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This is the stupidest idea I’ve ever come up with, Tom thinks to himself, as he smooths down the front of his robes and tries not to look too bored.
He allows himself a larger gulp of his firewhiskey than he normally partakes in. The burn feels quite grounding searing its way down his throat and allows him to momentarily drown out the voice opposite him, going on and on about which Chasers are getting traded to which other teams during the Quidditch off-season.
He frowns, squinting at his glass and giving it a shake. It’s somehow already empty.
“Excuse me a moment,” he says, then turns to walk towards the bar. He orders a double pour of whiskey, his third order that night, and downs it on the spot. “Actually, make that two more,” he adds, slapping down a handful of coins.
He gives his temples a surreptitious rub. It would all be worth it in the end, he reminds himself. His rapid ascent within three years of graduating Hogwarts to the prestigious role of Undersecretary to the Minister was nothing short of extraordinary. From the start, Tom had been singularly focused on becoming the country’s youngest ever Minister, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
And yet—
He shakes off the thought and returns to the table that he’d been sharing with Harry Potter and shoves one of the drinks into Harry’s hand. If Harry’s mouth is occupied with taking sips, he’d spend less of that time talking about typical meathead topics like broomstick-related sports news.
During the brief respite, Tom thinks about the stack of bills he’s sponsored languishing in committee over the last few months.
He thinks about Sluggy’s advice to soften his public image if he wanted to get things pushed through the Wizengamot with greater ease.
He thinks about the fact that the higher and faster he rose within the Ministry, the more the whispers would abound about his Dark Arts affiliations, his unwavering alliance with the old Pureblood families, and his vehemently anti-Muggle sentiments. The accusations that he wanted to strip rights away from mudbloods and squibs and magical creatures—anyone that didn’t fit the traditionalist mould of the wizarding world’s finest Pureblood bloodlines.
Tom scowls to himself. The last part wasn’t entirely true. He quite liked the potential he saw in certain species of magical creatures, and how they were more powerful than wizards in many ways. He could easily see himself one day gathering allies amongst the most powerful and vicious of beasts and half-breeds.
“Ginny might advance to third broom at the Harpies if Niamh gets traded away,” Harry pipes up excitedly, blithely continuing a conversational thread that Tom had lost track of two? three? drinks ago. “It’s about time she makes it off the bench and onto the main lineup!”
Is Tom supposed to know who the fuck these people are?
He nods politely, trying to place where he had heard at least one of those names before. “Ah – the, ah – the Weasley family’s youngest,” he says slowly. “On the – Gryffindor team when we were at school.” He hopes he had guessed the house right, but he couldn’t remember any descendants of that filthy muggle-loving clan that had no concept of birth control ever getting sorted into any house but Gryffindor.
“That’s right!” Harry exclaims, throwing his glass back with a large gulp and slamming it down on the table.
A crack appears in the side of the glass from the force of Harry’s slam. Tom starts to cast a simple wandless Reparo, but then decides not to. It could be better entertainment if the glass happens to split in Harry’s hand the next time he reaches for it and he cuts himself somewhat gorily and Tom gets to show off his wandless healing skills.
By this point, both of them are at least four drinks deep. Better now than never, Tom decides, steeling himself. He knows he needs to take a very blunt and straightforward approach because he’s not sure if anything more subtle would make its way through Harry Potter’s thick and likely Quidditch-damaged skull.
“Harry,” he says, trying to inject as much of a reassuring warmth into his voice as possible. “You see, the reason I arranged drinks with you tonight is because I would like – to date you.”
A confused look spreads across Harry’s face.
“I would like for us to date,” Tom repeats clearly and very slowly, as though explaining something to a first year.
Tom had decided earlier that week that Harry Potter would be the perfect candidate to improve his image and broaden his appeal across the political spectrum. He was a half-blood. He came from a long line of blood traitors. All his friends were mudbloods or blood traitors or half-breeds of some sort. And he held a handful of inherited seats on the Wizengamot from the Potter line, which always voted in line with reformist causes.
A close association with Harry would certainly help quell the criticisms from Tom’s opponents that he is staunchly aligned with Pureblood interests—and Pureblood interests only—including the revitalization of the Dark Arts.
All of which is true, of course, but Tom doesn’t want his public image to reflect that quite yet. Not until he seizes enough power within the Ministry that it doesn’t matter what the public thinks.
Harry sets his glass down on the table. “You’re not serious, are you, Riddle?” he asks, a suspicious wariness in his voice that Tom hadn’t imagined him capable of.
