Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1182742.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle, Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle_|_Harry_Potter/Voldemort
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Tom_Riddle_|_Voldemort, Ginny_Weasley, Hermione_Granger,
      Sirius_Black, Bellatrix_Black_Lestrange
  Additional Tags:
      Mythology_-_Freeform, Romance, Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added, Greek
      Mythology_-_Freeform, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, War
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-13 Updated: 2014-03-09 Chapters: 3/? Words: 6181
****** Uncover ******
by Mer_des_Miroirs
Summary
     In a world without Tom Riddle, Harry Potter is not a Chosen One.
     It takes a chance meeting and a plea for help, that Tom's lips burn
     against his forehead, and he is tied to the whole.
     He is part of a game to uncover.
***** Lost *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
In darkness, there is little difference between the paths, as they begin the
same to dissolve an echoing abyss. Ginny exhales hard, no longer of a short
breath, since they have to walk carefully in the darkness, slowly bending the
twigs out of their faces; to step beyond populous prickly plants and broken
trees. To keep a safe distance from the abyss, as their path bites into the
hill a thin string.
Ginny kicks down a stone or two. Stones fall between grass and earth, adding to
the song of the forest.
“I am thirsty” Harry vocalises.
I am tired, hungry, angry and cold, he should say.
I am lost.
It feels worse, whenever there is more than one path to choose from and the
next step actually matters. Are they to approach a Muggle dwelling – the sweet
promise of people, transportation, communication… Is this the turn into a
deeper darkness?
Unlike the Forbidden Forest, which Harry visited many a time in a bout of
bravery, no strange creature lives in these parts, no child of Hagrid’s. Their
only foes are the swift night and tall trees, the lack of victuals and a
shelter, the absence of wands. Harry grew restless in the safe sunny Germany
together with other kids, whereas anyone important stayed back home fighting a
War.   
“Study the Muggle ways”, Sirius said. “So you can teach me!” Sirius laughed,
patting his godson’s hair to cover his godson’s eyes.
Harry glared. Harry was useless, but Muggles loved hiking. Muggles arrived on
foot, renting the bungalows next to the one Harry and friends share. Muggles
ate, joked vivaciously, swam in the lake. Some slept late, most left afore
afternoon.
“We are a part of a popular scenic route, a pilgrim’s way even!” Hermione
elaborated, “Just as in the Middle Ages, Muggles travel from one place to
another empowered by their own bodies, delighting in the untamed nature, and
safe. See – “Hermione pointed at a lantern covered in colourful stickers – “The
path is marked by the blue letter “T” every hundred meters or so”.
Harry felt inspired. He got a map of their immediate surroundings. There he
drew a curved line between their holiday home and a nice little village two
train stations to the east. Together with Ginny, for she was the only one to
willingly participate, Harry shouldered a water bottle, buttered bread, red
apples, and left – Up, Up, Right, Down, Up…
They conversed on the finer points of Quidditch, ate, sat on the mossy tree
trunks and occasionally a bench placed there for a weary traveller. They
discovered themselves a little out of shape. They took a snack from wild
blackberries. They mentioned War.
Ginny enquired how much longer it takes to reach the closest train station, as
it was late in the afternoon.
Harry implied to speed up their descent by sliding – climbing, walking –
downhill, instead of following the snaky twists the path takes.
Ginny approved. They abandon the road, conquer the slope. It is a sporty,
slightly dangerous endeavour to laugh about.
An hour later they would be moving upwards, holding to the grass blades,
embracing tree roots and flowers sharp. They are dirty and out of breath.
As the night falls, they walk ways narrow and wild. The moon is young. There
are only stars between hope and abyss. They stand at a crossroads. Many paths,
and one distinguished by a pale line of white stones.
“It goes up” Ginny observes. “We ought to go down”.
 “A human did it” reasons Harry. “Someone might be there. They make restaurants
out of castle ruins”.
They go up. Up. Up. Up. The road is cleaner, easier to move. I need a drink,
decides Harry. He listens to the running water – one of the many streams
crossing the forest, close yet unattainable in the darkness.     
 At last they come to a human raised structure, a wall of rough stone, cool to
his sweaty head. They ascend. They reach an entrance. A bridge lingers between
the outer and inner wall. The door is from wood and iron. Ginny touches the
bell.
 
 “Ding – Dong”
 
***
His name is Tom Riddle. He owns the house. He is a tall man with dark hair and
eyes, and speaks easy formal English with a slight accent of someone, who spent
the majority of his life elsewhere.
