved that Voldemort
wouldn’t let his followers see.
“Harry, love, are you ok?” Voldemort asked. Surprised by the gentle tone of his
voice, something Harry had only ever heard Tom speak with, breathy and needy
and full of love, Harry looked up. Voldemort was kneeling in front of the
throne that he had been sitting on during the meeting. “Did I hurt you? I’ve
used stronger spells before and you’ve always glared and spat back at me. I
appreciate you apologizing easily this once, for it helps save face with the
Death Eaters: they don’t really appreciate you back-chatting their Lord of
course, but you know I’d never ask you to change or argue with you. But… today?
Are you alright? You know I had to punish you for attacking Anthony right? I
had to, or they’d talk and question me! What kind of spell were you attempting,
love, did it hurt you? Is that why you’re like this?”
Harry slowly pushed himself to his feet.
As Voldemort continued to speak, his voice grew softer and his face was kind
and open with a concerned frown upon it, and Harry didn’t know what kind of
game this was and that scared him. Was this his punishment? To believe that
Voldemort was Tom, that his plan had worked because Voldemort must have known
what spell that was and what Harry had planned to do with it, and then kick him
while he was already down? To give him hope and then rip it all away from him
cruelly?
“Harry? Come on,” Voldemort said, giving a small chuckle. “You know the rules.”
Harry went tense, his feet sliding apart and his hands balling at his sides as
he prepared himself for whatever attack was coming. “I hurt you in front of my
Death Eaters if you misbehave. Then you get to punish me, and I make it up to
you in private. Don’t you want the blowjob I offered you?”
“Offered?” Harry whispered. Voldemort stood, making his way to Harry before
taking him by the hand and leading him back to the throne. He pushed Harry down
into the seat and fell to his knees once more before him.
“Of course! Don’t you remember our conversation the day I left for that
mission? The next time I punished you, I offered to suck you off to make it up
to you.” Voldemort blushed and tilted his head to one side the way Tom had used
to when they spoke about sex.
Had the spell truly worked? Harry wondered, his chest tight in anticipation and
something like relief. Had his plan really worked?
“You wanted to tie me up and spank me,” Voldemort said, turning his face away
completely. “But we, uh, we agreed on throne room sex instead. You really don’t
remember? Harry, did Moore hurt you? Did you hit your head?” His hands came out
and cupped Harry’s cheeks, ignoring the way his lover flinched at his touch,
and ran his thumbs lightly over Harry’s flushed skin. “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” Harry said truthfully. “I’m confused.”
“About us? About this?” He turned his face away again, biting down on his
bottom lip. “The spell would have taken you away from here. Were you trying to
leave me? Do you not love me anymore?” Harry didn’t say anything. “Please don’t
leave me. Never leave me. Whatever I’ve done, I won’t do it again, I’ll be
better, I’ll try harder. I love you, Harry, please don’t leave me.” He sounded
like Tom, after Harry had abandoned him at the orphanage during the week-long
air-raid. He sounded so scared and desperate and pathetic, and Harry narrowed
his eyes searching Voldemort’s face for the punchline.
Voldemort’s hands were on Harry’s trousers then, clenched beneath his robes and
pulling at the zipper of his pants. His trousers were pushed down. His robe was
tugged out of the way. And Lord Voldemort bent down over him, mouth open and
willing, and he took Harry’s cock into his mouth. Voldemort sucked and licked
lightly until the organ grew hard, and then he hollowed his cheeks and bobbed
his head faster, ignoring the hand Harry slipped into his hair and the small
thrusts of Harry’s hips that almost choked him.
Harry was moaning above him, and Voldemort chanced a glance up at the flushed,
sweaty face and the wild mane of dark hair that was tangled around his head.
Harry looked down on him, surprised and lustful, and Voldemort smiled around
the cock in his mouth at the look that Harry sent him.
Harry wasn’t going to leave him, he realized, sucking furiously. Harry wasn’t
going to stop loving him, Voldemort told himself as the man came within his
mouth, fingers knotted into his dark hair, and a cry of ‘Tom’ on his lips.
“I love you, Tom.” Harry whispered, slumping back into the throne.
Voldemort stood up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, catching
the few drops of come that had escaped, and reached down to unbutton his pants.