“I am perfectly serious,” Tom sniffs. “I like your—” He finds himself at a rare loss for words. “I think you’re quite fit,” he finally settles on.
Harry scoffs, quite rudely. “Well, that’s not a reason for us to date! Quite a lot of people find me fit, you know. If you just want to sleep around, Riddle, there’s plenty of the career climber sort in the Ministry who would gladly suck your cock in exchange for you finding time on the Minister’s schedule for them.”
Never had it crossed Tom’s mind that Harry Potter, the most bludger-brained Quidditch player in the entire British Professional Leagues, would turn him down.
Tom grinds his back teeth together, but he quickly schools his expression into a pleasant facade. “Would you consider going to dinner with me? Friday night. And on a regular basis going forward.” He reaches out a hand to settle it atop of Harry’s which is resting on the table. “I’ll pay.”
“Come on, what’s this about?” Harry’s expression hardens somewhat, and he looks considerably more sober than he did 10 minutes ago when he was blathering on about Quidditch rankings. “What’s your angle here?”
“What makes you think I have an angle?” Tom asks lightly.
“If I know anything from our time in school together, Riddle, I know you always have an angle. There’s nothing that you do purely for fun. People like you—you only do things for reasons.”
“And my reason can’t be that I find you fit and – really so very interesting?” The only reason why Tom doesn’t choke with laughter on the last few words is because he’s had over 20 years of being a very skilled liar.
A glint appears in Harry’s eyes. “Let’s cut to the chase. I’ll tell you what—if you tell me the reason you’re really here, in return, I would... I’ll actually consider it. You’re, you know—” a sharp smile spreads across his face, “—quite fit yourself.”
“Very well,” Tom begins, forcing his expression into something warm and confiding. “I’ve decided it is prudent to expand my social circle. After so long among high-achieving, career-driven people, I thought it would be beneficial to try a relationship with someone who might bring some balance to my life.”
“Rubbish,” Harry scoffs. "And what's in it for me? Maybe I can learn to be as uptight as you. Might have to shove a big stick up my arse."
“Lovely,” Tom deadpans, closing his eyes and praying for patience.
“Come on, Riddle, no need to stand on formality with me,” Harry leans in and lowers his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “We’ve known each other from First Year, after all. You can put on all these refined Pureblood mannerisms all you want, but I know deep down you would prefer to cut to the chase and tear people’s throat out by your teeth if you could.”
Tom raises a brow. Perhaps Harry is a more astute judge of character than he had initially thought. In that case, Tom figures it’s best to change his approach to a more direct one.
“I’ll propose a trade, then. Agree to date me, and I’ll do something for you.”
Harry gives Tom a long, assessing look. “I don’t think it’s true that you’re just trying to expand your social circle. I know you like your people just fine. But you want something.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
“That’s the thing.” Harry takes a big swallow and sets down his glass with a decisive thud. “I don’t know. But you didn’t ask me on a date because you want a relationship for real.”
Harry’s sharp green eyes seem to pierce straight through Tom’s own.
“Alright, that’s fair,” Tom shrugs. It’s probably best that Harry knows Tom’s interest isn’t genuine. He would like to avoid a messy, emotional break-up that would play out in a salacious way across the tabloids and distract from his political ambitions. “I don’t want a relationship for real,” Tom agrees. “I want us to go on a handful of public dates for a bit, and in return, I’ll help you out as well.”
“Wait, is this about helping your public image?” A slow, knowing grin starts to spread across Harry’s face. “Show the world that you’re a man of the people instead of having Malfoy’s platinum-plated walking stick permanently stuck up your arse?”
Tom sighs, brushing off Harry’s crude attempt at an insult. He continues with his offer. “In return, I’ll help you out as well. You spoke out in support of the Werewolf Protection Act in the latest edition of Seeker Weekly, didn’t you? It’s being pushed by the radicals from the Creature Liberation Front, but you must know that no one takes them seriously. The bill won’t pass. Not unless someone like me attaches their name to it.”
Finally, a spark of interest flashes within Harry’s eyes.
“You care about this,” Tom presses. “You have a—godson who’s afflicted with lycanthropy, don’t you? This bill can help him. Ensure a fair and more welcoming future for him.”
Tom has privately long held ambitions of allying with the more ferocious werewolf packs one day, so he has his own reasons for wanting the bill passed, but Harry doesn’t have to know about that part.