“We took a shortcut” Ginny exclaims. Tom offers them sweet Apfelschorle and a
place to sit at.
Midges assault Harry’s arms and mouth, lured by the promise of blood and fire.
A torch illuminates their faces, as they stay in the garden, not yet invited to
enter the house.
“We are lost. And now, we are lost here with you”.
 
Chapter End Notes
     There is an opinion that to fight a writer's block you begin a new
     story. I certainly tried. I have only a vague idea of what is to
     come, though some local German tales serve an inspiration, and the
     next chapter is called "Lust"
***** Lust (I) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Life is beautiful, Harry thinks, tasting the cool sweet carbonated drink, his
legs outstretched under the wooden table. A pillow lovingly cushions his aching
back where it meets the rustic chair. The stars shine a thousand fireflies
dancing peacefully above Harry’s head.
When Harry departed this morning without a wand and a portkey, he fought
against the feeling of a greater helplessness – him but a child not deemed in
any way worthy to join the life-and-death battles his most important persons
are daily exposed to. Harry has to prove that he is at least as competent as an
adult Muggle – and are not Muggles their equals – walking the road without a
magical failsafe.
It was a desperate experience Harry longs to forget about now – buried in a
bed, stretched on a couch, coiled on a warm rug… taken to any place with four
walls and a roof offering Harry a dreamless sleep. How lucky, for there is a
house in sight!
Mr. Riddle, the house’s owner, has just gathered their emptied cups and smiles
invitingly –
“I thank you for the delight your visit has given me. I hope you enjoy your
further way through this poetic forest. I rather advise you to follow the path
this time.”
Mr. Riddle stands, and his hand white and slender motioned outside.
Harry favours not to listen to his senses – he surely got it wrong. Ginny asks
as if vying for Professor Snape’s attention –
“Sir, can we stay overnight, please?”
Their not quite host spells then in perfect monotony –
“You cannot honestly expect me to take strangers into my house and bed for no
other incentive than a Christian compassion…”
“It is dark!” The words escape Harry’s mouth as if a twisted reflection of an
other horror Riddle would not conceive.
“And here I was convinced that a night walk has been a popular juvenile pastime
at least since the 19th century. But given your disposition to fight the
monsters in the dark, you may have a candle.”
It is the moment that Harry decides Riddle is a snake-faced bastard not worth
talking to. Ginny, more used to be a beggar than chooser, however, insists –
“What would you like in exchange for your hospitality? We can pay, but we do
not have much.”
“I do not hold an interest in money” Riddle princely evokes. “Roses are the
only currency you can threaten me with. It is generally not wise to deny your
private property to a person offering you a rose. They could bewitch you
forever.”
Harry’s cold hand grasps Ginny’s, fully intent to take in up with the night –
and be it a means to evade Riddle. His lips mechanically demand – “There is no
magic! Magic is not real!”
Ginny presses her fingertips against Harry’s palm, whispers quickly – “It is a
reference to the film we just watched with Hermione. The animated one.”
Harry halts. Riddle does not know. It is a Muggle thing he speaks about. A folk
tale born out of fear and longing and a harmless fascination.
Harry breaths. Riddle looks up from where he counted his fingernails, utters
each word with a velvet curiosity –
“You are frightened.”
“It is dark” stubbornly repeats Harry and crosses his arms. At last Riddle
surrenders –
“We can exchange favours. I let you in. You sit me for a painting.”
Riddle has long fingers. They cut air into a meaningless past and a hopeful
future.
“As isolated as this place is, guests are rare. I then rely upon photographs –
those single moments I can seek to make moving and mine, yet ultimately they
have been ensnared and captured and frozen by someone else.
As my guests, I ask you to become a part in a story of my own creation, and a
part of my world. And I ask you to come in!”
The door is open. Riddle burns like a torch warm, passionate and alight. And
for the first time that night Harry craves.
***
 
They walk the labyrinthine corridors and a flight of stairs, their feet
resonating off smooth stone a dim drone. Turns and twists as confusing as
profoundly unexpected from what little Harry must have perceived of the house.
How small Harry assumed the house to be, as it hid within mendacious shadows.
Riddle, with his pretty face and slick clothes and bare feet hardly touching
the ground, belonged to a castle maybe not as old and spacious as Hogwarts is,
yet certainly a cause for Riddle’s stuck-up Pureblood attitude, as he nears two
gilded doors.
