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there is a hunger that is stirring up inside of your mind
it keeps on twisting and a turning, to the sound of desire
you wanna taste and see and drink from the cup
you cannot rest, there is no giving this up
i'll spin a silver string and hang up all the stars that you find
-"Speak in Tongues," machineheart
Happy Birthday, Tom!
Tom stares down at the cake.
"Well?" Evans asks, a nervous chuckle on his lips.
"You… baked this for me?"
"Yeah."
Tom waves his wand over the cake, which earns him a scoff and a roll of pretty green eyes, but he refuses to be poisoned or perhaps worse when he could have prevented it.
"You're incredibly paranoid. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"You," Tom murmurs. "Weekly."
Three flicks of his wand, each casting a more thorough search than the last. The cake's pink frosting and green lettering seems to be a joke of some sort, and that alone has Tom suspicious. Since Evans' arrival to their department, Tom and he have constantly butted heads. Tom has even tried to murder him, yet Evans is a lucky fool, and short of an Avada Kedavra to the face, he is not certain what else may do the trick.
"Look—" Evans' tone is one of exasperation. At a raised brow from Tom, he shuts his mouth and starts over, albeit with irritation glittering in his gaze. "You said no one's ever made you a cake for your birthday before. I wanted to do something nice, not—poison you, or whatever you think I've done to it."
The cake appears free of curses or any other sort of Dark touch. Evans really did get it into his idiotic head to bake Tom a cake.
"Why these colors?" Tom asks. "Why not—oh, I don't know—silver and green?"
Evans narrows his eyes. "Because those are your favorite, or because they're Slytherin colors?"
Tom tips his head rather than answer.
Evans inhales—exhales. Doesn't look at Tom as he says, "The first cake anyone ever made for me had pink and green frosting."
"Oh, I see—this cake is a message?"
"What? No! Would you just—" Evans sighs yet again. The fact that he is grappling with his temper pleases Tom. Salazar knows the other man has a knack for getting under Tom's skin in a way no one else has ever managed. "It's symbolic."
"So it is a message," Tom deadpans.
"Not in the way you're thinking," Evans retorts. "Never mind, I shouldn't've made it. I'll take it with me. Here—"
"No." Tom levels his wand at Evans' face. "Unhand the cake."
"Pardon?"
"You will not give me a gift and then take it back because I did not give you the response you wanted. I'll teach you proper manners, even if it means the end of me, Evans," Tom drawls. Which it will not, as he saw to his immortality some years ago. "Remove your hands off the platter, or I will do so for you, and believe me when I say that I will enjoy it."
"Fuck's sake," Evans mutters, but he releases the platter.
"Excellent," Tom murmurs.
"Happy birthday, arsehole."
"Thank you. Close the door behind you."
In the corridor outside Riddle's office, Harry pumps a fist in victory.
Though it took some doing, he finally got Riddle to accept the cake. He should have expected that the man would cast detection spells on it, given who it was coming from. They frequently butt heads down here in the Department of Mysteries, where they've been partnered together to study magical anomalies in the field of time.
Harry got the job when he told the director he was from another timeline and proved it with the prototype of a powerful time turner, one that had broken rather conveniently upon his arrival. He was told he is Displaced in time and that Riddle is, as well. Their secrets as to how remain with themselves and the director.
Some days, Harry worries he'll never get home. Others, like today, and he's more… accepting of what has happened.
Thus the plan to get closer to Tom Riddle.
While it initially surprised him to discover that Riddle is Displaced, as well (instead of working at Borgin and Burkes, as this is the year that Riddle stole the locket from Hepzibah Smith), he adapted quickly. They don't get along at all—Harry can't see past the murderous Riddle of his own timeline, and Riddle hates that Harry refuses to suck up to him.
Yet still… So long as Harry is stuck here, maybe he can make the best of it. Make "friends" with Riddle—work his way into the man's heart, until he lowers his guard.
And then Harry will kill him. If he can't get back to his own timeline, then he will save this one from the murderous psychopath that he knows Riddle to be.
Though it didn't seem so initially, the cake thing goes over well with Riddle. He opens up to Harry with small talk in passing, and he sits with Harry at lunch. In the evenings, they walk to the Atrium together, and they meet there in the mornings, where Tom snugs his elbow through Harry's, his hair perfectly coiffed and his cologne a tease in the air. Harry could fight him off, but he doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize his position with Riddle, and so he tolerates the other man's touch, his constant presence.
Their small talk is poor, and they snipe at one another more than they get along. They disagree on nearly everything important, yet their shallow interests often align. Harry would have thought that would have deterred Riddle, seeing as how he likes his yes-men, but he remarks that he finds Harry's honesty refreshing any time they argue.