“I don’t know…” Harry says, trailing his finger along the side of his cup. “As much as I love Remus and Teddy, I never thought I’d ever whore myself out for them.”
Tom rolls his eyes, but then he realizes Harry is smiling, as if terribly pleased with himself. “Do we have a deal, then?”
“Tell me again what I’m signing up for?”
“Dinner with me on Friday night. And on a regular basis going forward,” Tom repeats. “No more, no less.”
*
“No more, no less, huh?” Harry asks breathlessly, as Tom slams his back against the bathroom stall’s flimsy wall so hard the toilet paper falls and rolls out from under the door. Harry probably would make a decent politician, considering how much he spews out pointless words.
Better to shut that stupid mouth with a kiss. It seems like the only way to preserve Tom’s sanity.
Besides, Tom’s hands are already in Harry’s pants, so some snogging isn’t going to make the situation any worse. He pins Harry’s overly fit upper body harder against the dirty wall, and smashes their lips together just in time to cut off the first syllable of the next painfully obvious remark. The kiss is very toothy. And wet.
And oddly hot.
Tom isn’t a very huggy-kissy type of person, but the intimacy of feeling Harry’s warm breath all over his face is making his cock extra hard. The wandering fingers that are currently quite desperately trying to find their way under Tom’s robes may have something to do with it, too.
“What—” Harry starts when Tom finally frees his mouth for a second to get some air “—are we doing?”
He sounds more confused and curious than opposed.
“It’s called a blowjob,” Tom replies nonchalantly as he drops down on his knees, pulling Harry’s pants down as he goes. “You’re going to return the favour after,” he adds pointedly before grabbing the base of Harry’s erection with one hand, and sliding the rest of it deep into his throat.
Harry’s knees sag and the sink gives a premonitory creak as he leans against it to keep himself up. “Oh, fuck!” he cries out so loudly the whole pub probably hears the evidence of Tom’s exceptional sexual prowess.
Having a cock in his mouth feels so nice, Tom can almost ignore the mix of filth and soggy toilet paper he’s kneeling on. He moves his hands against Harry’s bare arse and sinks his nails into the tanned flesh to keep him in place as he moves his head back until the tip of Harry’s cock rests between his lips. He stops to listen to the desperate gasps for a moment, and then pulls Harry’s hips closer to take him all the way in again.
*
“So… This… Do you want to date?” Harry asks, as he stops buttoning his robes to sweep sweat from his flushed face. “I mean, for real?”
The question is so dumb just hearing it causes interference in Tom’s train of thought. He fails a simple Reparo, and the pieces of the broken porcelain sink stay on the floor. “Of course not,” he says before casting the spell again.
“Yeah, me neither,” Harry laughs. He scratches his neck as he watches Tom’s spells undo the damage they caused in the last fifteen minutes, and when the loo looks less like an aftermath of an earthquake, he opens the latch on the door and steps out. “So… I’ll see you on Friday, then?” he turns around to ask. “Fake dinner,” he clarifies.
“The dinner is real,” Tom says and straightens his collar, hoping his cheeks don’t look as hot as they feel. “The relationship is not.”
“Right.”
*
Dinner is just as trying as drinks were earlier in the week. Harry continues to be his cheerfully daft self, chattering away about the latest broom releases while Tom tries to enjoy his meal of poached sea bass.
At least people have noticed them. Tom takes note of every side glance and hushed observation. It happens as they take their seats, when Tom orders for both of them, and particularly when they share a dessert plate.
"So…" Harry trails off as Tom pays the bill. "Now what?"
"What do you mean, 'now what'? We had dinner, and we will again next weekend."
Harry looks Tom in the eye, flashes a brief, uncertain smile, and then looks away. "Coffee at mine?"
Tom wants to say no. He wants to continue on with his day and find some productive use of these last few hours of the evening. But then Harry goes to put on his jacket, and Tom takes note of the way his bicep flexes with the motion.
It certainly wouldn't hurt to be seen leaving together.
*
Tom does not make it to Harry’s home before he is fully distracted by a terribly enthusiastic round of snogging. Harry’s approach to kissing is about as unrefined as his conversation skills, and it’s really a miracle that neither of them have chipped a tooth so far.
“This is stupid, isn’t it?” Harry asks the moment they break apart. It’s chilly in the alley they had found themselves in, just a damp and narrow gap between two shops. “What are we even doing here?”
“Whatever we like,” Tom immediately retorts. “Though these surroundings are far from ideal.”