“They have an adjoined bathroom each. I suggest you to wash off the dirt. Leave
all clothes be, my housekeeper may bear to clean those. In the meantime
bathrobes shall suffice, as I come for you in about a quarter an hour. “
“Bathrobes?” Harry looks for a hidden meaning. Riddle shrugs –
“It would be somewhat big on you, of course, as it is intended to adorn an
average sized male species. I hope you can bear such a momentary inconvenience,
as you can discard it as soon as we enter the drawing room.”
“But without a robe…” Harry’s mind hastens to supply.
“Ah, yes. The piece I intend upon originates within the Ancient Greek pantheon.
Aphrodite dines with Adonis, the view fashionably unobstructed.”
“No” Harry says, his stomach salutes at the mention of a meal.
“No” Harry cries, taking in the long corridor and Riddle’s dark slit-like eyes.
“Leave Ginny out of it!”
The air stops. Shadows escape Riddle, mate with stone and wood.
“I think that I regard myself as insulted” Riddle remarks from between sharp
teeth.
They stand with both feet inside Riddle’s kingdom. Two Gryffindors, they now
face the consequences of not having negotiated the details of the painting
session beforehand, as Riddle has a particular demand on his models. Yet their
rashness to cross the house’s threshold has its advantages, as it is no longer
easy for Riddle to force his struggling guests outside. Riddle is a Muggle.
There are no wards, no magic for him to rely upon. Riddle cannot throw them
out, Harry thinks. Riddle has to make a concession, and Harry offers a
compromise –
“Leave Ginny out of this. She is fourteen!”
“Alright” Riddle assents. “Let us exchange Love for Death.”
“No” states Ginny. She too is going to fight for her friend’s dignity. There is
hardly a difference between Harry’s age and her own… Harry shakes his head,
asking for Ginny’s trust and her silence. It is only just for Harry to bear the
weightier consequences, as there is no doubt Harry is to blame for the
disastrous excursion happening. He is at fault for initiating the hiking trip
and the flaws in both its organisation and execution. There are no nude
paintings at Hogwarts, unless one counts the blithe mermaid from the prefects’
bathroom always winking at him…
Justin Finch-Fletchley, a Muggle-born Hufflepuff student in Harry’s year, was
recently showing a catalogue for the art exhibition his mother organised.
Despite their motionless nature and the unreadable Muggle commentary, the
depicted pieces have been a point of interest to the Hogwarts male population,
as every single one was of a lovely woman within varying states of undress.
There appears to be nothing strange that Riddle asks for a naked model. Still,
Harry favours this part to be played by someone ordinary - and not a girl
exceptionally pretty.
“Two goddesses adored the fair Adonis. As for the lascivious Aphrodite being an
inappropriate choice, Miss Weasley may assume the part of Persephone, the
immaculate daughter of Earth wed to the Underworld…” Riddle begins a mannered
snowfall, yet his words gain speed and brightness as he visibly savours the
altered circumstance –
“The Greek explanation for the change of seasons within a year relied upon a
being of such a great loveliness to be adversarily removed into the realms of
Death, thus the Earth herself mourns the loss – and the nature fades into a
winter misery.
Once they return amongst living, it is spring and it is summer. Persephone and
Adonis, the Death and Life deities. Two parallel myths, each has to spend half
a year every year with Hades. Why, the Dark Lord is well engaged, as the nature
weeps for both her children…”
Riddle’s face glows the same blaze as earlier outside and Harry must listen.
“I wish to paint the moment of transition. The calm grows a storm and the last
struggle before heartless winter. I imagine…”
Riddle shrugs. “I shall inform Helena, my housekeeper, to assist Miss Weasley
to her chiton and cloak. I am fetching Mr. Potter within fifteen minutes – as
previously announced.”
Riddle smiles, evaporates. Harry hurries to enter his room, only mumbling a
“See you later” to Ginny. His childhood friend has every right to be upset, yet
she is guiltless; Riddle is keeping them, and Harry ought to be fair.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Splitting the chapter in two. The "I am so slow, but I want to have
     something done" case (...)
***** Lust (II) *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
From the many lies Slytherins spread a most obvious one, Harry thinks, is the
Pureblood assessment on the stage of Muggle civilisation. “Muggles are dumb,
dirty and disgustingly primitive” Mrs. Lestrange is known to say. “The utmost
responsibility of the Wizarding race is to contain the Muggle decease, as it
throughout endangers our commendable society, destroys our country and our
magic!”
Yet it is because of the unworthy Muggle technology, that rivulets of sweet
water descend upon Harry’s battered flesh, surround him with a fiery power and
strawberries flavoured steam.
Perfect, Harry laughs, turning the water tap slightly, marvelling at the swift
temperature change, heating his body, wetting his hair, sharing the energy.