Days pass like this—weeks, months—before it occurs to Harry that maybe, just maybe… as mad as the idea is… they're dating.
No.
No.
They're friends, or some… semblance… of it. Spending time together far from equates dating.
Yet as inexperienced as Harry is, the signs are there. Riddle stares at him, and not in his usual murder-y way that he hides behind his polite smiles. There is a sort of possessiveness in his gaze that's honestly a bit creepy yet strangely endearing. He touches Harry, like, all the time. He purchases things for Harry just because he was thinking of him? He takes Harry to classy restaurants, he comes over to Harry's flat or vice versa once—twice—three times—every day of the week…
One morning, they're alone together on the lift, and Riddle leans over and kisses him as naturally as breathing. He lifts an eyebrow at Harry after—silently challenging him to be angry, maybe. Harry can't summon the heat for it, not then. The tingle of his lips is too pleasant.
Really, it seems inevitable when they fuck, exactly one week later in Harry's office.
Riddle crowds him against the wall, and Harry could fight him off, but why bother? He's getting exactly what he wanted. Closeness to Riddle.
This is far more twisted than anything he could have come up with on his own, and he knows he should be wary. That doesn't seem to stop the pleasure, which invades him with every thrust of Riddle's hips, his cock sunk deep inside Harry. Their robes are piled on the floor, and the door is locked and warded. No one should be able to walk in on them.
"You're mine," he pants into Harry's ear. And then something in Parseltongue that Harry can no longer understand, as he lost the ability to speak it when the Horcrux piece was destroyed.
The hisses stir heat inside of Harry. Unexpected, but he's willing to go with it in the moment.
"Say something else," he demands.
Riddle chuckles, breathless—hooks his teeth over Harry's ear until he whines from the sting.
"You speak frequently of boredom," Riddle says. "Why not learn Parseltongue for me?"
"You can learn Parseltongue if you're not born to it?"
"Parseltongue is a language unlike any other, but it is still a language. Therefore, it can be taught to those who are keen to learn." Riddle noses behind his ear—sinks his teeth into the crux of Harry's shoulder and neck and chuckles anew at the yelp that earns. Heat and pain fizzle beneath Harry's flesh, an enticing duality that he's uncertain he can turn his back on. "Do you wish to learn, my Harry?"
His Harry. As if.
"I dunno how you can hold a conversation this easily while we're shagging," Harry pants. Sweat coats his brow, and his hole throbs where it's speared open on Tom's dick. Most of his thoughts, if not all of them, are geared toward the completion of an orgasm. "But, sure—I'm game."
"Brilliant," Riddle murmurs, a word he notably never uttered until he began to spend time with Harry outside of work hours. His lips return to Harry's ear as his fingers slip down to wrap about Harry's cock. He drags his thumb through the precum that drips from its tip. "We will begin now. Progress—or proper effort—will be rewarded handsomely. Failure to rise to the challenge will be punished. But I suspect we won't encounter much difficulty there, will we?"
He squeezes the flesh in his hand, and Harry swallows a cry.
Riddle talks too much.
In the following weeks, they move in together. Inevitable, Harry figures, with how often they spend the night at one another's flats. All the shagging may also have something to do with it. Regardless, Riddle demands that they live in one place, and that wherever it is, they pool their funds together for a flat far classier than what either of them currently have.
They wind up with a flat above a bakery in Diagon Alley, a somewhat large one that torments Harry every day with the smell of freshly baked goods. He doesn't recognize it from his own time and can only assume it will close business before then.
Perhaps now that the owners are successfully renting out the top of the building, it won't.
To be in a relationship with Tom Riddle, even a pretend one, means that Harry is subjected to all sorts of horrible truths, just as he suspected he would be. Riddle doesn't hold back with Harry. He's got the mentality of a serial killer and the manners of one. He voraciously studies Dark magic, speaks often and without a trace of irony of the ills he would like to perform on others, references his future agenda to make Muggles submit on a daily basis, and, perhaps the most monstrous of all, he uses Harry's toothbrush without asking.
"Why?" Harry demands of the latter. The rest, he filters out. It's the only way to not commit murder himself. "Why would you do that?"
Riddle lifts a brow. "Should I not? Is there something about your toothbrush that should frighten me?"
"Yeah! My germs!"
The other man scoffs. "You kiss me with those 'germs.'"
"I wish I didn't," Harry mutters.