“I just – I don’t do this, you know?” Tom waits for him to complete the thought, and Harry shakes his head, clearly exasperated. “Not that you’d get it.”
“No, Harry, I understand perfectly well. You want a real relationship. You want commitment, and fidelity. And you can have that.” Tom reaches up, cupping Harry’s cheek in his hand. “As soon as we’ve exhausted each other’s usefulness.”
Harry scoffs, but he doesn’t pull away from Tom’s hand. “Who knows how long that’ll be. It takes forever to get a bill through the Wizengamot, doesn’t it?”
“Not when you’re me. I am very good at my job.”
“I’m sure.” That does get Harry to back off.
“Who would you rather see yourself with?” Tom asks, following as Harry turns out of the alley to walk down the sidewalk. “Would it help your delicate sensibilities if you pictured one of them in my place?”
“That’s fucked. You’re fucked, Riddle.”
Harry protests as if offended by the suggestion, but Tom notices the way his eyes light up, as if thinking it over. They continue on in silence, as Harry has not rescinded his invitation to his home.
“Cedric, maybe,” Harry mutters. “Might be hard, though, since you’re nothing alike.”
“Oh?” Tom replies, prompting him to go on.
“We hooked up once or twice a while back, but nothing ever came of it. Oh, here we are.” Harry stops outside a door and opens it, and Tom barely pays his surroundings any mind as he steps inside.
He follows Harry into the living room, ignoring the muttered offer for some tea, and pushes Harry down on the sofa. Tom drops to his knees, making quick work of removing both of their trousers as Harry shuffles out of his shirt.
“I wonder if Cedric ever sucked you off nearly this well,” Tom says, ignoring Harry’s offended huff. He wets his lips before taking Harry’s cock to the back of his throat.
*
They do not, in fact, make it to the French restaurant that Tom had so carefully selected for their second official ‘date’ the following week. That next Friday, Tom had shown up at Harry’s place to side-along apparate him directly to the restaurant, so that they could be seen arriving together.
But then Harry had kissed him in greeting, and before Tom had stopped to properly think about what he was doing, he ended up dragging Harry upstairs and into the bedroom.
It occurs to Tom that spending so much time in the company of a half-wit might have resulted in the loss of some IQ points of his own.
But it just might be worth it, Tom thinks, as he finds himself kneeling over Harry’s lap with his hands braced against Harry’s shoulders, positioned over his generously long and thick and leaking cock.
“Don’t move,” he instructs. “And don’t say anything stupid either. Or I swear to Merlin, I’ll get up and leave.”
Of course, Harry is incapable of letting too long go by without any idiotic utterances escaping from his mouth, but Tom decides to let it slide, since the feeling of Harry’s cock slowly pressing into him, filling him up better than anything else in recent memory had, is simply too good for Tom to walk away from.
“Fuck, oh fuck, oh god, fuck,” Harry moans, as Tom slowly presses down until he’s seated on Harry’s lap.
They pause for a moment there, with each small motion of Harry’s hips sending bright, hot sparks of pleasure shooting up Tom’s spine as his cock grinds against Tom’s prostate. He grips Harry’s shoulders hard enough to bruise, holding him down firmly as they move together.
Eventually, Harry starts driving upwards into him, and Tom falls forward, burying his face against Harry’s neck. He breathes deeply as Harry’s thrusts turn demanding, almost violent, and notes that his skin tastes like sweat and smells like freshly washed sheets.
Strong hands grip Tom’s hips, driving him down again and again, tightening painfully when Harry comes with a cry, wet and hot and sticky deep inside of Tom.
Harry makes some vague noises of concern a moment later over whether Tom had managed to come as well. But when they separate, Harry sees Tom had gotten off perfectly well by himself, grinding his cock in the tight space between their bodies, and he draws Tom into another overly enthusiastic open-mouthed kiss.
What a waste of an evening, Tom thinks, collapsing next to Harry in bed, covered in sweat and fucked-out to the point of exhaustion. What was even the point of this whole farce if the general public didn’t even see them out together?
“That was fun,” Harry says once they’ve spelled away the mess.
Tom lets out a long-suffering groan, throwing his hand over Harry’s face to shut him up. They would have to try again next weekend, and he’ll have to make sure that they’re spotted by the right people.
“We’ll meet at the new Italian place in Diagon Alley next Friday night,” Tom mutters before he passes out. “Don’t be late.”
*
The trendy Italian restaurant proves to be the perfect place to see and be seen.