Nothing conjured lasts, as it is materialised by magic and is thus dependent on
a continuous supply of magical power to persist. Other than the simple
manipulation of an object into a condition not very different from its origin –
speeding up the natural healing process of an injury through Episkey, slicing a
tree branch with a well placed Diffindo – each spell with a long-term effect
has to be maintained. Wards, for example, are not only to be actively re-cast
every few years to remain most efficient, they also feed on the surrounded
magical sources.
Hogwarts wards are not only some of the strongest in the country, they are
fuelled by the Ley lines the castle was built upon; the remarkable collection
of the magical artefacts, some even enchanted by the school founders and still
carrying their extraordinary magical essence; the large number of magical
plants and creatures living on the Hogwarts grounds, and especially the house-
elves, whose magic has ever been one of the most important factors to support a
Wizarding household; lastly – the teachers and the student population give an
amount of their energy to aid Hogwarts. Hence, it is a well-known secret that
the Hogwarts wards are the weakest during the end of the year exams, as its
humans suffer from a chronic exhaustion. In winter, the students are forced to
manually re-apply the close area heating charms, especially in the dungeons, as
it is impossible to successfully heat the large castle without sacrificing on
the more vital functions. In summer, the demand for water, food and convenience
lessens significantly, so the house-elves manage.
The Burrow, the traditional home of Ginny’s family, is not only one of the most
magical British buildings; it is permanently on the brink of a collapse. Layer
over layer, the house is literally held together by a gleaming net of magic to
be maintained with the help of the ghoul, the unnerving yet necessary garden
gnomes, and first of all – by the high amount of children Weasleys are known to
have.
Contrastingly, the pureblood families like Malfoys think themselves something
better for employing house-elves rather than “breeding like rabbits”. Next to
the choosing of an optimal location and hoarding magical artefacts with as much
fervour as dragons crave gold, the real secret behind the extensive Pureblood
manors is the effort to build them as magic-less as possible. The goblin
riches, now celebrated in the representative white stones of Gringotts, go back
to the goblins being the classical master craftsmen of the Wizarding
population. Sirius, however, Harry recalls, has more than implied that the bulk
of what nowadays decorates the great manors has been ordered at the cheaper
Muggle artisans before and even betimes after the Stature of Secrecy unfolded.
Much of what is proudly presented as a goblin made masterpiece it certainly is
not. The goblins might have fought a war or two over the copyright
infringement. According to Mr. Binns, the Hogwarts history instructor,
Wizarding history can be indeed reduced to the multiplicity of goblin wars.
Nevertheless, the Pureblood hypocrites dare to oppose the Wizarding World
Progressive Party, 2WP, Harry’s father and godfather are the senior members of,
as it advises for a dialogue between the Muggle and the Wizarding Worlds in
order to not only overcome the centuries old division, but also adopt the
advantages of the exemplary Muggle technology in such a way as to unshackle the
common wizard’s magic at the same time as raising the living standard.
“Every Wizard a Television”, “Oil, not Magic” and “Everybody a Genius” are some
of the popular 2WP slogans. Less appreciation gathered Hermione’s local
grouping of the House-Elves Liberation Front, HELF. Hermione stays confident –
“Whether you want it or not, the house-elves are going to fight for their
rights like minimal wages and paid vacations.
“Since a Muggle style household keeping negates the passive magical drain in
all the house’s inhabitants, the house-elves too shall discover a greater power
at their disposal. Nowadays, house-elves are half-starved and beaten into
submission and too weak to protest. Wizards support the 2WP’s agenda for their
own gain, yet their efforts inadvertently lead to the creation of the strong
house-elf, who no longer submits to the status quo.
“It is the best case capitalism”, Hermione said. Harry was too sick of hearing
about HELF business all month long to further enquire after Hermione’s
distinguishably Muggle word choice.
The inhabitants to a mixed Wizard-Muggle settlement like Godric’s Hollow seemed
predestined to get an early access to the Muggle water, fire and heating
systems.
Consequentially, the question was posed how to pay for the Muggle public
services. Gringotts offers five pounds a Galleon, resulting on average in
twenty Galleons additional monthly expense – and more than the majority of the
families 2WP represents can afford even with the expected rise in the workforce
productivity. Then, the heightened interest into the Galleon-pound exchange
rates blessedly revealed that according to the Muggle banks, a Galleon is not
only made of an ounce of gold each, a Galleon is worth its weight in gold.
