Chapter Text
Harry’s worst nightmare was triggered by a dry cough and a petal.
He didn’t notice the petal’s escape from his fingers at first, too busy trying to hide the severity of his coughs from the prying red eyes that had barely left his withered figure for the past month. If this were an ordinary day, Harry would have been treated to a lecture for spewing particles of spit into his hand; germs and what not. Today, however, Tom had more to be concerned about than sanitation.
Harry watched with wide eyes—his hands appropriately in the position to cup his mouth in horror—as the dark red petal fluttered liltingly through the air like a bird’s spurned downy feather, trailing impossibly far until it touched down in the center of Tom’s stately oak desk. The petal demurely curled in on itself before it, like all hanahaki roses, rapidly wilted. Wind gushed in through the opened windows, product of Harry insisting he needed “fresh air” earlier, and its might nearly sucked the petal into the sky like it was nothing more than a common leaf; like it wasn’t of the disease that was turning Harry’s insides into an insidious garden.
The petal lifted hopefully, rose, and then quickly plummeted. The acute point of a letter opener pierced it the second it moved, spearing the husk into the desk. Long, precise fingers held the handle in a crushing grip, and for a moment, neither of the men spoke.
Magic, dark and crooked buzzed around the edges of the room, and it was clear that Tom was straining to hold himself back. Despite his best attempts, tendrils of darkness were visibly lashing in the corners, steadily creeping into the open like they did every time the man’s temper got the best of him. Tom’s eyes slowly strayed from the impaled petal, the fury behind his iris’s turning their normal red hue a murky burgundy. Restrained lethality emanated from Tom’s very being, and Harry felt similar to the petal pinned by the blade under his gaze.
Tom violently uprooted the letter opener. Harry flinched, but Tom’s glower was unwavering as the petal turned to ash in his fingers. The man rolled the soot in between his fingers ominously before breaking the silence with a single hair-raising question.
“Who?”
You, Harry’s mind answered venomously. Of course it’s you. Why would he put himself through all this pain if it were any other?
Harry might have snarled out something similar if his chest hadn’t convulsed once again, spikes of pain radiating from his lungs. “None of your damn—” he broke into another hacking fit “—business,” Harry growled instead, limping like a deer shot in the flank to the nearest plush couch. He hunched over the back of it, fingernails digging into the material as flowers sprouted from his mouth in earnest, falling like a torrential waterfall. He couldn’t breathe—thorns scraped at his throat and clogged it—so Harry peered unseeingly at the couch as rotten roses fell from his lips, joined by blood and the smell of decay. This was shaping up to be his worst attack to date.
Of course a stage four Hanahaki attack would happen when Tom was around. Wonderful luck; this was exactly the dilemma he needed to face today, when his surgery was just around the corner.
Harry thought he had more time. Tom was never supposed to know.
The second Harry let out a particularly harrowing retch, Tom was jolted into action. His magic receded slightly, Tom’s anger taking the backseat in his haste to soothe Harry.
He appeared in front of him with inhuman swiftness, catching the blood-soaked flowers with a futility that suggested he was out of his depth. His face was painted with all kinds of shifting emotions; the most prominent being horror, fury, and uncharacteristic panic. Harry made a particularly pathetic sound, and then Tom’s hands were brutally smacked to his face, his fingers dragging like claws against Harry’s sensitive skin. Punishment.
“Who?” Tom repeated in a chilling murmur, his mouth far too close. “Who did you let desecrate your body like this, you complete imbecile?”
When his question yielded no answer other than Harry gasping out dozens more flowers, Tom snarled. He rounded the couch and stalked behind Harry, and then his hands where everywhere, tearing off Harry’s cloak and pressing a frigid hand to his spine. A brief sting of magic radiated through Harry’s back, and Harry recognized it as a cleaning charm. Tom must be completely out of it if he thought that would work. When his healing attempt failed, he gripped Harry even tighter and rubbed patterns against his back and arms that looked comforting from the outside, but were really just scraping lines into Harry’s skin, admonishing his stupidity.
Harry couldn’t blame Tom’s anger. Harry had wanted to do the same to himself for months now. He was so incredibly stupid for letting it get this bad. This stage of Hanahaki Disease hadn’t been seen for decades because it takes a certain sort of recklessness to let it fester; especially since the surgery is so accessible.
Tears threatened to spill as he gagged, though it had less to do with the pain and more to do with mortification. Here he was, doubled over in front of the Minister of Magic; in front of Tom.
When the flowers started to flag, Tom pressed even closer, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist and dragging him back into his chest. The palm of his hand lifted Harry’s chin until his eyes were sky bound and his head rested against Tom’s broad shoulder. Harry wretched around another petal. Tom was going to choke him if he kept holding Harry like this. Maybe that was intentional. Maybe he wanted Harry to drown.
“Tell me who it is Harry. Give me a name,” Tom whispered detachedly, his heart thundering from where it was pressed flush against Harry’s back, a hint of panic straining his voice. He truly didn’t see this coming, did he?
“So you can do what?” Harry asked hoarsely.
Tom didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. He’d kill the object of Harry’s affections, no doubt; probably mutilating them and painting the street red with their entrails for daring to not return Harry’s love—for daring to capture Harry’s attention in the first place. Technically, that was a valid way to cure the disease: a dead man cannot harbor unreturned love, couldn’t feel anything at all. The disease had no choice but to flee its host.
Regardless, it was despicable, and Harry would never consider it. Tom knew this.
Tom was panting raggedly in his ear. His fingers carved bruises into his tanned skin, and he lipped his way over to the crook of Harry’s neck to murmur an eerie, damning sentence that only affirmed Harry’s assumptions.
“I’ll murder them. You’re mine, no one else’s. Reveal them to me and I might not kill their entire bloodline.”
Harry had no reaction, because that was exactly what he expected the man to say. He’d grown too used to Tom’s crimes.