Tom spots Pansy Parkinson, the Daily Prophet’s society columnist, thoughtfully looking over at them from her seat at the bar, a dark eyebrow arched in speculation, and he knows that the news of his date with Harry will make it to at least page 3 by tomorrow morning.
He and Harry had already seen each other a few times that week, though they hadn’t arranged any formal ‘dates’ with each other since the previous Friday. But Tom had found that casually apparating over to Harry’s place and ending up in his bedroom for the night was a nice way to wind down from the stresses of his workday.
The creamy burrata appetizer followed by the signature truffle and mushroom risotto are so delicious that even Harry’s inane attempts at conversation seem far more bearable than they ever have before.
To his own surprise, Tom even laughs along when Harry recounts the gruelling and masochistic training regimen that Oliver Wood, the team’s assistant coach, had assigned them for the off-season.
Tom mostly doesn’t bother to remember the names of people from houses that aren’t Slytherin, but he does remember appreciating Wood’s ambition and intense dedication to achieving his goals, admirable qualities that are usually rare to find in a Gryffindor.
“Say, Oliver Wood seems decently tolerable. For a Gryffindor at least,” Tom muses. “Now that I’m branching out and apparently trying new things like dating Quidditch players, think you can set me up with him in a few months?”
“Wh-what?” Harry looks taken aback.
“I meant, when this is all over, of course,” Tom clarifies, gesturing briefly between them. He gives an amused scoff. “I can’t be seen as the unfaithful sort, especially not if my favorability index is poised to increase in the polls over the next few months.
“L-like for real?” Harry stammers. “You want to – him – for real?”
Tom shoots a quick look in Harry’s direction. “Oh, you must forgive me,” he says, upon realizing he’d committed such a glaring faux pas. “I should have known that you’d be interested in him as well. He seems exactly your sort.” While he had no problem occasionally dropping insults about Harry’s general demeanour, or intellect, or life choices, he hadn’t meant to prod at what was clearly a sore spot for him. “Well, in that case, you simply must let me help you win his affections. That way you won’t be bored and lonely—and likely celibate—after we’re done.”
“He’s - he’s not—no, that’s not what I meant—”
“Don’t worry, Harry.” Tom puts on a winning smile. “I’m not offended that Oliver Wood is your type. He’s rather built like Cedric, isn’t he?” He leans in and whispers across the table in a low undertone. “In fact, it’s pretty hot to imagine the two of you together.” He reaches under the tablecloth and pulls Harry’s hand to rest atop his crotch, where he’s already half-hard.
Harry immediately pulls his hand back, flushing red and looking affronted.
Tom shrugs. Despite their first time together in a dirty pub bathroom, perhaps Harry isn’t generally the public exhibitionism sort.
Harry seems a little distant and quiet for the rest of dinner, but it doesn’t bother Tom. In fact, he considers it a marked improvement from Harry’s usual chattersome company, and he swirls his chilled crisp prosecco in the wine glass, savouring the sparkle of the bubbles rising in the glass and the rare moment of peace and quiet.
When Tom passes the bar on his way to the coat room, he drops Pansy a tip that he’s getting bottle service Saturday night at the Lumos Lounge, and to be there with the Prophet’s photographer if she wants to get an exclusive scoop on their budding relationship.
Of course, he hasn’t had a chance to discuss any plans for Saturday with Harry yet, but he can’t imagine Harry would have anything else going on in his life that would take priority over Tom.
Just as he had the night before, and the previous night, and the night before that, Tom somehow finds himself back inside of Harry’s flat after dinner, pinning Harry to the wall just inside his entryway.
In between ripping Harry’s shirt off and biting down on his neck, he thinks he hears a mumbled, “Wait,” but he ignores it in favour of continuing to suck a deep bruise into the side of Harry’s neck.
“We can’t—”
Unfortunately, the annoying words manage to reach through the haze of lust surrounding Tom’s brain when Harry pulls back just as Tom is shoving a hand down the front of his trousers.
“What?” Tom snaps.
“We can’t – if we’re not – I can’t do this,” Harry heaves out, biting down on his lower lip and looking utterly conflicted.
“Do what?” Tom asks, undeterred. He reaches back down towards Harry’s cock and digs it out of Harry’s pants, giving it a tight squeeze. “We’re not doing anything.”
“Ahhh,” Harry moans, as Tom strokes him roughly up and down his length. “We shouldn’t be—I mean, if we’re not dating for real—”
“Of course we’re not,” Tom easily agrees. “Glad we’re on the same page.” Then he plants his mouth on Harry’s to prevent any other tiresome words from escaping Harry’s mouth.