Yet in spite of all Riddle's evils, he hasn't actually done anything illegal that Harry can point to and definitively say, "You see? This is the man who will grow up to murder my parents!" Who would take him seriously?
He thought it would be different, once they were living under one roof. He anticipated thrilling nights where he followed Riddle into the heart of a crime. Instead, Riddle tears his robes off him the moment he gets home—with his teeth, once—and distracts Harry with sex. They rarely leave the flat, if they're not in the Department of Mysteries. If they do, it's usually to dine somewhere impressive or do pretentious shit like attend the opera.
Riddle hates music. Harry finds it highly unlikely he gains any pleasurable experience from going other than to be seen by wealthy purebloods.
All in all, Harry figures it's only a matter of time before Riddle fucks up around him. And Harry will be there to kill him, his moment come at last. Then Harry will be able to go home, to his proper time.
He's sure of it.
They build a life together.
Harry certainly never intends to, but he's surprised to realize, a handful of years into their relationship, that he enjoys spending time with Riddle. Whether they're sharing a treat or juicy gossip (although sometimes these two things are the same, in Riddle's head), or even if Riddle is on a murderous tangent of thought, Harry is comfortable in the other man's presence.
Riddle must feel the same, because he proposes to Harry, who accepts, and they set a date for the seventh anniversary of when they first began to see one another.
That they're marrying on Riddle's birthday doesn't surprise Harry. He is always amused to think, however, that Riddle saw the cake Harry made as some sort of way of asking him to date. Such a silly man.
As a Displaced time traveler intent on ensuring that he's still born in this world, Harry never made friends outside Riddle or the Department of Mysteries itself, and Riddle was and is the same. Thus, they have a small (yet lavish) wedding in the country and an even smaller guest list, where Harry takes Riddle's last name because he hates the name Evans, or so Riddle claims. (Harry believes Riddle is a territorial twat, and that it's likely more to do with owning Harry in name than any real malice toward "Evans.")
Harry stays on guard. While it's true that they've married and that their time together is approaching the length of a decade, he would bet his entire Gringotts vault back at home that Riddle didn't marry Harry because he loves him. He wants something from Harry, and he thinks marriage is the way to get it. For once, Harry can't blame him—he married Riddle for the same reason.
The marriage isn't real… Nothing in this timeline will last.
Yet, as the days slip into months, then years, Harry wonders how much he truly believes that. The most perfect way to start the day is to press back into his husband's arms and inhale his scent, the pureness of Tom and the traces of soap leftover from his shower the night before.
From there, the only way to make it even better is to sit across from Tom at breakfast, a dark gaze watching his every movement with possessive fascination, and then travel to work together—actually work for the day—and return home to prepare dinner.
Tom doesn't cook, he's terrible at it, but he likes to talk to Harry during the process and keep him company. Occasionally, he'll wave his wand and don a chef's hat… in theory. That never leads anywhere productive, as Harry must salvage every single one of his attempts, ignoring how much Tom pouts all the while.
"You could try to learn," Harry says once. "Instead of, y'know, thinking you'll be good at it without having ever read a single recipe."
"How dare you?" Tom replies. "In my own timeline, my followers adored my cooking."
"You're such a liar," Harry laughs. "You've never cooked a day in your life. Not until we got married, at any rate."
"How do you know me so well, darling?" Tom murmurs, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Oh, I dunno, because we've been married for years?"
That answer is just as true as the other one—that Harry knew Tom in another timeline.
Where they each come from is perhaps the one thing they don't discuss. Harry can say with confidence that he didn't exist in Tom's timeline, and the other man can say the same in return. If it's occurred to Tom that Harry traveled backward and not sideways or forward, he's given no indication of it.
At this point, Harry wonders if they'll ever speak about it at all.
They do, although it takes a couple of decades in total. They've just celebrated their thirteenth wedding anniversary and had a good romp in bed when Tom turns to face him, his dark eyes serious, and Harry knows that this is it, the moment he's waited half his life for.
"I need to tell you something, my Harry."
Harry nods. Staying just as serious as his husband is difficult when excitement has lit him up inside. "'Course. What is it?"
"I'm not certain I should tell you."
Harry scoffs. "Tom. You can tell me anything. You know that."
"But what if you have been sent from the future to kill me?"
What?
Harry stays quiet for so long, genuinely taken by surprise, that Tom's serious facade cracks, and he chuckles.
"It does sound ridiculous, doesn't it?" he muses. "And it brings me to what I wished to discuss with you. The Department does not want us to speak of where we came from, lest it tamper with the timeline, and as we know, these worries are founded."
They are. Both of them have seen the terrible results of time tampering, none of which made it to the public and never will. Some experiments are best kept secret.
