Chapter Text
It all started with Tom bloody Riddle throwing his robe at Harry instead of hanging it up like a normal person.
Actually, no.
It started with the Aurors refusing to get him into training, because the amount of participants was already excessive and he lacked any real job experience. His grades, however good, admittedly weren’t good enough to get him anywhere without batting an eyelash. That his dad and godfather were Aurors that could vouch for him meant nothing. Apparently accepting him in the light of that would only make the whole department look bad.
Please try again next year, Mr. Potter.
So Harry decided he would try something else instead.
He wanted to try and get on his own two feet before inheriting the family vaults and Lordship, he still didn’t entirely understand the paperwork for. He couldn’t really call himself an adult when he was fresh out of magical university and still living with his parents. So: work. He needed to earn money that would be his own.
His mum praised him for such a show of humility and maturity, even if her narrowed green eyes betrayed that she thought Harry was too soft for it to work out. Dad, on the other hand, said he could use the gap year more efficiently, as opposed to getting some embarrassing, low paying, entry level job.
Offended, Harry said that no work could ever be embarrassing enough. This might have been a bit of an overstatement, but a bruised ego didn’t mix well with pettiness levels of a brooding dragon. And that’s how he landed on the doorstep of Morsmordre magazine…
Which, instead of some cool stuff like murder investigation or anything else really, was primarily a fashion — Ahem — lifestyle publication. At least, that was what Pansy Parkinson from HR informed him of while shoving a stack of files into his arms. Harry wouldn’t know fashion if it hit him in the face.
He wore the same t-shirt with jeans and his favourite pair of converse every day. How did he even get accepted?
Right.
Riddle had taken one look at him and said all the pretty and actually interested candidates were too dumb for him and that this was ‘just an experiment, Harold. Do keep up.’
Never mind that his name was not Harold.
Harry groaned into his coffee, earning himself a glare from one Draco Malfoy.
“What are you doing? Put Mr. Riddle’s coat on a hanger this instant!” The blond hissed, aggressively clicking on something on a muggle computer charmed to work in a magical environment.
He scowled, but did as told, carefully managing the undoubtedly expensive wool fabric so it wouldn’t crease. Meanwhile Malfoy click-clacked away, unperturbed by effectively typing his life away on a muggle device.
Why an heir to a fortune was working as a primary assistant to someone like Riddle, Harry could never guess. Not that he would ever ask. The git was just too fashion focused to even grasp the concept of quitting. That much was clear from even his horrible first day.
“Okay, Potter,” Malfoy said after a beat of blessed silence. “Here is some of Mr. Riddle’s mail, look through it and trash any fan-mail or other nonsense. The rest goes into colour coded stacks.” He pointed at the pile of envelopes on the floor. “Blue for business, green for personal correspondence.”
Harry stared at the towers of mail Malfoy pointed to. He thought those were company papers, not letters and definitely not the man’s personal—
Merlin.
His boss didn’t even look through his own mail.
“Any calls he gets also pass through us,” the blond explained icily, pointing to the old dated telephone by Harry’s right elbow. “When I have to use the loo, you stay and answer.”
Harry nodded. “And if I also need to go?”
Malfoy scoffed, shooting him a pitying look. “Even if you’re desperate to loose a few pounds. You. Don’t. Leave.”
Right.
“Don’t leave the boss baby unattended. Got it.”
A scandalised look flashed over Malfoy’s face before his features flattened. “Whatever. You’re not going to be here long-“ damn right, he just had to survive the year until the Aurors put up notice again, “-so just make sure the line is not unattended.”
Harry smiled wryly. “Of course, it’s only professional,” he said, moving to read through the ridiculous amount of mail. Using the spell Hermione taught him, he divided the pile into even stacks. It quickly turned out that there were a few main types of letters Riddle received.
These included, but were not limited to:
1. Marriage proposals.
Honestly, Harry would have seen the appeal if he never heard what was usually coming out of that treacherous mouth. The man was handsome. Devilishly so with his dark suits and perfectly collared white shirts.
2. Fanmail.
Copious amount of fanmail, some even coming with what Harry thought were love-potion-infused sweets that Malfoy instructed him to vanish on sight.
3. Things all retaining to business.
Or as it was, several businesses and a frankly ridiculous amount of shares in companies ranging from the Daily Prophet to uncle Severus’s small potion empire. Which was a really weird thing to think about.
4. More marriage proposals.
One’s of particularly saucy nature that made Harry gag a few times. Especially the one that started with a weirdly devout description of Riddle’s perfect ankles.
5. Exactly two blood feuds, causes unknown. Harry promptly tossed those into the green pile and decided curiosity was a vice.
6. A basket of dark chocolate from someone called Trixie with a note which had a lipstick stain and a single line of text that read: ‘For My Lord’.