Tom is still loose from the night before, so it doesn’t take much time to ready himself before he’s sinking back down onto Harry’s sizable girth.
“Give me a—give me a moment.” Harry sounds breathless, as he reaches down to squeeze the base of his cock to prevent himself from coming right away. “Okay—okay, you can keep going now.”
It feels like something clicks into place when Harry slides all the way inside and his cock brushes inside of Tom at his favourite angle. It feels even better than it did the night before.
“You feel so good,” Harry moans from under him. “Ahh, god, Tom, oh my god—” he babbles. “This feels incredible—you’re incredible. I never imagined...”
“You’re not too bad yourself,” Tom counters. “Maybe I’ll keep you around even after—”
But then Harry thrusts up with a particularly aggressive motion, and the rest of the words are lost in Tom’s throat.
Tom thinks he could get used to this. This being some of the best sex he’s ever had—and the best part is, he doesn’t even need to take Harry out to dinner every time either.
He’s started to recognize the signs of when Harry’s about to come, as he tightens his grip around Tom’s waist with a bruising force and speeds up his thrusts until he’s fucking upwards into Tom with a forceful abandon that hits all the right spots in a way that has Tom leaking all over Harry’s stomach every time.
Harry immediately flips them over and sucks off Tom until he’s coming so hard down Harry’s throat it feels like every last drop has been squeezed out of him.
“I can’t – we can’t – Tom, I can’t do this again,” is the first thing Harry says after he swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not if we’re not—"
“Of course we won’t,” Tom agrees, cutting Harry off before he says anything that either of them would regret. “Your floor is far too horrendous for my back to handle.”
*
Over the next few weeks, Tom finds himself snogging Harry in public more often, and not even for the benefit of the press photographers that have grown increasingly enchanted with the fairytale romance of two of the Wizarding World’s most promising and handsome young bachelors dating each other.
Though he doesn’t understand why Harry, on occasion, seems reluctant to have Tom over after dinner, asking him inane things like, “Aren’t we only supposed to be pretend-dating?”
But Tom simply retorts that fake-dating doesn’t mean they can’t also fuck, and Harry’s protests always die down as soon as Tom gets a hand down the inside of his pants.
*
Everything is going perfectly to plan, Tom thinks. He’s been making great progress pushing the Werewolf Protection Act through committee. Once the law goes into effect, no werewolf would be held fully responsible for any violence committed on or close to a full moon—the worst possible punishment would entail enrolling in a rehabilitative program to train them to better control themselves, which might serve as a handy recruitment list in the near future.
Just in case anyone has a use for a werewolf militia.
Most importantly, Tom’s public image is improving drastically better than he had initially anticipated. His favorability ratings in the polls have just started to tip above 50%, and increasingly, his opponents from across the aisle are starting to work together on bills with him. He’s even recently received an invitation to attend a meeting run by the bleeding-heart reformist party, who are intent on discussing the next steps after werewolf liberation. This is just the kind of balance he sought for his political future.
These days, Tom’s main concern revolves around how he can buy more time to milk all the benefits from his relationship with Harry before the bill passes and Harry decides they are no longer obligated to spend time together.
He’s shamelessly started to pull every trick in the book to add procedural delays to the passage of the bill. He’s arranged countless public hearings; he mandates a budgetary review to ensure that there’s enough funding from tax dollars to support the werewolf rehabilitation program; and he even sets up a useless subcommittee to study the non-existent environmental impact of passing the bill. Under the guise of ‘making sure every voice is heard’, he tries every single tactic he’s learned over the years to delay, delay, delay.
After all, it’s simply too soon to end this arrangement with Harry, Tom thinks. Especially when everything is going so well for him.
He needs some more time—perhaps a few more months, or maybe even until the new years—to cement his new alliances across the aisle.
And who knows how long it could take to get his favorability rating comfortably above 60%? Especially since he knows it will take a temporary dip once the arrangement with Harry inevitably ends.
Of course, their pretend relationship would eventually need to draw to an end. Tom knows that perfectly well. Though Harry’s Quidditch-toned shoulders and biceps and thighs are remarkably well-developed, his mind is, unfortunately, terribly underdeveloped, especially in terms of what Tom would be looking for in a long-term partner. What kind of career is Quidditch player, anyway?
But, he thinks, the sex has been an unexpectedly nice upside. While Tom is certainly not attached to Harry, he is in no hurry to lose the benefit of a compatible and exceedingly enthusiastic partner in bed.