Whereas Gringotts still follows the 19th century gold standard to determine its
conversion rate, the Muggle gold market fluctuates according to the supply and
demand. As of year 1995, when this particular Wizengamot session took place,
the Muggle banks offered two hundred and fifty pounds a Galleon’s weight. The
basic needs of an average Wizarding family would therefore amount to half a
Galleon a month – and the other half for the victuals.
It caused a clamour. The Gringotts representative coughed without further
effect; then motioned to Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore presiding over
the noble assembly to roar pervadingly – “Enough!”
Mr. Ragnok stated that first: Gringotts is against opening the Wizarding
monetary system to the Muggle one, as it is mildly said dangerous, dangerous,
has unforeseeable grave consequences on the Wizarding market. Second: the
current exchange rate is required to allow the parents of the Muggle-born
students to comfortably pay for their child’s education and school supplies. In
turn, whenever the members of the elevated Wizarding families insist on
spending a day in the Muggle world, thus buying pounds from Gringotts, they are
indirectly graciously sponsoring the Muggle-born students. Of course, there is
a limit imposed on how many Galleons a year the Muggle-born’s family receives –
carefully calculated as to both provide for the child’s necessities and to
cover for the Wizarding families’ demand for Muggle money as to maintain a
viable circle. Imagine, Gringotts were to actually lose its precious gold to
the Muggle economy!
Hence, “Everything should stay as it ever was!”
Wizengamot at its loudest. From “Greedy goblins” over “Muggle-born parasites”
to a proposition to pay Muggle banks with Leprechaun gold authentically short-
lived, everything is worth a shout.
Ultimately, Harry’s mother, a young and most promising Unspeakable, forces a
word. Using Muggle Services, she reminds, is currently not feasible, as all and
any Muggle home technology ceases to work within a magical environment unless
it is operated by magic – “And thus useless to our goal.”
Correspondingly, Lily Potter proposes a foundation and priority funding of a
“Friendly Electricity” team within the Department of Mysteries.
“We must find a way for Magic and Electricity to go hand in hand.” Lily Potter
tells.
As it is, Lily Potter speaks something unspeakable.
The Black matriarch is the first to point her gnarly finger at Harry’s mom,
calling her an ungrateful, treacherous Mudblood, whose true aim it is to
extinguish the superior Wizarding civilisation by sabotaging its “best defence
against these filthy Muggles!”
What follows are the death threats, howlers, curses delivered daily to the
Potter residence. Add several almost successful assaults in the plain daylight
and the nightly raids – and Harry’s family is forced to apply the Fidelius
Charm to achieve even a sense of safety.
“Well, well…” a voice snarled, fist pounding against the door. “You are late,
Potter”.
Ten points from Gryffindor! What do I care about your Quidditch practice? And
again a detention, Potter - multi-coloured black robe hovers over the brass
cauldrons. Bella Donna is a queen of poisons. Beware of the dark chocolate…
“Ouch!” Harry rubs on his stingy toes, where he dropped an almost full bottle
of shampoo.
“Are you alright?” Harry discerns the voice, as his eyes trace the veil made of
steam, glass and wall – separating him from the man.
“Stay out!” Harry cries, throwing the shower door open and vanishes within the
spacious folds of a white robe, as it soaks water from his body and hair.
He faces Riddle in the guestroom, puddles on the Persian carpet, because
offence is the best defence, and Harry refuses to let Riddle pass beyond the
last of the supposedly closed doors, assaulting Harry’s privacy. Riddle has the
ability to look amused at the same time as wearing a frown. Ultimately, he must
like what he sees, because Riddle calls and Harry follows. Harry hides from the
man’s glare within clingy textile.
“The death of Adonis… Are his final struggles the onset of a new era or merely
the end of a lost one?”
Riddle walks quickly, Harry pays little attention to his ramblings, as Harry’s
feet are cold and slippery and unwilling to keep up. Harry counts steps. Sixty-
nine, seventy-seven, two hundred and one. Riddle glides into a circular space,
thick draperies cover the full length windows. Wood burns in the fireside, as
do the black coals. Candles illuminate the room. Harry’s eyes are drawn to what
looks a rectangular table dressed in emerald velvet cloth flowing downside into
the rich obsidian fringes and pillows.
Riddle’s voice ignites Harry with a simple – “Undress.”
“Alright, I…” Harry’s hands fight his earlier resolution, convulsing near the
knot.
“Wear this” Riddle presses in Harry’s hands something red with a golden brooch
and a pattern; he resumes re-arranging the tubes of paint and brushes.
