Chapter Text
‘Now that we have that settled, I think we should address some more pressing matters, namely the upcoming elections.’
Tom resisted the urge to sigh, already knowing full well where Lestrange was going to take this. It was times like these that he regretted not making his rule a dictatorship.
‘I believe it’s about time that you settled down, no? And what better way to secure the popular vote for the next election than marriage?’
Tom would get the popular vote regardless of his marital status, but it was no surprise that a pure-blood such as Lestrange—who got engaged before puberty and then married before the ink on his N.E.W.T.s even dried—would be overly concerned about this. At least Abraxas had the sense to hold his tongue in these matters (it might be more out of a desire to keep his tongue, but it was the same result regardless).
‘Nothing is more appealing to people than stability, and what better way to convey such an image than this? A devoted husband, and in the future a caring father…’
Tom had no desire for his own spawn, nor did he suffer from the same desperation to continue his family legacy in the face of ever-marching time like everyone else. He glanced around the meeting room, seeing how a wave of mutters and head nods went through his advisors. Even Willworth, a muggleborn not influenced by the marriage-obsession of pure-bloods, seemed to agree.
He turned his attention back to Lestrange’s imploring, overly eager eyes. Lestrange was wasted in politics, he couldn’t help but muse. He would’ve been much better suited as a hit wizard, with such dogged tenacity, even in the face of his own boss.
Perhaps that merited future consideration.
The room quietened, and he allowed the silence to stretch on just long enough for everyone to become visibly uncomfortable. ‘Who, then, shall I marry?’ he said, resting his chin on his hands. ‘Well?’
If any of his advisors suggested, Merlin forbid, one of their underage daughters, they would find their untimely demise reported on the front page of the Daily Prophet the next day. He stared them all down. Willworth gave an inaudible gulp.
Lestrange put a hand to his mouth for a moment, in thought. And then he said, ‘Leave that to me. I’m sure I’ll be able to find you the perfect candidate.’
*
Tom stepped into Miss Ito’s, a secluded teahouse that pure-bloods favoured for its discreteness and wonderful matcha. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the candidate that Lestrange had chosen for him, mind already filled with ways to tactfully turn him down (it wouldn’t do to upset whatever sensitive pure-blood Lestrange chose; it would be terribly bad for his image).
‘A truly charming young man, with eyes that’ll trap you if you’re not careful,’ Lestrange had praised. ‘I’m certain he’ll outshine all the other patrons. You’ll know him when you see him.’
And know he did. For who other could he be than this elfen creature sat in the corner, wild curls of ebony black framing a pouty face and eyes of flame-ghostened emeralds? Tom immediately walked to the table, smoothly sitting down across from the young man.
‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ purred Tom, all thoughts of rejection scattering into a fathomless abyss of green. His skin prickled with the feel of the other’s magic hovering in the air, something raw and untamed, like stepping into a fairy ring.
The young man blinked slowly, clearly taken aback. ‘...And I you,’ he said reservedly, eyes darting around the room before returning back to Tom.
Ah, so he was a shy one. Well, no matter. That would just make wooing him all the sweeter.
‘And what shall I call you by?’
‘Harry,’ said the young man.
Tom felt slight surprise at such an ordinary name. His parents must’ve been blind when naming him. (And yet a part of him could not help but crow; what a pair they made, Harry and Tom, such ordinary names for extraordinary wizards. They were perfect for each other).
‘And you’re Tom Riddle.’ A pause. Tom watched in rapt attention as Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Minister Riddle.’
‘Please, call me Tom. I would prefer us to be on a first name basis. Especially considering the nature of our relationship.’
*
When Harry had posted his advert in the Daily Prophet, inconspicuously placed on the back of page number 7, sandwiched between an advert for discrete corpse disposal (which wasn’t really discrete, considering it was in the papers) and an advert for Mandrake breeding (he had no desire whatsoever to know the finer details on how that worked), he had not honestly believed he would get any responses. The only reason he even posted the blasted thing was upon Luna’s insistence. But, to his surprise, he actually had received an anonymous—and rather enthusiastic—inquiry, wishing to meet and discuss it more.
He just hadn’t expected the bloody minister to show up. He peered up at the man, admittedly just as handsome as the rumours told, trying to match his charming aura with the flamboyant and slightly obsessive letter he had received.
Well, he supposed he shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.
‘…I just want to clarify: you really want to go through with this?’
‘Of course.’
Harry opened his mouth, before thinking better of asking about the minister’s performance issues. It wasn’t his business why the minister was willing to be his test subject for his fertility research. He pulled out his notebook. ‘Well, first of all, do you have any pre-existing medical conditions I should be aware of?’
‘None.’
‘Are there any health conditions that tend to run in your family?’
‘Madness, on my mother’s side, but I’m sure you’ll find that the case in any pure-blood family.’
Harry couldn’t deny that, so he added another check mark on his list.
‘Are you willing to assist me in all aspects of my research?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you consent to sexual intercourse for the purpose of my research?’
One of the minister’s perfect eyebrows—Harry would bet a shiny Galleon that he plucked them—rose. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay, wonderful,’ said Harry, feeling satisfied. Minister Riddle was a perfect test subject. ‘Finally, I have one last question. Would you like to have a child?’
Minister Riddle’s other eyebrow rose to join the other. ‘How forward of you.’
Harry could feel a blush rising through his cheeks, though he wasn’t sure why. They both knew why they were here, there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He gave a cough. ‘Forward? Not at all, this is just business.’
A sly smile slid onto the minister’s face. Harry hated how it made him look more dashing, as opposed to perverted had it been any other wizard. There was a reason that he won the last election by a landslide. ‘Right. Just business.’
‘A-anyway. Who would you like to have a child with?’ It would be very important to note down the minister’s partner for the trial test, as well as take down their medical history too.
Minister Riddle blinked, staring at him as if he were a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. ‘You, of course.’
‘Me, of course…’ Harry’s writing stopped, a large blob of ink forming on the page from where the quill remained pressed against the paper. ‘Wait, hold on a minute. Me? Surely not?’ He looked back up, staring incredulously at the perfectly serious lines of the minister’s face.
‘Who else?’
Harry adjusted his glasses. ‘Well, you could certainly try…’ he spluttered, all function in his brain having ceased. He wondered, feverishly, if all the power had gone to the minister’s head, for him to think his loins would be able to defy the laws of natural science. Male pregnancy was not possible in wizards, nor was it an avenue scholars showed much interest in. Why would they go through all the extra hassle, when it was much simpler to simply fully blood adopt a child?
Harry bit his lip, his image of the minister taking a strange turn.
But a test subject was a test subject. He couldn’t be picky. If the minister wanted to try so badly, then who was Harry to stop him?
(It didn’t hurt that he was hot).