“I love you too, my Harry.”
“What are you doing?” The younger Wizard asked, about to tuck his cock back
into his trousers, until Voldemort’s hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
“I believe we agreed to have throne room sex, did we not? And we do not lie to
our friends,” Voldemort told him, voice pitch low and eye lashes fluttering. He
pushed down his trousers and threw off his robe and stood before Harry Potter
completely naked. “Or our lovers do we, my Harry?”
He made his way to the back of the throne, and leant over it. Harry glanced
over his shoulder, eyes narrowed as he remembered the time Voldemort had fucked
him over the back of a sofa in front of the Minister for Magic and several
other prominent Ministry officials. Harry stood, pushing his trousers off
completely and moving to stand behind Lord Voldemort. He was half tempted to
call the Death Eaters back inside, to humiliate and expose the Dark Lord, but
he didn’t. He had never taken Tom in front of an audience before, and even now
he didn’t want to share this with anyone.
Voldemort was all his.
“You are mine,” Harry hissed, fingers probing at the elder man’s already
prepared arse. Voldemort arched his back, pushing himself closer to Harry’s
fingers, and then his cock as Harry replaced one with the other.
“I’m yours,” the Dark Lord agreed, “your Tom. Harry’s Tom,” he panted as Harry
thrust into him, over him, back pressed to chest and two sets of hands
clenching and squeezing the top of the throne, linking their fingers together.
They moved together, Harry remembering the last time he had taken Tom. The boy
had been seventeen. He hadn’t come home again after his eighteenth birthday,
and when he had graduated Hogwarts Harry had already gone back to the future.
Voldemort rocked beneath him, moaning and begging for more, so much like Tom
that Harry imagined no time had passed between them at all. It was still 1944
and Tom was still moaning for him in his only bedroom at the little flat on
Vauxhall Road.
Voldemort craved him, desired him; he always had and he always will. No amount
of time passing would change that. But while Harry had been gone, he’d had his
whores and his servants, but all of them submitted to him. Only Harry was
allowed within him. He had been taught that from the very start and he had
learnt his lesson well, but that didn’t change the fact that Harry had been
gone, and while he had been gone Tom had missed and hated him in equal parts.
But his anger hadn’t been enough, and when Harry Potter had first appeared at
Hogwarts Voldemort hadn’t quite known who he was. But once the boy turned
eighteen it was perfectly obvious that this Harry and his Harry were one and
the same. The final battle ended, and while the Dark Lord was victorious, that
night ended with Voldemort on his hands and knees beneath the teenage saviour.
Because, no matter how much time passed, he would forever be Mr Harry’s Tom.
From the age of four until whenever he died, he would belong to Harry. And just
like when he was eleven, Voldemort found that preferable than to be known as a
‘Riddle’; anything was better than that. But being Harry’s was even better.
Voldemort smiled as he came down from his orgasm, reaching behind him to twist
his fingers into Harry’s sweaty hair. Harry thrust twice more into him before
coming with a groan, a garbled form of Tom’s name.
They had missed this, they both realized. Whether it be days, or months, or
years without the other, since touching the other, but they would always miss
this thing between them. Harry had been trained by Voldemort to want this, to
crave this and while that training had apparently never come to pass in this
future Harry knew he that he would always belong to Lord Voldemort nonetheless.
And Tom would forever be Harry’s, taught and conditioned to want Harry and no
one but Harry.
But that was the way Tom liked it.
Harry smirked into the back of Voldemort’s neck, his cock soft and sated,
pressing against Tom’s pale arse. His plan had worked. He had carried out the
perfect vengeance and had gained the perfect result. His victim still loved
him, and so Harry still got to keep his Tom. Excitement bubbled within his
stomach, and his cock began to swell again. Without warning, Harry pushed back
into Voldemort’s body, wringing a gasp of surprise from the elder Wizard. He
thrust desperately, relishing the moans and groans of the Dark Lord, and he
knew just as he now knew his plan had worked that he was finally home.
He was free.
XXX
* * *
Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, and who will review this chapter.
Some of you might not have liked the way it ended, but that was always how I
had the chapter planned out, so I’m sorry, but… C’est la vie. Thanks again.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!