Soft silk makes love to Harry’s trembling fingers. “What is it?” Harry asks
confused and hopeful.
“The chlamys is a style of cloak typical to the adolescent males of the era. It
would be the only garment to adorn the young Adonis on his fated hunt.”
A cloak Harry can work with. He shouts – “Wait a moment!” and dives behind a
Japanese screen that separates Riddle’s working area from a low couch next to a
ceiling high bookshelf. Harry squeezes into the furthest possible corner where
he sees nothing of Riddle, thus Riddle in turn is blind of Harry. For a moment
Harry considers to hide behind the heavy draperies, yet the promise of a cold
window facing the black forest makes him shiver.
Harry untangles the bathrobe, twisting the wet cloth as to marginally dry
himself ere it falls to the floor. The cloak is short. It barely reaches beyond
Harry’s thighs as Harry fastens the brooch and gathers the edges into a shapely
shell. He considers the belt of the now discarded bathrobe as a means to keep
the cloak from opening. Decidedly, Harry slings it around his waist and ties a
bow. Harry now looks like one of the house-elves to have served at Gilderoy
Lockhart’s Valentine’s Day Gala – bare the bow and arrows. Then again, Riddle
mentioned a hunt.
Riddle emerges from behind the square canvas, walking straight at Harry, as
Harry refuses to back down. Riddle’s fingers fly to Harry’s waist and pull.
“This is not a way to wear a chlamys.” Riddle chuckles, imprisoning Harry’s
belt. “You let it hang from your shoulders down your back leaving the front
bare. The power and the beauty of human body are art. You have nothing to hide
and nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Easy for you to say,” glares Harry. Riddle is too close and insistent. “You,
for one, are well-dressed.”
Riddle withdraws. “I agree. That is, of course, highly unfair.”
Riddle’s hands unbutton and take off his jacket. Riddle’s fingers throw away
his waistcoat, untie the shirt. The dress shirt slips from Riddle’s shoulders,
falling to his elbows, as Riddle engages the trouser waistband.
Harry’s arm jerks and throat hurts and he swallows audibly, because Harry is
not prepared to deal with this kind of a situation. Dodging deadly curses is
easier than the nonchalance in Riddle’s eyes as he shows increasingly more
skin. Uncovers a white expanse with tinges of rose, yellow and blue, and well-
shaped shadows of chest and stomach and… hips.
“This is! This is not what I meant!” Harry accuses with fervour of a dying
swan, his own knuckles anaemic where he clenches his drapery together. Riddle
thankfully halts before he can discard the material from his legs. Immodesty,
Harry knows, is ready to depart from Riddle’s lips, as they are thankfully
interrupted.
“Have you been hot, my Lord?”
The speaker is a young woman with light steps and dark eyes, her dark curls in
a state of a controlled chaos as they frame an exquisite face and body. She is
Helena, Riddle’s housekeeper, but by the richness of her long flowing garments
sparkling with precious gems and a proud grace, she is a queen worthy of a
man’s heart.
How stupid of Harry to bashfully flee from Riddle’s eyes as if the painter asks
for something more than a body to chastely project onto his canvas. How plain
Ginny looks, as she moves behind Helena, clad in a pale blue dress reaching to
her heels and a shawl. Riddle too frowns –
“Miss Weasley has the fiery spirit yet famed innocence of sweet Kore. Her
transitional moment is such from a girl cheerful and tender into a power
magnificent and terrible.
“Tame her hair; add heavy jewellery – gold, garnets and rubies. Paint her eyes,
cheeks and lips. Dress her a woman and a majesty, where she is a child curious
and scared…
“I want Miss Weasley to look a daughter of Zeus and no less, Helena.” Riddle
whispers. Ginny bites her lips, her pupils dilated, as she drinks his vision.
The ladies leave for a mirror and treasury.
Harry shuts his eyes tightly, permits his arms to fall to his sides and
susurrates –
“Who is Adonis?”
 
***
“O Cinyras, king of the Cyprians, those men with hairy rumps, the son that is
born to thee is fairest and most admirable of all men. Yet two divinities shall
destroy him, the goddess driven with secret oars, the god driving.”
“What” Harry mutters, as Riddle closes on him, not touching but advancing, step
for step, as Harry retreats till his back hits the velvet table – a pedestal –
and he has no choice but to raise himself above the ground and sit. His head is
still at the level of Riddle’s neck, but his feet have lost their ground.
“A quote from a tragedy” Riddle denotes open-heartedly.