Which... Was alarming.
Harry considered asking.
Then remembered he had already seen two blood feuds before the clock even struck 10 in the morning and decided it wasn’t worth it.
And finally, 7. a very strong worded letter regarding usage of peacock feathers in a last month’s issue of Morsmordre from one Lucius Malfoy. Who, he might add, seemed as obsessed with Harry’s boss as his son.
He glanced at Draco, who was now fumbling with a warming charm on a coffee he guessed should have already been delivered to Riddle’s office.
He had only been here an hour, but he was starting to suspect everyone here was insane. Including himself. Because even now he still thought quitting would only show his father was right in thinking that Harry was ill suited to any kind of work where he had to sit still.
Which, considering Harry’s extremely competitive nature, meant that he was ready to crush this job.
Even if it killed him.
“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy hissed in a way Harry was beginning to think was his natural cadence. “Mr. Riddle has a meeting in 10. You will be there to attend to him.”
“Like bring him coffee if he asks?”
Draco raised one perfectly maintained eyebrow at the question. “Even should he demand a time-turner, you will find a way to procure it from somewhere, Potter, ” he said matter-of-factly. “Mr. Riddle will have nothing but the best or you’ll quickly find out why they call him…” Draco cupped one hand around his mouth and with a secretive expression, as if he was guarding state secrets not company gossip. “Voldemort.”
Harry cringed, stretching his arms and enjoying the loud pops resulting from at least two hours of flicking through mail and answering phone calls from a bizarre amount of people.
“Sure thing,” he replied easily. “Just out of curiosity, why would you send me if you seem so nervous about it?”
Malfoy looked at him like one would at a misbehaving toddler. “Because I’m managing his schedule for the week? I can’t have you muck it up with your knobby, flaky hands,” he tutted as if the words themselves were offensive to him.
Harry blinked, deciding that he wasn’t going to pry that can of worms open.
Malfoy seemingly decided to take pity on him. “Listen here,” he said. “So long as you nod at everything the boss says and maintain a decent distance from him in your shabby, charity case get-up at all times, everything will be fine. Probably.”
“Probably,” he parroted, stuck in between feeling grateful for the advice and insulted on behalf of his clothes.
Malfoy shrugged, adding another block onto his spreadsheet, this one titled ‘Britney Spears’. Harry stared at the heading with growing bewilderment, earning him a narrowed eyed look from Draco.
“I said the meeting is in ten minutes,” Malfoy repeated. “This means you better get going. Now.”
Harry turned out to already be five minutes late to the meeting, and he scrambled to stand by Riddle’s side, trainers squeaking on the floor. The man eyed him up and down, mouth curling in distaste. Harry, already on edge — but running on spite and two double espressos — pretended not to notice.
“Sorry I’m late. Draco was helping me…” he trailed off.
Riddle ignored him, his hand motioning for some witch to continue her monologue that Harry ruined by barging in.
“…and that’s why I’m not sure whether to choose this belt,” she picked one grey belt up, “or this one for the autumn season…” The second one was exactly the same as the first.
Harry blinked as people around him listened intently, his boss included. He noted everything with a help of a special quill, not managing to muffle his snort at the absurd dilemma.
He almost missed the way every pair of eyes in the room locked onto him.
“Do you find something amusing, Harold?” Mr. Riddle asked in a deceptively light tone.
Harry felt his spine stiffen subconsciously. That was the same tone of voice he heard his father use during career day when he demonstrated how to interrogate a criminal. The way he wove the words, like velvet over icy steel, had no place in a bloody fashion magazine meeting. Least of all in a conversation about belts.
“No,” he coughed. “…sir. No sir.”
”Now, now. Don’t be shy.” Riddle learned forward, resting his chin on top of intertwined fingers as he smiled dangerously. ”I think everyone here could benefit from some healthy laughter.”
Harry’s eyes flicked around the room nervously, his serious expression wobbling. “It’s just… the belts literally look the same.”
Riddle stared him down unblinkingly. Harry couldn’t help feeling like a mouse waiting for the cat to pounce. Though Tom and Jerry was only two letters off so he might be justified. The witch with the belts looked genuinely stricken, as if Harry had given her a slap to the face instead of merely pointing out her poor eyesight. He didn’t have much to offer in that department either, but still.
Then Riddle lifted one of his unblemished, porcelain hands with a watch on the wrist that Harry bet could buy him an entire apartment. “I see…”
He let out a breath of relief, lips spreading into a grateful smile. Maybe the man wasn’t half bad after all.
“…that you’re not only lacking fashion sense, but also common sense.”
The smile dropped from Harry’s face, jaw tensing up involuntarily.
“Fact of the matter is, that every shabby item you’re wearing was decided by the people in this very room.”
