The Abyss 3b/4 - HP/LV - NC17
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The Abyss 3/4
January 19th 1941. 14 years old. 3
He had been putting up with it for three and a half years. Three and a half years of bullying and abuse and turning the other fucking cheek because it was what Harry would want even though Hogwarts was supposed to be different, and yet it was so much like living at the orphanage that some days Tom wondered why he even bothered. Three and a half years, and now Tom had had enough.
Prewitt curled around himself on the floor by Tom’s feet, and the younger Slytherin looked down at him with an angry scowl.
“Enough,” Tom whispered, thinking back on what he had discovered earlier that day in the library. Harry had known. Harry must have known. It was hereditary, Harry had told him years ago, back when Tom was still a child. Parseltongue was hereditary.
He cast a curse on the elder Slytherin, watching with glee as the boy screamed and writhed before him, at his mercy when Tom had no mercy to spare. “I am the Heir of Slytherin,” he whispered and Anthony Prewitt barely heard him over his screams. By this time tomorrow, everyone would know who Tom was. He wasn’t a Mudblood. He wasn’t even a regular half-blood, because he was the Heir to Salazar Slytherin and in his mind that made him as Pureblooded as the filth who was crying and begging at his feet. More so, in fact, Tom thought, looking down on the pathetic mess and casting another Dark curse.
“You will bow before me now, Prewitt.” Tom told him, “All of you will.”
When he left the boy alone, Prewitt was only capable of crying and shaking. He would later be taken to St Mungos for treatment, but no one would be able to prove that Tom had done anything to him, though Harry could guess once news of the boy’s attack hit the newspapers.
He had written to Harry that same night. His quill denting the parchment as in his anger Tom pressed down to hard, ripping the sheet in places. He scrawled angrily, questions about Salazar Slytherin and why Harry had lied to him.
Harry had only replied with one sentence, and as he read it Tom felt his fury reach boiling point. How dare that hypocrite! Tom thought angrily, how dare Harry! He promised himself that he wouldn’t go back, wouldn’t crawl for someone who would lie to him, told himself he’d stay at Hogwarts this summer, that he’d finally take up the offer Dumbledore had been trying to force on him since his first year. Dumbledore wanted Tom away from Harry, and Tom wanted as much space between them as possible right now. He told himself, as he re-read the one line letter, that he wouldn’t miss Harry at all, even as his body still ached from the times Harry had taken him over the Yule break.
“I never lied to you, as you never asked.”
Tom set the note on fire with a flick of his wand and a whispered spell, and he watched as it burned, fighting back the urge to reach out and rescue Harry’s note, to horde it with the rest of the things Harry had ever given him or written to him. He was pathetic, he thought, as the letter turned to ash.
XXX
December 22nd 1941. 14 years old.
Tom had managed to avoid Harry for the summer between his fourth and fifth year, but he hadn’t spent a birthday alone since he was four-years-old, and he didn’t want to start now. So when Yule came around again, Tom refrained from signing the register that meant he would be staying at Hogwarts, instead he packed his things and followed his school-mates to Hogsmeade to board the Express home.
Home. He had thought about the meaning of the word for the entire train ride, and he was still no closer to understanding what it meant. Did it mean that as long as Harry was with him, he was home? Or was Hogwarts his home, where he was taught things and could experience things, and now had a group of followers who succumbed to his every whim? Or perhaps the orphanage was his real home, the place where he had been born, where he had started life? Though he was fourteen now, the summer that he had skipped out on would have been his last year at Stockwell. He would never have to go back, Tom realized. He could spend all of his time with Harry now, or at Hogwarts, and when he graduated, surely Harry would still desire and love him.
But he was angry with Harry still, for keeping things from him, for keeping secrets even if Tom could admit the man hadn’t actually lied. Did he really want to go back to Harry?
He couldn’t go to the orphanage. The train was almost at King’s Cross Station now, so he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts. Merlin, he thought, had he even told Harry that he was coming back? Would Harry even be there to collect him?
Harry was there, waiting with his arms crossed while he leant back against the wall. He looked patient, and he stayed silent until Tom approached him. “Dumbledore wrote and said you were returning for the break.”
“Yeah,” Tom said softly, scuffing his shoe against the ground. “I’m still angry with you.” He told the elder Wizard, following dutifully as Harry led the way out off of the platform and down into the underground, to catch a train to Vauxhall Road.