Harry had a dark lord—because despite the democracy Minister Tom Riddle preached, he was the only one with true power—curled around him, and instead of running away, his traitorous body was thrilled. It screamed at him to give in and pull him closer. Harry could blame his willingness on the receding Hanahaki attack, but he knew that wasn’t it. This was all Harry.
Here Tom was, talking about murder like it was a trivial, sane solution to Hanahaki without even considering the surgery like a sane person, and Harry was what, slumped placidly against him and doing nothing? Reveling in the touch of the terrible man he had unwittingly come to love? Harry slowly realized he had opened his shoulder at some point to allow Tom better access to his pulse point. The Minister’s fevered lips were basically laving against his heartbeat, breathing in his essence like a man starved. Harry’s body always betrayed him around Tom. Fuck. Did Tom even know what he was doing?
Through all the years they’d known each other, they have never been this close before.
Harry Potter, aged forty-five, is the reigning head auror. He’s been clashing with Tom for years; Harry thought he would’ve been dead by the first, but fate has a funny way of entertaining itself.
When he was young, Harry was the most promising auror trainee. He was recruited immediately after Seventh Year with honors due to his impressive victory in the Triwizard Tournament. The funny thing was, Harry didn’t choose to participate in the tournament to begin with; he wasn’t even the one to drop his name in the goblet. Although, unexpected shenanigans had become the norm for Harry since his first year—he always seemed to get himself in trouble—so this development didn’t shock him as much as it should have. Someone slipped his name in for him and the rest was history. Harry survived the tasks through a mixture of reflexes and luck, and somehow won, much to the surprise of himself and everyone else.
His win brought him fame, glory, and the Ministers attention—and oh yes, the first time Harry Potter met Tom Riddle was when he stiffly shook the Minister’s hand, allowing him to place the medal around his neck while silently seething in indignation. Somehow, despite his anger at the man’s cruel policies, Harry’s thoughts on the Minister at the time were milder than his friends, but that was only a testament to how radically they hated him.
“Listen, Harry, you should take this opportunity to bring some real change. Speak up when they give you the mic, protest these terrible bills Riddle has been passing!” Hermione nagged when she learned about the public medal ceremony Harry was forced to attend. She would give a speech on the rights of muggleborns on that very stage two years later.
“Blimey Hermione, are you trying to kill him?” Ron exclaimed. “The old, creepy bastard would blast him off the stage if he did that!”
Harry had to snort at the emphasis Ron put on “old”; his best friend was genuinely horrified at Riddle’s perfect, youthful complexion, even though he had to be older than all their parents. Riddle’s opponents reviled him for this, claiming he was “buying votes” with his effortless charm. Harry thinks it’s all rubbish. If anyone is stupid enough to be swayed by looks alone, then they aren’t the kind of people you’d want to cater to anyways. If he were in their position, he would see right through Riddle.
Hermione shook her head irritably.
“He wouldn’t dare. It’s too public, and mind you Harry just became a national treasure,” she touted. “He’s too beloved to be murdered.”
“This is Minister Riddle we’re talking about. He could imperious me for the rest of my life and make me his personal puppet,” Harry snarked, feeling bleak about the whole situation. “I need the aurors to recruit me, ‘Mione, if we want to play the long game like you suggested. They’re too under his thumb to trust me if I say things like that.”
Hermione considered this, and then sighed, flopping onto the couch. Ron joined her.
“I don’t like this.”
Ron muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “We know you don’t” and Hermione popped him in the arm. Harry smiled. At least his friends remained normal. All these interviews, job offers, articles, and now this medal ceremony was making his head spin.
“Just stay silent the whole time,” Ron offered, clearly on a whim, but Hermione lit up.
And that was how he got the crushing attention of the Minister pinned on him for the next twenty-seven years.
It seemed like everything Harry did served to make the Minister more interested in him. Harry didn’t suck up to him at the medal ceremony? Intrigued. Five months of receiving job offers by way of Ministry owl’s crashing into his and Ron’s shared flat until Harry came up to the man’s office himself to set the record straight—only to leave flustered and incredibly annoyed by Riddle talking circles around him. Years of condescending pestering later, Riddle audited a Defense lesson that Harry gave when he taught at Hogwarts for two years during his sabbatical from Auroring. Allegedly, Riddle was so impressed that he just needed to arrange a public mock duel between the two of them “for charity”. Harry could forgive him for this stint, because the look on his face when Harry almost won was priceless.
Eventually, their rapport grew so strong that Harry started receiving a visit from Riddle every month, to the point where Ginny refused to let his child, Lily, stay at his house for prolonged periods of time out of fear of them interacting. Then, the final development that landed Harry here, knock kneed and held by an iron grip on his waist: becoming Head Auror. Within a day of taking the position, Riddle jumped him.
“You want me to what?” Harry said lowly.
“Thanks to the increasing amounts of attempts on my life—thirty-two just this month, how dreadful—I find myself in need of a bodyguard. Who better than you?”
“Cut the bullshit, why did you really come here?” Harry said irritably.
Harry pointedly did not acknowledge that the older man coming into his house was practically commonplace these days. They’d gotten wine drunk together last Tuesday when they were supposed to be discussing the latest terrorist case. Nothing transpired, but they both woke up partially naked on the floor. Harry was pretty sure he insisted on playing a game of strip Gobstones. He thinks he lost.
Riddle put a hand on his chest in mock offense that managed to look patronizingly sincere. He was cozied up on Harry’s most comfortable armchair, taking up the space as he pleased. “Exactly what I said I was here for. I need someone to manage my defense affairs; I am a busy man, Harry.”
“Don’t break my mug,” Harry sniped when Riddle spun the cup of hot chocolate he insisted Harry make for him each time he visited. It was Lily’s mug that she painted at a ceramics class for him years ago, and there was some dark irony in Riddle using the cup that said “Number One Dad” when he sipped from it with so much sophistication Harry half expected him to extend his pinky.