“Adonis is a Cyprian prince. His homeland – a cult place to the Goddess of
Love. It is here that Aphrodite – conceived from the sky’s blood and semen, as
the sky fell to the treacherous time – Aphrodite emerged out of the Ocean and
took Cyprus her kingdom.
“From his birth Adonis is bound to Aphrodite through his country and blood – in
hubris and madness, devotion and incest. He is a most beloved offering, as if
an ideal of loveliness made in stone and kissed to life…”              
Riddle retires. He crosses the room, leaving Harry alone on the table – and
suddenly all the more exposed. Harry glues his eyes on Riddle’s back – the
shirt hanging low, uncovering shoulder blades, as Riddle dives for a pair of
half-boots. He offers Harry the footwear – leather and lace and open across the
toes. “They are called kothurnos. You take them to the theatre and hunt.”
“How lovely,” Harry remarks. “A cloak that covers nothing and fancy shoes. What
does that make me?”
He heaves his feet on the table, so as to lace the boots up comfortably.
Riddle’s attention is elsewhere, as Riddle sorts through a number of crystal
flasks, opens them, mixes the fluids in a greater receptacle. Places red vial
on a silver tablet. Looks in Harry’s direction -
“In a viewpoint of the Ancients” Riddle speaks “You are a young warrior. A
hunter most esteemed by the Goddess of Love. Yet, it was a man who claimed you.
You enjoyed the hunt. You became hunted.”
Riddle comes barehanded.
“A wild boar’s tusk hard and sharp penetrated your thigh. Broke soft white
skin. Pierced the untouched flesh.“
He approves of Harry’s caged feet, requires Harry to lie down on velvet cloth,
for –
“Adonis writhed on green grass, his body afire, bleeding, moaning, torn…”
Harry moves not.
Harry’s eyes are on Riddle’s mouth, as he strains to hear Riddle, who, Harry
believes, purposefully lowers his voice to a throaty murmur.
“I want you in agony” Riddle blows.
“As you burn – frightened, hurt, helpless. As you fight for your breath,
knowing, yes knowing – every sweet, violent exhale can be your last one…”
Riddle touches Harry. He pushes Harry to lie down upon the makeshift altar as
if on emerald grass.
Riddle is back at the easel. He says – “Move.”
“What?” Harry snaps very much violated.
“We need to find the best angle for the painting. Why do not you try to thrash
around a little? Twist your body. It must be tense yet graceful, as if on a
verge of an explosion – for what else is death?
“Keep your eyes on me. You want to appeal to me, as you tell me the story of
your passion and misery.”
Harry shudders and his chest heaves. Yes, smiles Riddle, yes. Harry locks his
eyes on Riddle’s deep green ones, flickering red in the faithless candle light.
There is little else Harry can do without screaming in mortification, as he
mindlessly animates his body into an awkward dance. He is naked and shaking as
if a leaf on a November tree, and sweating as if on a run across a summer
beach. It is agony. Riddle’s face is distant, unfeeling. His eyes – observing,
calculating. A sharp –
“Stop” and Harry freezes, his back arched uncomfortably, his left ankle
dangling in the air, his right leg bent in the knee, foot planted firmly
against the surface. He rests his chin on the left shoulder, his mouth half-
open as it is difficult to breath.
“You are spread beautifully” Riddle claims.
“It hurts” Harry hisses, because his lower back is most certainly not used to
this kind of exercise.
“You are in pain,” Riddle hums. He finally considers approaching Harry, a
glittering vial in his hand. “You are bleeding right here” he points at Harry’s
inner thigh not far from where it joins his torso.
“Red palm oil, rose hip seed oil, rose oil, cocoa butter, cochineal powder and
sea snail secretion… Not quite a perfect imitation, alas!” Riddle pours the
sticky cold scarlet fluid on Harry’s feverish skin, eliciting a cry.
“Hush” Riddle currs, “You will smear it everywhere. Try to hold your position.”
He receives a whimper. The moment Riddle turns his back on Harry - looking for
another accessory – Harry falls flat down on the table and well-nigh relaxes.
Riddle offers a single red rose full and blooming.
“As Adonis dies, his blood turns a flavourful red flower granting him
immortality.”
Riddle rips one petal and another, lets them fall on Harry’s skin a blooming
trail from his hip downwards. A stray one lands near Harry’s navel, two more in
the area Harry prefers not to think about. Riddle lets them be, and for that
Harry is grateful. Harry still feels where Riddle’s fingers approached his
chest forcing him to submit. Harry desires no further skin on skin contact,
thank you very much.