Harry didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, and Tom half regretted his brash words. He wasn’t angry enough to compensate for Harry ignoring him, or hating him, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. He didn’t have it in him, not now, not yet, not after having been away from Harry for so long, not after escaping physical abuse for so many years. The fear just wasn’t in him anymore, and Harry knew it too. But that would change soon, Harry promised himself, glancing at Tom’s sullen expression from the corner of his eyes.
( warning: sex & underage )
The moment they closed the door to Harry’s little flat behind them, Tom turned and pushed himself hard against Harry’s chest. He wouldn’t apologize, but he could do this. He would offer himself up, he would enjoy every moment with his lover, and he would revel in the feelings that only Harry could stir up within him. He would pant and moan and scream and Harry would know that he was forgiven without Tom ever having to say a word.
“You owe me,” Tom hissed against the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry pushed the teenager backwards, until Tom lay sprawled across the small sofa. Without hesitation, Tom rolled onto his stomach, his legs still hanging over the arm rest, and said, “You didn’t tell me. The least you could do is fuck me.”
And so Harry did. Tom loved every second of it, even though Harry’s grip was harsher than normal, and his thrusts were furious and painful, and the adult kept biting down on his neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood. When Harry came, he snarled against the back of Tom’s neck and pulled away, leaving the boy still hard and writhing, but unattended to. Tom rolled over, his legs still spread, still offering himself to Harry, as he stroked himself hurriedly, desperate to orgasm. Harry’s come was smeared across Tom’s arse and thighs, dribbling out of the clenching hole, wet and sticky, and mixed with a hint of blood.
Tom slept after his orgasm, eyes closed in bliss, never knowing that Harry had raised his wand to him and cast him into sleep. And as Tom slept, Harry cleaned him up, and gathered him into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest.
( end warnings )
It was time for Tom to be reminded of what he truly was. No more of this Heir of Slytherin greater-than-thou nonsense. No more backchat or backbone. It was time for Harry to remind Tom of who, exactly, was in charge in this relationship.
When Tom woke, it was hours later and there were horribly loud noises echoing all around him. Air raid sirens, Tom realized, because they were in the middle of a war. He was no longer at Hogwarts, where they were safe and protected, and he was obviously not inside of Harry’s flat, where magic would keep them safe. He was back at the orphanage, even though he was too old, and he was lying on the floor in a room with everyone else, all crushed together as the noises wailed around them, warning and terrifying them in equal turns.
“Why am I here?” Tom asked, trying to sit up. He could barely move without pain lancing up his spine and down his thighs. Harry had been brutal with him, but Tom didn’t regret it, didn’t resent it. But it was making it hard to move, and Tom needed to move, needed to go and get back to Harry, but Mrs Cole was there with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back to the floor.
“Mr Harry said you didn’t have anywhere else to go until you graduated. He’s agreed to pay for your board and keep, and we’ve agreed to continue housing you until you turn eighteen and leave that boarding school of yours.” She told him, her voice nasally and cold. She looked down on him, the lines of her face standing out against the paleness of her skin, and her mouth turned down as she eyed the bruises along the side of his throat.
Tom’s hand came up to cover Harry’s marks. His heart was pounding in his chest, with fear, with the shame that accompanied crying in front of an audience, and with hopelessness. Had last night been Harry saying goodbye to him? Harry had left him, truly, he thought to himself, trying to make the words sound right in his mind. How could this be? Harry had loved him…
Tom gasped, his eyes flying to meet Mrs Cole’s. “Did he say he was coming back?” She shrugged at him, before walking away to comfort some of the younger children who had also begun to cry. Maybe Harry thought Tom didn’t love him anymore, and that was why he had left. Had Tom driven him away?
He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face into his arms, continuing to sob quietly as the sirens blocked out all other sounds but the frantic, terrified beating of his heart.
Harry was gone.
XXX
December 29th 1941. 14 years old.
It had been seven days. The sirens had been wailing almost constantly, and as secluded by magic as Tom had been for the last year and a half he hadn’t realised how much the war had been affecting London. It was terrifying, to be locked inside of the orphanage for fear of a bomb dropping on his head if he ventured outside. He was too afraid to make his way to Harry’s flat, to see if Harry was still living there, waiting for Tom. He couldn’t find any owls or pigeons flying about, and so he couldn’t send Harry a letter. And Harry still hadn’t come back.