Despite their banter, they had grown concerningly close over the years. Riddle, or rather Tom—they were familiar enough now that they had been on first name basis for a while—was quite fond of him. Harry had attempted to use this fondness to reform the man, and the auror department sent him after Tom accordingly. Harry spent more time with Tom these days than he did his own daughter, and somehow Harry wasn’t as upset about it as he should be. Against all odds, Harry found himself enjoying Riddle’s company—as annoying as it may be. Harry’s life was quite bleak outside of their interactions. He’d gotten a divorce with Ginny after the birth of their first and only child, and he hardly had time to meet anyone else due to the demands of his job. Although he visited with friends and family quite a lot, he was missing the mental stimulations that having challenges provided. In his Hogwarts years he always had adventures, and his life as an auror couldn’t compare like he thought it would. The problems with Britain were more political than physical, so his job had been stopping glorified burglars for the greater good while the Minister micromanaged him. Harry wanted to do something thrilling, and fraternizing with the evil Minister that managed to rile him up in a way no one else could was the exact thrill he looked for. They were more similar than Harry would like to admit, and Harry was shockingly comfortable with him.
Tom could take care of himself, he didn’t actually need Harry to be his bodyguard, and they both knew it. He was old as rocks, despite his physical appearance, and he was ridiculously powerful. Tom knew of dark rituals that made Harry’s skin crawl, and he’d remained in power for so long because of them. Yet despite it all, despite knowing that Tom’s youthful face was born from sin, Harry was still enthralled by the man anyways.
Harry sighed and pinched his nose, trying to ignore the smirking individual who invaded his space. He didn’t succeed.
Harry checked up on Tom’s office every week, looking for threats and tracking devices, but his visits always turned into moral debates, arguments, or even worse, thinly veiled flirting. Tom wanted him sexually, that much was clear, but Harry couldn’t endanger his friends and family more than they already were. Harry always shut Tom down. Tom let him. They were partners in work for Harry’s peace of mind, that was it.
Then Harry fell in love—even more in love than he was before. Hanahaki roses bloomed in his chest, and he started to slowly decay.
And now they were here.
Tom still held him in that crushing grip, and Harry had made no attempts to dislodge him. Harry’s inaction was completely unprofessional at this point, but it was Tom who seemed determined to take their contact to a new level. There was no denying it now; whether Tom was in his right mind or not, this confrontation had turned distinctly sexual. How did Harry know that one might ask?
The line of hickeys now peppering his throat was self-explanatory.
“Ah—ngggh. Tom. Tom, what are you—" Harry panted when Tom first swooped in and sucked, raising the flesh to a red swell like Tom was intent on bringing the petals within Harry’s throat to the surface. His skin was overly sensitive from the disease, and bolts of pleasure stemmed through him at once, nearly turning him mindless. The shock of Tom’s actions rendered him speechless; for a moment, Harry almost forgot about why he had avoided the inevitability that sat between them for years.
Then he remembered. Tom could never love anyone. Harry saw how he treated his subordinates, and he had remained in his position for far too long to care about anything but power. Harry was nothing but a plaything to him. But when Tom held him like this, so desperate and passionately, Harry could almost forget.
But he shouldn’t forget. That would be disastrous.
Harry protested enough to make himself feel better.
He scuttled and ducked his head to limit Tom’s access, croaking frantic questions that were supposed to be forceful but, to his embarrassment, came out like veiled moans. Tom didn’t even have to concentrate to ignore him and held him tighter each time Harry tried to pull away. Tom nipped, licked, and sucked hard on the thin skin of his neck, fiendishly murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like “mine” with every brand. He was forced to consider Harry, however, when every limb Harry possessed started trembling with the might of an earthquake. Something had been unleashed in Harry’s chest at the thought that this was it, they were finally addressing the tension between them, and a harrowing concoction of adrenaline and eagerness made him quake like a baby deer on ice. It was pitiful how he, in all forty-five years of age, could not hold himself still at the mere implication of a shag, and he flushed red in embarrassment. Harry moved to bury his face in the couch—because he was not prepared to deal with this—but was hauled up by a forceful hand on his neck. His back arched at the strain, and his arse unwittingly ground into Tom’s crotch behind him. Tom was hard. And did his hips just…? A sound emanated from behind him, a vibration of laughter echoed into his skin from the absolute leech of a man at his neck.
“Fuck you,” Harry spat, mortified at his shaky state. The lips curved into a smirk against him. A gluttonous bite followed, and Harry’s eyes threatened to roll into his skull. His neck felt like it was steaming from the wet trails that humidified his skin.
This had to be a blatant attempt at manipulation; there could be no other reason. Tom is worried about losing his hold on Harry, and he decided to ramp his charm up to the maximum. Whether Tom was simply jealous that “someone else” caught Harry’s attention, or he was worried about losing a useful asset, it didn’t matter. Harry had to put an end to this.
Be firm, Harry. Communication is important in times like this. Be an adult.
“Are you an animal? If you have something to—hnngh—say, Tom, then spit it out. Don’t do—ah!” –Tom had bitten him again— “That! Blood hell, are you trying to scar me?”
Probably.
The hand around the front of his throat choked him, and Harry gagged as he was silenced.
Tom didn’t humor his demands to talk. His large palm enveloped almost the entire length of Harry’s throat, and he used this advantage to choke him in brief bursts before softening—a tease of pressure. Harry couldn’t get a word out, his sore throat unable to handle the rough treatment, and this distracted him long enough for Tom to go about his business of desecrating Harry’s neck, or whatever his sick objective was. Each salacious bite felt like a brand. Tom took his time making a trail all the way up the sensitive line of Harry’s neck before pulling off with a particularly damp pop. Harry trembled.
Everything he did was so lewd. Was it really necessary to torture Harry like this?
Tom kissed just under Harry’s ear. “Look at you,” he murmured there, the lilt of his voice settling somewhere between mocking and threatening, “moaning for me while you have thoughts of another. Despicable. How will your lover ever forgive you?” The last part came out as bestial growl, and Harry’s cock gave an embarrassing twitch. Tom sounded well and truly furious.
So that’s what this is, Harry thought, it’s not manipulation, it’s ridicule.