Maybe after he and Harry break up, they can still fuck each other every once in a while.
*
Unfortunately, everything is going a little too perfectly when the Werewolf Reform Act glides through committee, just six weeks to the day that Tom had started “dating” Harry. The recent rise in Tom’s popularity meant the stupid procedural delays that he had attempted to throw up as roadblocks didn’t end up presenting more than a couple weeks’ worth of delay.
The bill passes with nearly no opposition in the Wizengamot. The traditionalists have no problem throwing their votes behind Tom, the rising star of their party. The votes from the fringe creature rights groups have long been locked in, and the more moderate reformists also fall in line. Tom sees his name on the front page of the Daily Prophet with flattering headlines about how he achieved a miraculous cross-partisan cooperation, with hints that the next Minister should be someone who can unify opposing factions. He finds particularly amusing the headlines that tout “a new era in criminal justice reform.”
Harry shows up to Tom’s office the following afternoon, unannounced. He greets Tom with a bottle of champagne and a genuine grin that lights up his whole face. “Congratulations! We did it!”
Tom conjures a pair of sparkling crystal flutes and allows Harry to toast to his recent successes. A million grand plans run through Tom’s mind about what he can do next with his newfound political popularity.
But when he tries to pull Harry round the waist and draw him into a kiss, Harry pulls back.
“I’m just thinking…” Harry starts. “Well, now that the bill is passed, we don’t have to pretend to date each other anymore, do we?”
“Regardless, that doesn’t mean we can’t still fuck,” Tom retorts, reaching for Harry’s belt, but Harry deftly pulls back again, putting a short distance between them.
It sends a twinge of longing through Tom stronger than he thought he could ever feel, at least for another person. It reminds him of how he feels when he thinks about his precious collection of rare magical artefacts—clawing, greedy, and intensely possessive.
Something shutters in Harry’s face, and Tom thinks that it must have been the wrong thing to say.
“It’s been a good run, Tom,” Harry says quietly, insistently, some indefinable emotion in his too-bright green eyes. “But we agreed that this would be the end of our deal.”
It was too soon, Tom wants to protest. He couldn’t let Harry end their arrangement so soon. His poll numbers aren’t quite where he wants them yet. And he needs more time to set in motion his plans for scoring similar political victories with other dark magical creatures that he would eventually want to recruit to his cause, such as the dementors and giants and vampires and trolls and goblins, all creatures that are magically powerfully in their own right, and happen to hold long-standing grievances against the British Ministry that Tom can easily turn to his advantage.
He quickly starts running through his options and any negotiating leverage that he might have before Harry slips from his grasp altogether.
Leaning closer to Harry, Tom cups the side of his face and tilts his chin up. “You know, I’m going to need your support to get the Giants Preservation Bill through the Wizengamot,” he counters. “Your dear friend Hagrid doesn’t deserve the poor treatment he’s received at the hands of wizards his whole life.”
“You can do that entirely on your own,” Harry says, unwavering in his stance. “I have full confidence that you’ll be able to figure out how.”
“There will be a better outcome if you’re involved. They’ll get more of their old territory back and be able to roam more freely in their ancestral lands. We’ll pass anti-discrimination laws to protect the half-giants who want to live amongst wizarding society.”
“Why do you care?” Harry shoots back.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Tom responds. In truth, his motivations are similar to the ones that he had for pushing werewolf rights. “They’ve been oppressed for many long centuries. They’ve lost nearly all their original territory and now live in tiny hemmed-in spaces that might as well be the equivalent of captivity.”
Harry gives him a sharp, assessing look. “If you really care about the plight of magical creatures, I’ll tell you what.”
“Yes?”
“You’ll work on the House Elf Welfare Act next. With Hermione as your co-sponsor. And once it’s passed, then maybe I’ll think about advocating for giants reform with you.” Harry shakes his head. “I’ve never known you to genuinely care about Hagrid or the plight of other giants, so I don’t know what your angle is, but if you’re doing some good for the world in the meantime, I’d be a fool to throw the chance away to improve the welfare of these long-persecuted communities.”
Tom raises a brow, impressed at the tough negotiation that Harry is driving. Perhaps he contains more depths than Tom had realized.
Harry’s demand to shift his focus to house elves is a tricky one. It would represent quite a change in Tom’s plans in the short term, and he would certainly have to tread carefully over these next few months, since the preservation of house elf labour is quite the sensitive topic amongst his Pureblood supporters.