Harry swallowed, looking around the meeting room to see scowls and barely concealed disgust.
“There are only two types of people in the world,” the man drawled. “The one’s that entertain, and the one’s that observe.”
Was… No it couldn’t be.
But it clearly was a Britney Spears reference.
Suddenly the scheduled block Draco was working on didn’t seem so absurd. Maybe it was a regular thing Riddle did, quoting her songs. Harry made a mental note to actually listen to the blond in the future. Remembering the other piece of advice he got, he nodded.
“Despite what you cooked up in that brillant, young mind of yours, this ratty t-shirt and worn jeans were never your choice to begin with,” Riddle spat. “Everything has already been decided for you, starting a hundred years ago with the avant-garde movement and Coco Chanel, who decided menswear was now in vogue. Then I, along with every person standing here, picked the navy colour in the menswear Galliano collection about five years ago in autumn-winter season.”
The man spoke with such passion, venom laced words holding Harry in a trance as they cut him open like knives. In contrast, Riddle’s eyes showed only nonchalant dismissal, though the flash of red betrayed his genuine irritation.
Being on the other end of that glare was making him feel oddly small.
Riddle didn’t stop his tirade, however. ”The production of navy anything skyrocketed shortly thereafter, which must have prompted the fast-fashion manufacturer of your- “he paused, once again giving Harry’s clothes a look of disgust, “-charity-bin find.”
The witch, Harry made the mistake of criticising, snickered. He, on the other hand, felt his ears heat and nodded, not wanting this to continue any second longer.
Unfortunately, Riddle wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of fading into obscurity.
”You see, Harold. I am the entertainer. I entertain you and every other poor excuse of a coat hanger they send my way. I entertain the industry when they beg on their knees for my opinion, kissing the toe of whatever shoe I decide is in fashion that season. All you have to do is observe,” he advised. “Though I understand that must be hard with those monstrous binoculars you have attached to your face.”
Brilliant, Harry thought bitterly.
The Britney Spears references were definitely a thing.
“So, no. Those belts are not identical,” Riddle finally concluded, picking both up. He raised one higher than the other. “This one is graphite. A casual yet elegant choice.” Then he lifted the second. “This one is silver, an extravagant, creative piece that shows that whoever is wearing it is not as scared of how other people view them as you undoubtedly are, Harold.”
Ouch.
Riddle cast him one last scathing look before turning back to the witch. “The silver is obviously a better choice to go with emerald green, Samantha.”
The witch squeaked out an enthusiastic, “Yes!” before running to get another outfit.
Harry breathed out like a popped balloon and kept his head low for the rest of the meeting.
He apparated home for an excruciatingly late dinner that night. So late, in fact, that his mum was walking a hole by the front door of the house by the time he came back.
“Harry! You’re finally back!” She cried, worry easing from her face in an instant. “How was work?”
His father appeared from somewhere down the hallway, a smug grin on display. “Was it bad?”
His mother shot a stinging hex at her husband’s feet without so much as glancing in his direction. “Don’t listen to James, Harry. He’s just trying to wind you up. But If it was bad you know you can always-“
“Actually,” he cut her off with a forced smile, already done with the conversation, and exhausted by the tyrannical idiots that managed his workplace. “It was great. There’s this lovely bloke who works as the senior executive assistant, his name is Draco— yes that Draco.”
His father choked on his spit as Harry chucked off his shoes in a hurry to eat something. Because of course the office cafeteria would also be a badly written joke. Why didn’t they offer anything filling? He was there to work, not starve to death. “He showed me the ropes. I never knew Malfoy’s had it in them to be nice, but something must have changed since school.”
Lily lit up, relief clearly washing over her. “That’s great honey!”
“And what about your boss?” James tried, lips pursed.
Taking defeat in stride was never his strong suit. Harry knew this. Lily knew this. The whole ministry knew this. Which was just as well, seeing as Harry took any failure even worse than his father and was not about to give up his pride for anything less than life or death.
“I heard he was a right arsehole.”
“Who? Mr. Riddle?” He barely managed to get the innocent tone through his throat.
James narrowed his eyes in suspicion as Lily fussed over his jacket. Still, a simple nudge from his wife was all it took to drop the topic.
“He’s charming. I don’t know what you read in Witch Weekly, dad, but I assure you Mr. Riddle is the perfect gentleman at work.”
If one excluded the public humiliation, and those scarily perceptive eyes of his, that is. But Harry was not about to his father announce that he was right. Nope. One bad day would not defeat Harry. This was just the start, and he was ready to destroy that office and get a recommendation that the DMLE would be sure to gawk at. He smiled to himself, determined to show James Potter who was boss, once and for all.
Little did he know that the next week would be one of the worst things that happened in his twenty three years of life.