Riddle appears to agree, as he traces a phantom lesion in Harry’s reddened
flesh using the flower’s empty stem. The thorns scratch at Harry’s thigh, but
there is not enough pressure to actually penetrate.
“It looks adequate” Riddle concludes, his task done.
 
***
Riddle bestows a second rose on Ginny. Ginny is charmingly talked to, as she
enters solemn and festive. Riddle bows, kisses the back of her hand, leads her
whereto Harry is waiting. She blushes terribly and avoids meeting Harry’s eyes.
Ginny is to sit on the floor, on the throne of black pillows, underneath the
emerald grass, under earth.
“The myth of Hades and Persephone can be considered a prototype of a Beauty and
the Beast tale. Persephone plays in the fields, as her attention is seized by a
flower unlike anything she has seen before. She obtains the flower.” Riddle
places a red rose blossom next to Ginny’s sandal. “And in turn she is captured
by the man whose flower it is. Whose flower she becomes…”
Riddle bows anew, because Ginny is now a golden Goddess, whereas Harry stays a
mortal boy naked and anguished.
Riddle offers one last gift to divine hands small and soft. It is two halves of
a pomegranate.
“Persephone ate six pomegranate seeds. She belonged to the End now, to the
immortal fields.”
Riddle takes a brush and a palette “Do not fear to eat the fruit” Riddle easily
smiles. “It would be the best if you let some juice to stain your fingers, as
if you are now walking the line between childhood and a marital life.”
Then, Riddle paints.
Harry pushes himself up for as long as his back allows, has to rest on his
buttocks, ere he re-assumes his position. He is bored and the time seems
endless. He has fully studied the patterns of Ginny’s hair and crown; whatever
little of Riddle emerges from behind the canvas. Having to keep his head in
place, he sees little of the room, but the covered windows. His main focus
remains his body, the unbearable tension, the temperature, the drying as if
blood from an as if wound.
A distraction comes in the form of a sudden burn on his chest and then on his
lower stomach. It does not last beyond a sharp point in space and time, and a
surprised moan from Harry’s lips. The perpetrator, Harry understands, is the
great candelabrum just above Harry's torso, as it drops molten wax on Harry’s
skin.
“Do not move” Riddle snaps, flicks his hand agitatedly. Harry feels miniscule
and vulnerable, as if a mouse hypnotised by a snake. Tired too, Harry requires
an entirety of himself to keep thrusting his back fashionably, so he swallows
his complains, counts falling wax stars, bites his lips accordingly, trembles…
Riddle paints, and it is not until he notices a significant decrease in the
pomegranate’s shape that he asks Ginny when their last meal was.
Ginny’s answer is dissatisfyingly honest. Harry’s stomach growls in accordance.
“What a host I am!” Riddle exclaims engagingly. “We ought to have food!” Riddle
smashes his fine hands, summons Helena.
 It is during the midnight dinner that Harry knows, he cannot be sated and
angry at the same time, hence he accepts Tom.              
Chapter End Notes
     Next Up: Lust part III.
     A few things about the galleon/pounds conversion, JKR states that a)
     Galleons are particularly big golden coins and b) the exchange rate
     is 5 pounds to 1 galleon.
     The largest common gold coins you can buy nowadays (for example
     Canadian Gold Maple Leaf or American Gold Eagle) weigh 1 troy ounce
     or 31.1 gram. They are about 3cm in diameter and 3 mm thick, making
     them a little larger than 2€ coins. Comparably, I set the weight of 1
     Galleon to 1 troy ounce of finest 24 karat gold.
     In 1817 a gold coin with a value of 1 pound sterling was introduced,
     weighing 7,3g of slightly less valuable 22 karat gold. According to
     the gold standard the exchange rate between different currencies was
     determined based on their actual gold weight.
     1 Galleon therefore equalled 31,1g/7,3g = 4,26+ pounds. Rounding it
     up, we get an exchange rate disfavouring Muggle-borns but slightly.
     In contrast, with the gold prices being the matter of demand and
     supply, even in the relatively mild nineties, a conversion rate of 1
     to 250 pounds would make a wand of 7 Galleons an investment of 1750
     pounds, whereas Lockhart’s bibliography of 35 galleons (so
     Pottermore) compares to the price of a small car (8750 pounds – and
     over 10 000 USD).
     Hardly a Muggle-born could pay these prices, hence the solution I
     suggested. The further consequences for the Wizarding Market as well
     as the mentioned magical, political and social issues shall be
     discussed in the course of the story. After all, there is no war
     without a reason.
     ***
     What do you think about the newest chapter?^^
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