It had been seven days, but Tom had finally realised how stupid he had been.
He should have come home last summer. He should have thrown himself into Harry’s arms on platform nine and three-quarters and never have gotten angry about the Slytherin thing. Who cares about Slytherin, Tom mentally shouted. Harry was gone, and that was all that mattered now. Harry was gone and so nothing else could matter.
“Hello Tom,” a voice softly said.
He had been lying on his bed in his old bedroom because the staff hadn’t gotten around to housing anyone in it yet. Harry had made sure it was still free for him, Tom was sure. Usually he spent his days crowded in the shelter with the others, but today was the first day in a week that there had been no signs of the German planes, and it had been deemed safe for the children to sleep in their appointed rooms.
But at the sound of the voice, he sat up straight in his bed, eyes wide and disbelieving.
“You’ve come back!” He breathed, heart racing. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. After seven days without Harry, he was there now, standing stiffly in front of Tom as the boy ran forward, pressing his face to Harry’s neck and sobbing desperately. “Don’t ever leave again! Never leave me! I’m so sorry, I am, I’m so sorry. I’ll never, ever, ever behave like that again. I was stupid and foolish and angry, and I shouldn’t have been because I should have known that you’d never lie to me, or do anything to hurt me. I’m such an idiot! No wonder you hate me,” Tom finished with a distressed sob. “Don’t hate me,” he added in a whisper.
“I don’t hate you, Tom.” Harry told him, hands lightly running up and down Tom’s back. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”
“I’m sorry!” Tom breathed, tilting his head back and raising his chin. He waited, hoped that Harry would do what he wanted, because surely Harry couldn’t have forgotten what the chin movement meant after only seven days.
Harry gave a soft sigh. “Last chance, Tom. I don’t like people who don’t behave themselves.” Harry leant down slightly, because Tom was nearly as tall as him now when he stood up straight, and he brushed his lips lightly over Tom’s pursed ones, comforting and assuring him the way they used to do when Tom was a child in need of reassurance.
“Never leave me,” Tom begged, hands shaking as he reached up to cup Harry’s cheeks. He pulled the man’s head down for a real kiss, and Harry melted into the touch, having missed the touch of the younger boy.
“Only if you behave.” Came the standard reply, and Tom nodded feverently, clinging tightly to his saviour and abuser, and Harry smirked smugly into Tom’s black hair, pleased that his plan had worked and a little surprised by how much Tom had fallen apart without him. It made him tingle inside, just thinking how completely Tom actually did belong to him, how desperately Tom needed him now.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Tom’s head, before pushing him back towards the little orphanage bed. With a wave of his wand the door was closed and Tom was naked. Without needed to be touched, Tom was hard and willing and ready, legs spreading on either side of Harry’s hips and back arched, offering himself up like he had been trained to do.
And Harry grinned again.
Then he took him, uncaring who would hear Tom scream, because Muggles could be Obliviated easily. And when the sirens started to wail again, Tom ignored them. He didn’t push Harry away and run towards the shelter to cower and hide. Instead, he spread his legs wider, wrapped them tighter around the elder Wizard, and bared his throat, because this was all that matter. As long as he had Harry, he was happy. And Harry would keep him safe.
XXX
April 12th 1943. 16 years old. 3
Harry thrashed from side to side, bucking his hips and rolling his head. This wasn’t happening, he told himself, as Tom hovered above him, pushing within him. It wasn’t real. This hadn’t happened in twelve years, he told himself sternly; Voldemort didn’t exist anymore.
But he was there, above him, within him. With each thrust of Voldemort’s hips, Harry gave a soft cry. A part of him remembered this; a part of him revelled in it. After nine years as Voldemort semi-willing whore, how could his body ever forget the feel of the man above him, buried to the hilt inside of him, how could his body ever link these sensations to the fear and loathing and shame that had swallowed him whole for that one year, just one, where he had fought back against every rape, against every humiliation. His body remembered. His body craved, and though his mind screamed out in protest, his cock swelled and exploded, seed coating his stomach and Voldemort’s hand and the man grinned down at him, red eyes flashing and lips curled back mockingly.