"Yeah," Harry says. "But you're about to tell me, anyway, aren't you?"
Tom's lips lift in amusement, and he switches from English to Parseltongue. "There is only one matter to speak of in regard to where I come from, as it affects my future with you."
"Just tell me already," Harry hisses back. "Why are you building it up so much?"
Once, his Parseltongue had been so terrible that Tom had laughed at him every time he spoke it, a cruel sound whose sting he would ease with kisses. That tactic certainly kept Harry from punching him in the throat. Regardless, even after years of learning, he'll never come close to properly being able to speak it.
The difference is that Tom no longer makes fun of him. He'll smile if Harry truly bastardizes the language, a quirk at the corner of his mouth, where he hides his secrets, but there is no laughter, no unkind remark. Only fondness.
That Tom Riddle is fond of Harry Potter never grows old for Harry.
"Perhaps I'm worried you will leave me."
"Did you cheat on me?"
"No."
"Have you killed someone?"
"Yes."
Harry blinks.
He hadn't thought Tom would ever admit it.
"When?"
Tom's eyes bore into Harry's, their mahogany color much more intense, or perhaps it's Harry's imagination. Either way, he's held in Tom's thrall, breathless with anticipation.
"I was sixteen," Tom says. "I wanted glory for myself, and I did not wish to die. I wanted my glory to last for eternity. So I made myself immortal."
"Dark magic, then, if you had to kill someone for it."
"Yes," his husband agrees. "Very dark." He lifts a hand—cups Harry's cheek. "I had to split a piece of my soul off."
"Why are you telling me this?" Harry asks.
His eyes are hot. The thought that Tom really did injure his soul hurts him, and on the list of things to expect in life, that was missing. Somehow, Harry has grown to truly care for Tom.
"Because I haven't thought of killing you in five years. I haven't tried in far longer. It would seem I truly love you, my Harry, and so I am sharing my deepest secret with you."
Tom says all of this so seriously, so softly, his thumb stroking soothing back and forth motions on Harry's cheekbone, as if he hasn't casually confessed to murder, immortality, and the severing of his soul, all in one go. Those dark eyes are deep wells of affection, of warmth, of love—so obvious that Harry can't deny it and hasn't been able to for ages.
How is Harry meant to kill him now?
"When I was a baby, you tried to murder me and failed," he says.
Tom gives him a slow blink. "Did I understand you correctly, or are you struggling with Parseltongue again?"
"Don't be an arse."
"This would certainly explain some things."
"Like what?"
"Like why you were so hostile toward me for so many years, when I had only ever been kind to you."
Harry laughs.
"That was not a joke!" Tom protests, but Harry only laughs harder.
Marrying Tom Riddle was either the stupidest or smartest thing he's ever done. He has a feeling he won't know which it was for a longer time still, but he's looking forward to the rest of the ride.
In 1983, both Tom and Harry look much younger than they should, and so Tom likes to apply glamours to their appearances to age them if they aren't buried in the Department of Mysteries. While Tom frankly doesn't care if others ask them questions about their lack of aging, their director has given them more than a few stern looks if they don't hide it.
Tom, of course, has a Horcrux to bear the responsibility of his immortality. He ages, but at a rate much slower than his fellow wizards. Harry, on the other hand, has no explanation, or at least not a real one. Whenever Tom asks, he has only to say, "I'm the Master of Death, Tom," as if that answer is one that Tom should seriously accept.
"There are ways to prove it, you know, if you are so concerned that I believe you," Tom has said on more than one occasion.
"Which I'm not," Harry typically replies.
And, much to Tom's frustration, he is entirely unaffected by Tom's lack of belief in the topic. Tom shared his most precious secret with Harry, and for what? A fairy tale? Please! All Harry needs to do is take the supposed Elder Wand from this timeline's Dumbledore to unite the two Hallows they already supposedly have (Harry has the Invisibility Cloak, and Tom, his family's ring, which he never did make into a Horcrux, despite fervent plans). That, perhaps, will give Harry's words some validity.
It's this very topic that Tom plans to bring up to Harry on the morning of his birthday.
"I want to go to Muggle London today," Harry informs him breathlessly, after a vigorous romp in bed, in which he rode Tom's cock for a solid hour and, like a good boy, did not come until he was told to (and in Parseltongue, at that). "There's something we should see. Maybe. I hope."
Tom could put his foot down about it—a Muggle cafe? His Harry can't be serious?—but curiosity wins out instead.
"Will there be cake?" he inquires.