Tom still thinks that Harry was in love with someone else. Did Harry have to spell it out for him?
“Tom,” Harry started to explain, “there isn’t—"
Tom grabbed him by his biceps and brutally turned him around. He repositioned him like a doll, taking advantage of his fluster and arranging him into an uncompromising hold. He caged Harry in every way, shoving a well-muscled thigh between Harry’s legs and covering his hands with his own, clamping down over them with white-knuckle pressure. Golden afternoon light spilled over his back, his broad shoulders flexing tantalizingly, and Harry was once again hit over the head with the reality that Tom was agonizingly attractive. Tom towered over him, and Harry could only wriggle in his shadow.
Fuck. Tom was looking at Harry like he wanted to eat him. His lips were puffy and red, shining with spit. For one, traitorous moment, Harry wondered what they’d feel like against his own.
Before Harry could catch a breath, Tom splayed a large hand over his ass, squeezing the muscle there before dragging Harry up his thigh like a piston. The buttons of their pants clinked together. Harry spluttered, but Tom’s perfect, bowed lips just pulled into a smirk that was condescending and pleased all at once. His hands locked Harry’s hips in place, and Harry’s attempts at escaping just led to him undulating over Tom’s thigh.
“So, this is the illness you’ve been hiding from me,” Tom drawled casually, like his pupils weren’t blown in deadly anger. “Hanahaki.”
Before Harry could eek out another word of explanation Tom pumped himself against the shallow dip of his hipbone, capturing him in a one-sided grind. The movement was so startling that Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away, could only look down in incomprehension as Tom rutted up against him. Harry was so distracted that he didn’t notice Tom leaning over to grab a discarded flower until it was mashed against Harry’s face, the smell of organ and blood invading his nose.
Harry shouted and jerked, but Tom was unrelenting. It was like an owner snubbing a dog’s nose in their own piss. Nasty. Even worse, he continued to knead his ass with his fingers like nothing had changed. The smooth roll of his hips against Harry never stopped, and Harry was torn between disgust and arousal.
What the fuck was happening.
“Did you truly believe you could hide this from me?” Tom beseeched, holding the withered petals against his nostrils until they disappeared into soot. “And all this suffering…for Ginny Weasley.”
Harry jerked at the insinuation. His statement was outrageous enough to bring his mind into focus.
“No! Ginny? Are you mad? We’re divorced for a reason.”
Somehow Tom managed to get more deadly. “Really? Then who else could it be? A one-night stand at a dingy pub that’s left you longing? I can assure you I have much more to offer than a drunken halfhearted fuck.” He punctuated this by grinding upwards with his knee, right into Harry’s prick. Heat bloomed underneath Harry’s skin, and so did another attack. His throat was completely dry, and scratchy thorns gargled at the base of his throat. “Who have you been seeing without my knowledge, Harry? Tell me and I might not disembowel them.”
“Charming,” Harry gritted out. “That really makes me want to tell you.”
Harry looked desperately off to the side, his eyes searching for the glass of water he’d abandoned. He needed to drink, or else he was going to vomit flowers right in the middle of Tom undressing him—because that was surely where this was going. Tom might not reciprocate his love, but he sure does seem interested in fucking him. Harry was helpless to stop him, didn’t want to stop him. This might be all he could ever get.
Harry should be stronger than this.
Having found the glass, Harry murmured an incantation and wandlessly went about hovering it over, but halfway through it suddenly shattered into a million pieces, raining down onto the carpet. Harry yowled, ready to shove Tom out of spite, but two cold, demanding hands crawled under his shirt to placate him and smoothed their way up to his pectorals. Tom’s eyes were veiled by his dark lashes, and rage and lust swirled within them. Fingers idly tweaked a nipple and Harry wheezed, grabbing Tom’s wrists over the shirt in a futile attempt to stop his advance. Tom just roved over them until they were pebbled. Tom’s consistent humping, his spiteful hands, his cruel gaze—it was doing horrible things to Harry.
Harry just couldn’t understand.
“Why are you doing this?” Harry croaked brokenly.
Tom chuckled, the sound devoid of joy.
“I’m doing this—” another slow, tormenting thrust “—because you need a reminder of who you belong to, darling.” A hand dropped down to his waist, toying with the edge of his waistband.
“And who do you think I belong to?” Harry challenged, unable to help himself.
Tom’s eyes pierced his own with disastrous desire. “Oh, Harry,” he said like he was endlessly amused, “you were mine the moment I laid eyes on you. And by the end of the hour, you will make a binding vow that states just that if you want the root of your disease to remain living.”
Tom leaned even closer, his voice rising in pitch, sounding mocking and feverish all at once. It had been a while since Harry had seen him in this mood, so clearly furious yet repressing it behind a smiling mask. “Clearly in my attempt to be patient I’ve left you so bereft that you’ve resorted to helpless pining—that was an oversight on my part. Don’t worry, I will pay for your surgery, and you will forget all about the person who has captured your interests. Although, just as a precaution, I’ll erase your memories of the past months as well: even if your shallow feelings have vanished we wouldn’t want you remembering this slip up--and how you love to forget. Then, the next time you come into my office I will fuck you on the table until the only name you’ll cry at night is mine. Really, I’m being quite generous by letting you off light and not chaining you to my desk. Now be a darling and hold out your arm for the vow, I’ve thought up a script for you.”
Harry’s jaw felt lodged open at Tom’s gall. He had to know that Harry would never agree to any of the things he is proposing, yet he said it anyways. Like Harry would let Tom handle his life for him like Harry wasn’t an adult himself—ridiculous! Harry almost gave into his reckless desire to punch the man before he realized he could do something much more satisfying.
Maybe revealing the source of his disease wasn’t that bad of an idea. On one hand, it would deescalate the situation once Tom realizes he is the cause, but on the other, Harry wasn’t sure his pride could take it. Then again, Harry didn’t have much left.