But it would be worth it, Tom thinks. Harry would have a reason to continue their arrangement. And besides, Tom is fully confident that he’ll be able to craft some key carve-outs for his Pureblood allies that would represent no fundamental changes in how their house elves are bound to them.
Ensuring better conditions for house elves, at least on paper, in exchange for more loyalty from giants is a deal that Tom can live with. After all, he has to give some in order to get some. In more ways than one.
*
“Are you sure you want to go out tonight?” Harry asks, completely oblivious to the sorry state of his hair while Tom gives himself a final appraisal in the mirror. “The paparazzi are going to be as thick as flies.”
Harry had just returned from Cedric's funeral, and thanks to that formal affair, he is dressed far sharper than usual. In fact, Tom has decided to celebrate the occasion by tipping off Pansy once again to arrange for more photos.
“All the better. You know I prefer to let them see me with you on my arm.”
There is little use in obfuscating the truth these days. Their arrangement is still going strong after several months, and Tom has successfully incorporated Harry’s suggestions for the rights of magical creatures, just as they agreed. In the meantime, Tom has been able to leverage his growing influence into passing bills that loosen the standards for what is considered dark magic and measures that decrease the Ministry’s oversight into overseas estate taxation, which are important political wins for his Pureblood supporters.
Harry hasn’t suggested any new bills in quite some time, likely due to the fact that Tom has seen to the security of every creature Harry might consider a friend for any unfathomable reason. And yet, he arrived at Tom’s doorstep at six in the evening despite his trying day, just as Tom suggested that morning, intent on dining together yet again.
“Alright, but you owe me. You know I hate dealing with all that.”
Tom smiles and turns away from the mirror, coming close enough to pull Harry against him. “I’m positive I can come up with a way to demonstrate my gratitude.”
Harry huffs out a laugh. “Sure you can.” He shifts his legs apart slightly when Tom reaches down to palm over his cock. “You can get started now, if you’d like.”
“Tempting,” Tom murmurs against his lips. “Unfortunately, that would make us late for our reservation.”
“I’m sure they’ll wait for the impending Minister of Magic,” Harry replies, and is then bold enough to unfasten the button on Tom’s trousers.
“You may have a point there.”
Harry drags Tom’s trousers down past his hips. “Just think how much more fun it’ll be putting up with those pictures when you’re too sore to even sit still.”
“Mhm. Still not convinced.” Tom lets Harry walk him backward until his legs hit the bed. He goes down with a single push, and Harry crawls on top of him.
“I bet you’d look gorgeous on the front page of the Daily Prophet with your arse full of my come.”
This is irresponsible. Depraved, even. This is the sort of thing Tom has taunted Harry about before, but he never thought Harry would be the one to suggest it.
“Are you trying to make me late on purpose?” Tom asks, voice low and indulgent, tugging Harry’s jumper over his head.
Harry doesn’t answer. He’s too preoccupied with stripping off the rest of his clothes and pressing the blunt end of his cock against Tom’s arse. Soon enough, Tom is too distracted to care about the time anyway.
*
As it turns out, Tom can sit for photographs perfectly fine that evening, sore arse or not. Harry insists on going to a nearby bistro for dessert and coffee, and then they go back to Tom’s place. Harry spends the night that evening, which is just as well because it’s gotten terribly late. His own toothbrush rests in the cup beside Tom’s, and they both get into their preferred side of the bed.
Harry is staring at Tom when he wakes up.
“What?” Tom grumbles, not at all in the mood for conversation this early in the morning.
“Are you sure you’re not my boyfriend?”
Heaving a loud sigh, Tom rolls out of bed and ignores him in favour of preparing for the day. When he goes downstairs for breakfast, Harry is there, along with two perfectly prepared cups of coffee.
And Harry continues to stare.
“What?” Tom asks again, and Harry only shrugs.
“Nothing. Stay at your office for lunch today, I’ll stop by.”
Tom does, if only because he didn’t have any other plans anyway. When Harry arrives with sandwiches and drinks, they go outside to eat.
And Harry continues to stare at him.
“I swear, Potter, if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind this instant, I’ll—”
“I just can’t help but think this is a real relationship. It sure feels like one, doesn’t it?”
Tom closes his eyes and takes a calming breath to remind himself he’s dealing with an idiot. One who just so happens to have an excellent cock. “Don’t be stupid,” he eventually answers. “Now, where would you like to go to dinner tonight?”