Harry chuckles and throws the blankets back as he swings his legs over the side of their bed. His skin is as baby smooth as it was decades ago, tanned, with scars that have not faded since Tom first laid eyes on them. The other man's body remains in stasis, from the shock of his curly black hair, to the bit of baby fat on his face and the long length of his body.
"Yeah, Tom," Harry murmurs. "At some point today, there will be cake."
"Good," Tom says.
His husband makes him a cake every year, and Tom will be remiss if he stops this little tradition now.
Eventually, they wander into Muggle London, entirely at Harry's direction, as Tom has no earthly idea of where they are going, other than the aforementioned cafe. He rarely steps foot in this part of the city. Muggles stink, and, at his most gracious, Tom has only ever managed disdain for them.
Such grand plans he'd had for this timeline. Tom Riddle was never born here. There are no records of him that exist in any capacity, Muggle or wizard. How terribly easy it would have been for him to remove the trace the Department put on him (they are unaware that Tom knows of it) and set out to fulfill his destiny as a Dark Lord and rightful ruler of Magical Britain and beyond.
But he loves Harry. He will follow him into the heart of a heathen society if he must. Nothing other than keeping Harry happy seems to matter much anymore. He would be absolutely horrified with himself if he could be. He can't—Harry has domesticated him. Tom Riddle is a Dark Lord in his heart and dreams only.
They arrive at a quaint coffee shop in a wealthier part of the city, where they slip inside. Business is slow for New Year's Eve. Wooden tables gleam at them, empty of inhabitants, the bitter, yet rich scent of coffee tainting the air. Tom has never been fond of the beverage. He's unlikely to start caring for it today, and he wonders anew why Harry brought them here.
"Petunia!"
His Harry whirls toward the female voice, his breath caught. Tom lifts a brow and turns his head to see what startled him so badly and finds a horse-faced woman reluctantly patting a red-haired woman on the back as she clings to her.
With them is a man as tall as Harry—a man who looks remarkably as Harry does when he's not wearing the glamour he has on now to appear as old as his years. The only marked difference is that his eyes are brown, his glasses are rectangular-shaped, and he is somewhat stockier in build.
"Auntie!"
Tom's gaze comes to rest on a little boy. One with remarkably bright green eyes and a mop of curly black hair. He reaches toward the horse-faced woman (Petunia), and she breaks away from the redhead glued to her to kneel before him.
"Hello, Harry," she says. "Dudley hasn't stopped talking about you."
"Come on," Tom's husband whispers into his ear, a hand on his elbow. "Let's go."
Outside in the cold, the two turn to face one another.
Harry's eyes are damp. Seeing Tom staring intently at him, he looks away and rubs his wrist beneath his glasses. When he lifts his head again, his eyes are dry.
"You can't tell anyone we were here, of course," he whispers. "The director gave me this small window to see them." Bending his arm at the elbow, he holds it out for Tom to grab, and together, they walk to the nearest Apparition point. "Ready for that cake?"
"Are you going to explain any of what happened back there?" Tom asks.
"Sure. That was my mum and dad—my Aunt Petunia—and, of course, me."
"Yes."
Snow has begun to fall, flecks of frozen rain that sticks to their hair and robes.
"You killed them in my timeline, all right?" Harry's voice is hoarse, and he's not looking at Tom anymore. "Look. One of my… greatest fears, I s'pose… is that I wouldn't be born in this timeline. That I'd bugger it up. Since we've married, I've mostly tried to forget about it, but I couldn't, not entirely. I had to know. I went to the director, and I told him the truth, that I'd like to see how they are and know what they're up to. He gave me a file on them and a date they planned to meet my aunt."
Tom rubs a snowflake off Harry's brow with his gloved thumb. "Will you be able to stay away, darling?"
"Yeah."
Tom's expression grows stern.
"I will, all right!" Harry snaps. "I've got to. I can't interfere, I can't—create a paradox. I know, I know, believe me when I say I know."
"All right. I believe you."
Now Harry's face is the stern one.
"I do," Tom sighs. "Would I lie to you, Harry?"
"Yes."
"But would I lie to you about this?"
Harry sets his jaw. "No. I s'pose not."
"Thank you. Now—if that is all…" Tom waits until Harry rolls his eyes and nods. "Brilliant. Where are you taking me next?"
A smile surfaces on Harry's lips, one that lights up those gorgeous eyes, even in the disguise of an elderly man. Tom is smitten all over again.
"It's a surprise," Harry says.
And though Tom has never been one for surprises, he trusts Harry.
He wraps his hand around Harry's elbow and allows his husband to Apparate them into the unknown, where the promised cake awaits.