It was at that exact moment that Harry realized he’d been subtly rocking on top of Tom’s thigh for Merlin knows how long. Harry promptly stopped, mortified, but it was too late. Tom noticed immediately and ground upwards with his knee, his red gaze unfaltering. Harry gasped, and a wicked smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Yeah, okay, Harry had to stop this now.
“That won’t be necessary,” Harry said, strengthening his resolve. What’s the best way to go about getting Tom to stop? If anything, once he tells the truth, Tom will only hold on tighter. Harry needed to assert his dominance over the situation.
Tom didn’t react with anger like Harry expected, at least not completely. His eyes narrowed in consideration, but Harry could pinpoint the exact moment he decided to not take Harry seriously. His smile grew fangs, and his hand slithered to open the top button of Harry’s trousers. Velvety fingers skimmed under his waistband hypnotically, teasing him. Harry canted into his touch before he could stop himself.
“It won’t?” Tom asked with a mock pout, his eyes dancing with mirth. “How unfortunate, seeing how I hold the cards in this situation.”
No. Harry did.
Harry steeled himself, releasing the tension from his shoulders. He was in control. He had to be in control. Harry confidently caressed the hand that was still hidden under his shirt, feeling powerful. If Tom wanted him so bad, then let him have him. This was an inevitability. But Harry could control the pace.
Harry took the initiative to lean forwards, sliding his hips up Tom’s thigh until he could feel the heat of the other’s groin, and sidled up to his face demurely. Tom looked absolutely bewildered, caught off guard with Harry’s newfound motivation. However, he took it in stride quickly, adjusting his grip to keep Harry in the cage he walked into. Their lips were tantalizingly close.
“I’m going to say something, and you’re going to listen to me,” Harry whispered as alluring as he could into Tom’s cheek. A small tremor ran through him, and Harry smiled.
Harry looked straight into his eyes. Let Tom read the truth of it in his mind if he must. “The vow isn’t necessary because you wouldn’t want the person who gave me this disease dead.”
A pause. A flicker of sluggish realization crossed over Tom’s expression, but it was the next sentence that did him in.
“You’d sooner die than kill yourself.”
Tom’s eyes went distant. He stared vacantly ahead, thoughts swirling behind his eyes so fast that Harry couldn’t keep up. Harry didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see the smirk of delight on his face once he realized how much power he had over Harry. So Harry buried his head in the crook of his neck instead, stubborn tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. He pressed a featherlight kiss to the skin there, pretending for one last moment that he could have this, have Tom. Pretend that Tom would insist that he loved him and years of history would rewrite itself to paint Tom as a kinder man.
Harry was at Toms mercy, and Tom is anything but merciful.
Harry felt the vibrations from Tom’s throat before he heard the words.
“It’s me. Of course it’s me,” he murmured triumphantly, just like Harry knew he would.
Harry weakly scoffed at the egotistical words. “Of course,” he mocked, his voice strained and muffled by Tom’s robes. Harry was incensed by the clothing imbalance between the two of them. Harry was in nothing but his undershirt and his trousers while Tom was dressed up in his pretentious minister robes. It only made his figure more tantalizing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” was the next question, uttered in an unexpectedly soft tone that carried the warning notes of growing rage. Harry pulled his head away, sensing the danger.
“You didn’t need to know. It’s not like you could do anything about it.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
Harry scoffs again. “Tom, you don’t see people as people. You might be fond of me, but you surely don’t love me. I—” Harry sniffled, and he groaned as he wiped the stupid tears from his eyes, “I know you better than that.”
Tom was unimpressed.
“So this is my fault.”
Harry kept his mouth shut, but Tom read the defiance on his face and laughed cruelly.
“Don’t blame your masochism on me. You’re the one who chose to suffer instead of simply asking me for a peck on the lips.”
Harry growled, pushing against his chest and struggling in his grip to no avail.
“A peck on the lips wouldn’t suffice! You know as well as I do that it needs to be a ‘true loves kiss’ or whatever sentimental bullshit wizards have come up with!”
“And mine wouldn’t have been one of true love? How do you know?”
Harry averted his eyes. His voice was already unsteady, and he was sure that Tom could tell he was a few seconds away from his speech becoming warbled by tears; that was probably why he was taking so much joy in goading him.
“Get off me Tom, this isn’t something you can fix.”
Tom made a low, considering sound in his throat that had Harry blushing.
“Get off you?” he said slowly. He loosened his hold only to back Harry up against the couch. Harry let him. “No, I think you’d much rather stay here.” His dark lashes fanned over his cheeks, and he tucked a silky strand of grey hair behind Harry’s ear. Hanahaki had taken its toll, and Harry had gained a lot of silver as of late. It was silly to be self-conscious of his ageing features when he was around Tom, given that the man was no spring chicken himself, but when he was faced with Tom’s unwrinkled features and dark hair, he couldn’t help but feel unworthy.
Tom continued compellingly. “I find your doubt offensive. Perhaps I’m being too subtle; I’m more than willing to kiss you. If you want to end your suffering, all you’d have to do is ask.”
“So you’re saying you love me?” Harry asked, his tone riddled with sarcasm.
Tom replied seriously.
“I’m saying that I covet you more than anything Harry Potter, and that is not something I take lightly. If I were to be in…love…with anything, it would be you. Let me kiss you, cure you, make you mine.” Those last words were whispered up against his lips.
Harry coughed in response. He coughed and coughed until flowers were thundering up his throat. He tried to push Tom away, but the man continued to loom, something derisive in his stare. He watched Harry hack up spurned thorns and blood dispassionately, and when flowers fell from Harry’s lips, Tom gathered it between his fingers and brought it to his nose, curling his lip at the awful stench and casting aside, like it was meaningless. A crude smile carved a path on Tom’s face, and he leaned in. The roses had multiplied until Harry was suffocating.
“I think…I’ll fix this now.”
“Ack—Tom, no, no, I can’t breathe—”
It was too late. A mouth plugged Harry’s own like the rush of a tide. The Hanahaki inside of Harry did not take kindly to the intrusion, defensively rushing over his tongue and pushing past his teeth to bloom between their lips. But, unlike other Hanahaki flowers, this one softened the moment it blossomed. It wavered for a moment between them—Harry was shocked to realize it was odorless—and its petals judgingly curled around Tom’s lips, like it was determining his worth. Tom’s eyes were wide and startled, so at odds with his normal composure that Harry would like nothing more than to huff out a delirious laugh if his throat wasn’t clogged by thorns. He gagged instead, whimpering in pain.
Tom’s expression grew darker in response.
The flower was stagnant for longer than what was comfortable, and Tom decided to take initiative. Tom closed his eyes and dove in from a new angle, shoving the flower to the side and running his tongue across Harry’s bottom lip. Harry tried to warn him, but Tom licked inside regardless of the danger, or maybe because of it. His tongue was immediately snagged by thorns, and Harry’s mouth was filled with more than his own blood, but Tom paused for nothing, tasting Harry’s mouth like it was a craving. Prick after prick came to Harry’s mouth, but all he could focus on was the slick slide of their lips, the wet insistence of Tom’s tongue, the low gasps that they both made, and euphoria bubbled up until he was choking on it. Blood dribbled out of his mouth, but Harry had long become accustomed to the coppery taste. Some of it migrated to Tom’s mouth, and Harry swore that he swallowed.
Their first kiss was vile, and Harry couldn’t get enough.
After what felt like hours, the Hanahaki decided to reward Tom’s efforts. Maybe it was Tom’s daring proved his worth to the Hanahaki, or maybe he bullied it into submission, because the flower shriveled and burst into a million pink sparkles before vanishing with a “pop”. The thorns that paved the flower’s path through Harry’s lungs followed suit and disappeared, leaving the space unoccupied. For the first time in months Harry could breathe, and he stumbled away from Tom, taking deep inhales.
Harry stumbled backwards, panting heavily. Harry cast a healing charm on his throat and nearly fell to his knees in relief when it worked. You couldn’t heal the scars that Hanahaki left when you still had it. The disease was gone.
“It worked,” Harry said pensively, smoothing a hand over his chin. His hair concealed his expression.
“It did,” Tom responded from where Harry left him, his voice slightly hoarse. Curious fingers fiddled with his plush bottom lip, perfectly intact and unbloodied. Tom must have healed himself as well. His red eyes watched Harry avidly, probably anticipating what Harry would do now that his disease had been cured.
Harry didn’t let him wonder for long.
Harry was on him in two seconds, mashing their lips together and wrestling Tom’s outermost cloak off him. Tom grunted in surprise but greedily met his lips in kind, flexing his chest as he slipped out of his robe. Harry smiled into the kiss, his cheeks pulled taunt as his little gasps of wonder interrupted their frenzy.
“It worked,” Harry mumbled joyfully between kisses, his speech slurred with desire and disbelief. “It really worked.” Tom said nothing, too busy nipping holes into Harry’s lips, so Harry decided to capture his attention. He felt shameless and jubilant, high off his own joy. Tom loved him. Tom really, truly loved him.
And Harry needed to have him right now.
Harry hiked a leg around Tom’s hip—one that Tom eagerly caught—and let a breathy moan overcome his voice, rolling his hips against Tom’s at new angle while his mouth did filthy things to Tom’s neck. “Fuck, Tom, it worked,” Harry said in a heavy drawl, throwing Tom’s earlier tactics back at him as he pulled Tom into a sloppy kiss, sucking his abused tongue into his mouth demandingly. Harry whined low in his throat, rutting hard against Tom, and that did it.
Tom vanished their clothes within seconds.
Harry yelped in shock as Tom’s magic came between them, a flare of heat burning his skin as his clothes melted into the air. Harry pulled away from Tom’s venomous lips and promptly grew rather distracted at the reveal of Tom’s bare chest, pale and dappled with a flush that a part of Harry purred at having put there. His muscles rippled as he swayed closer, his throbbing dick dragging obscenely against Harry’s own. It was slightly offset by their position, and it was dry, but the friction it brought was unbearable. Harry had to bite his lip savagely and tighten his core to not come then and there.
“Of course it worked,” Tom whispered rakishly onto Harry’s lips, a throaty groan being drawn out of him as Harry boldly brought his other leg around Tom’s waist, trusting Tom to hold him up. Tom didn’t disappoint, and he hefted him up until they were chest to chest. Harry’s weeping cock was throbbing hard enough to hurt from where it was trapped in the fissure of Tom’s abdomen, and the head of Tom’s dick smeared up the cleft of Harry’s ass; despite the impracticality of the fantasy, Harry imagined Tom simply dropping him down and spearing him then and there. Harry’s mind drowned in white noise at the thought, and a wanton moan came out of him, the pucker of his hole pulsating needily.
Harry needed to be fucked. Now.
“Couch,” Harry insisted, his voice nothing but a humid puff of breath against Tom’s neck.
Tom obliged.
One slick, messy kiss later, and Harry was slammed onto the couch hard enough to bounce, his nipples scraping against the leather. Rough hands pulled his hips back until strong thighs framed the backs of his own, and Tom’s cock dangled erotically against Harry’s perineum as he draped his weight over Harry like a human blanket. Harry’s cockhead slipped slickly against the couch, weeping with precum, and he cried out, rocking back against the hard line of Tom’s body like he would die without his touch.
Tom threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair and twisted his face to the side, kissing him deeply, uncaring of the awkward angle. He pulled back slowly, a string of saliva connecting their lip, and Tom wiped it away with his thumb. Before he could leave Harry twined his tongue around it and sucked, his chest rumpling in satisfaction as Tom’s wine-dark gaze grew scorching.
Tom pulled at his lip, smearing Harry’s spit up his cheek.
“Thirsty?” Tom questioned, the alure of his flushed face unavoidable. Harry squinted back at him uncomprehendingly, unsure how the word “thirsty” fit into this interaction. Tom leaned back to conjure a glass of water and Harry whimpered at the loss of contact, lustfully tracking the bob of Tom’s throat as he drank. Harry was thirsty earlier, but now hydration was the last thing on his mind, and he grew frustrated with Tom’s inaction. Harry ground his ass against Tom, furrowing his brows and moaning brokenly when Tom leaned further away.
“Tom. If you don’t get over here and fuck me, I wi—"
Lips slid over his own and a rush of water burbled against his mouth. A trickle fell, and Harry hastened to catch the rest. He nearly choked at the influx of liquid travelling down his throat, but Tom was there, gently stroking his neck while Harry’s throat worked, helping the water go down like Harry was a struggling kitten. Tom’s tongue lapped up the excess, the coolness giving the kiss a new taste. Still, Harry couldn’t catch everything, and water dribbled from his mouth, pooling in the dips of the cushion and coming to rest pleasantly against his steaming skin.
“Better?” Tom asked against the curve of his cheekbone, his voice hungry and unbearably smug. Glaring back at Tom, Harry managed to hook Tom’s thighs with his legs and pulled until he was trapped against him.
“Better,” Harry affirmed snappishly. “Now get on with it.”
Tom smiled, undeterred by Harry attitude, and flicked his fingers. A half full bottle of lube flew towards him from a drawer and smacked into his palm.
Harry gaped. “What could you possibly have that in here for?”
Tom brutally smoothed a hand down Harry’s back, stopping to curl in his hair and force his head to lay flat. He poured the lube onto his fingers with the other, casually taking himself in hand and giving himself a perfunctory pump. Harry’s cock twitched weakly from where it was trapped in the air, craving friction.
“Ask me another insipid question like that and I will go in dry.”
He lined himself up, and Harry’s eyes widened in horror. Surely he wouldn’t—
“But if you must know,” he uttered darkly, his black lashes fanning out over his cheeks while he guided his prick to Harry’s entrance, sliding against Harry’s hole with the barest amount of pressure, “It’s because I knew you’d be panting for it someday. It’s best to always be prepared; isn’t that your first tenant as an auror?”
“Actually—aah—it’s ‘constant vigilance’,” Harry snarked back with a snarl, out of his mind with lust. Harry’s eyes warily came to rest on Tom’s cock again, where it was still suggestively pressed against Harry’s entrance.
“You’re not going to try to put that in now, are you?” Harry questioned weakly, still being held down by the hand in his hair.
Tom hummed, like he was actually considering it.
“Mm, and why not? Can you not take me?”
Some defiant, stupid part of Harry wanted to disagree just to be difficult, but the other, rational part of Harry shriveled at the thought. Gryffindor pride be damned, taking him in the first go was insanity unless Tom was going to cast a stretching charm—something Harry would rather he not do. They hurt. Harry wavered, unsure of what answer would piss Tom off the most, but Tom laughed at the look of concentration on his face. He removed his hand from Harry’s hair to stroke along his cheek, poking it playfully.
“So expressive,” Tom teased. He leaned in even closer until his chest was pressed flush against Harry’s back. “Don’t be naïve, Harry, I’m not going to give it to you until you’re begging for it.”
Before Harry could begin to marshal his thoughts, Tom cast a charm that had Harry jolting. Harry bristled defensively, knowing without a shadow of a doubt Tom put too much power into it on purpose. It wasn’t a stretching charm though, so he couldn’t complain too much. Looks like Tom intended to open him by hand.
Harry’s bristling turned into a catch of breath as Harry was forced to drop his head into the circle of his arms, his breath steaming the air between himself and the couch. Tom had inserted two fingers at once, hooked at the knuckle, and the burn was unbearable. This position was degrading; Harry’s was ass pert in the air and completely exposed, but the shame only added to Harry’s pleasure.
Harry cursed, digging his teeth into his arm.
“Shhh, that’s it, open up for me,” Tom cooed, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. “You’re doing so well.”
“Shut the hell up, prick,” Harry croaked, growing desperate enough to sink back on his fingers, helping the process along. Tom scissored him until he could fit a third, and by the end of it Harry was an inconsolable mess, his face stained a ruddy red and his cock straining in the air.
Harry jolted when he felt Tom lining up, his senses coming back to him.
“Wait!” he said, turning around. “Not like this.”
Tom quirked an eyebrow, teetering on the edge of annoyance. “Oh?” he questioned.
Harry quickly clamped his mouth shut, wishing he hadn’t spoken. There was a particular fantasy he’d always wanted to try, something he’d imagined happening countless times before, except it always took place in Tom’s grand chair instead of the couch. In hindsight, admitting that he’s thought about this before would make Tom insufferable; Harry didn’t know why he even thought to suggest it.
“Nothing,” Harry said breathlessly, arching even further into Tom’s hold in placation. “This is fine.”
Predictably, Tom didn’t let it go. Tom removed himself, his fingers sliding out, depriving Harry of his touch. “Oh no darling, do tell. I’m quite curious what your gorgeous mind has thought up.”
Harry’s cheeks burned brighter, and he twisted awkwardly, attempting to bring Tom back down on him. Tom evaded until he rested his back against the arm of the couch, capturing Harry’s arms and pulling him down on top of him. Harry landed between his thighs.
“Like this?” Tom asked, smirking while his hand came down to encircle them both, pumping loosely, a tease of pleasure. Harry felt like the breath was punched out of him, and his head momentarily dropped onto Tom’s shoulder.
“Ngh—no.”
“Really? Not like this?” Tom asked, stroking harder. Harry made an abortive thrust into his grip, a heady wave of pleasure making him shudder. Tom’s eyes crinkled patronizingly at Harry’s reaction, and that was enough to make Harry pull himself together. Harry slapped a hand on Tom’s chest, repositioning himself until he sat properly in Tom’s lap. He kissed him then, rough and all teeth.
Harry circled his hips, grinding down against Tom’s throbbing erection.
“Like this,” Harry uttered, his face flaming, and pushed Tom all the way down until he was lying on his back and completely at Harry’s mercy. A bit of silvery hair fell in Harry’s eyes, and he pushed it back. Tom’s eyes were trained on him like he was bewitched, and for a moment, he let Harry move as he pleased, his hands resting uselessly near his head.
The thought of riding Tom was engrained in Harry’s mind like it was a sacred memory.
After his divorce with Ginny, Harry had his share of trysts, though none of them were serious, and Harry was always under a heavy glamour. Some of them were with men.
Naturally, his sadistic mind liked to apply everything he’d learned to Tom, imagining him in the stranger’s place. Harry’s body felt charged when Tom’s quick tongue sniped innuendoes at him daily, and invasive images flooded Harry’s mind with all possible and impossible positions at a concerning frequency.
There was nothing wrong with Harry watching Tom work. There was something so mesmerizing about Tom suavely signing reports and taking in massive loads of information with one sweep of his eyes, so sometimes Harry would insist on staying. Harry told himself it was to monitor the documents Tom was reviewing, but if that were really the case, Harry’s eyes wouldn’t remain exclusively trained on Tom’s regal profile instead, guiltily tracking the clench of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he swallowed. Harry would lean against his desk, his thigh close enough for Tom to grab, and just imagine crowding into Tom’s space and sitting in his lap with no fanfare, riding the Minister while he worked; one hand on his pen and the other guiding his hips up and down.
While this position was a little different, the idea was the same. Tom was his for the taking, and Harry wasn’t going to waste this opportunity.
Harry faltered trying to line himself up, and Tom helped him immediately, clever hands steadying Harry while holding his cock up against his entrance. Harry sank slowly, hissing at the strain. Tom let out a soft moan like he couldn’t help himself, crooning a litany of things in parseltongue with every inch Harry took. He always said things in parseltongue around Harry, but this was different; even though Harry couldn’t understand a word he knew it was only pure, lewd filth dripping from his mouth. When Harry bottomed out, Tom was shaking with strain, probably fighting the urge to buck into him like an animal.
Harry took his time, spearing himself further on Tom’s dick as he leaned back, his arms holding him up. His cock was flushed an angry red from where it stood at attention between them, and when Harry finally, finally moved, it bobbed desperately, beaded with precum.
Tom cursed, throwing his head back while his hips canted upwards. As good as it felt, Harry couldn’t allow it.
Harry tightened his grip on Tom’s thigh, his fingers claws, and stopped moving entirely. Tom looked up at him with a pout, his eyes hazy and unfocused. Harry smirked, impressed that he had reduced the composed man to such a state.
“Stay still,” Harry commanded, biting his lip and slowly rising up before dropping down, establishing a syrupy, hypnotizing pace of his own. Tom tracked the ripple of his muscles under his sweating, golden skin, his mouth open in a wonderous gasp.
Tom obeyed for all of one minute.
Harry lost the reigns when Tom forgot that patience existed, hedonistically gripping his hips and slamming into him, the harsh movement making Harry’s dick jerk painfully as it bounced, helpless to resist the movement of his body. Tom smirked evilly up at him as Harry could do nothing but take it, doing everything in his power to remain upright.
When Harry protested at the harsh pace, Tom growled, “You’ve had your fun,” before continuing to pound into him, the slap of skin echoing in the large office. Harry hoped the doors were locked. It got to a point where Harry stopped moving altogether, turning into pliant putty in Tom’s lap as he fucked him, holding him down and abusing his hole. Every other thrust hit Harry’s prostate, and he felt recked.
Harry finally fell forwards, his hands slapping on either side of Tom’s head. Kissing wasn’t an option from how hard Tom was thrusting, so they panted against each other’s mouths instead, moaning in tandem. It felt more intimate than a kiss. With each jolt of Tom’s hips Harry’s prick rubbed between them, catching on the angular planes of Tom’s body. Too fucked out to talk, Harry gave no warning when he came, clenching down around Tom’s dick as blinding pleasure overcame him. Tom wasn’t far to follow.
They lay there for a while, coming down from the high. Harry was too lazy to roll off him, and Tom probably wouldn’t have let him if he did. Harry’s oversensitive skin was warm and his hair was sweat slicked, but Tom pet it anyways, licking the salty trails from Harry’s skin. Harry wondered if he had an oral fixation. There was a lot he didn’t know about Tom, it seemed.
“That tickles,” Harry mumbled. Tom hissed something in parseltongue in response. Harry shivered at the wispy syllables.
“You know I can’t understand you, right?”
Tom just whispered it in his ear with even more intent, sounding positively filthy. Harry smiled, snuggling closer and sighing with contentment as Tom’s arms wrapped around him and pulled him close. Harry could fall asleep just like this, even though his spend was coating both of their stomachs and Tom’s softening length was still entrenched in him, plugging his seed inside of Harry. His eyes closed, content to let himself drift without thinking too hard about what just transpired. Harry’s whole word had changed in one hour, he was allowed to process it slowy.
At least the day ended in sex instead of murder. That was a win in Harry’s books.
At some point Tom murmured a charm that dimmed the lights until just the golden afternoon light pooled in the room, a dim nightlight to its sleepy inhabitants. Tom kissed the crown of his head softly, so very softly, and he wrapped a conjured blanket around them both, turning them onto their side. How had Harry never noticed it before?
“Why?” Harry questioned languidly, on the verge of sleep.
“Why what?” Tom answered fondly, his voice muffled against his hair.
“Why do you love me?”
There was a long pause. A cold hand drew circles on his back in a soothing pattern, stuttering over the scrapes he’d left there like an apology. It was quiet for so long that Harry almost forgot his question.
“I am not what I am to anyone but you,” Tom cryptically uttered at last.
Harry snuffled against his skin, and he would be unable to take in the full meaning of his words until the next morning. Harry did, however, know that he had one last thing to say while his lips were loose and he could regret nothing.
“I love you,” Harry whispered vulnerably. This admittance cut him on the inside like the thorns did, but he meant it. It was true. He was tired of fighting it.
Harry thought he heard Tom whisper something familiar in parseltongue before he drifted into a deep sleep.