“Come home to me, pet,” the Dark Lord whispered. “You can’t stay gone forever. Eventually the spell will run out, and you’ll have to come home. To me.”
Harry’s eyes snapped open. His sheets were twisted around his legs, and his pants were sodden and sticky, but his arse wasn’t hurting and that alone was enough to calm him. It had been a dream. Nothing more than a dream. But as he sank back into his pillow he thought about the words from his dream. Was it possible, he thought? Had the Vorago spell had an expiry date or a counter spell? Could it suddenly wear off and Harry would find himself drawn unexpectedly back into 2008, or would the Voldemort of his past come back to Malfoy Manor and find Anthony Moore tied up on the floor, wandless, and Harry gone and conjure him back into the future?
Harry threw himself out of his bed, the one between the kitchen and the living room in his small London flat, that he had never bothered to move out from. The pornographic images he had shown to Tom were still lying face down beneath “The Catcher in the Rye” and in the top drawer of the dresser they rested on was the Dark Arts book Voldemort had gifted him with before he escaped. This book contained the Vorago, and Harry flipped it open onto that page, the spine creased in just that one spot as it was all Harry had ever bothered to read from this book. But now, now it was time to research further.
XXX
Same time.
( warning: sex )
At Hogwarts, while Harry researched at home the spell that had started this new life, Tom was doing research of his own. Abraxas Malfoy lay spread out beneath him, flaxen hair spread like a halo around his flushed face. They were both naked, and Tom’s hands were pulling lightly on the other Slytherin’s swollen cock.
Tom loved Harry, he did, but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be on top. The last time he had ever implied such he had been nine-years-old and visiting Diagon Alley for the first time. And for the first time, Harry had hit him. He hadn’t done it since, well unless you counted light spanking during sex, but Tom didn’t, because Harry had really hit him, just because he mentioned fucking Harry instead of the other way around. Tom knew Harry had bottomed for that other man, the one who had tied Harry up and taken photos; one of those photos was kept at the back of Tom’s photo album, and sometimes Tom ran a finger over the straps of black leather on Harry’s body and wondered if Harry would ever submit to him like that.
He wanted to know what it was like.
He wanted to know what it was Harry felt as he breeched Tom’s body, as he rode him and used him and came within him. Tom wanted to know what it would be like to be the one in charge, and he had wrote to Harry asking for permission to go through with his experiment. Harry, being the amazing, wonderful man that he was, had given Tom full permission to experience someone else, as long as Tom topped. No one but Harry would ever be allowed within Tom’s body.
“Why can’t I-?” Abraxas trailed off as Tom pressed two fingers into him. “I don’t want to bottom!” He said petulantly, before gasping in surprise as Tom found his prostate.
“Only Harry is allowed inside of me,” Tom told him. With a whispered spell, one that Tom didn’t really like because he much preferred the feel of Harry’s fingers preparing him, Abraxas was stretched and ready for him, and Tom pressed forward, sinking into the body beneath him that tensed and twisted as Tom stole its virginity, as Tom split him open.
Abraxas cried out, and Tom knew it was from pain. He could remember how much his own first time had hurt, but Harry had been there, rubbing him and comforting him, and so Tom rubbed his fingers lightly across Abraxas’ hipbone and whispered, “it is ok. It’ll be ok.”
And when they were done, Abraxas winced with every movement.
( end warnings )
Tom lay back on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, looking up at the stars and feeling rather disappointed. There had been no flashing lights behind his eyes, his heart had pounded but it hadn’t been the same, there was no gasping, breathless feeling like he was about to die from the pleasure, and there had been no Harry there to comfort him. All in all, Tom decided, his experiment was a failure. Perhaps he would enjoy dominating Harry if the chance ever arose, but until then, he would be content to be Harry’s, and only Harry’s.
“It’s wrong, you know.” Abraxas told him calmly as he redressed.
Tom continued to lie there naked, thinking about Harry and how long there was left until he could see him again. His arsed clenched at the thought, butterflies came to life within his stomach, and he was suddenly so excited by the prospect of being taken again, unable to wait until May when his mock exams would be over and he could go home and throw himself into Harry’s waiting arms.
“Hmm?” He asked, only half listening.
“He shouldn’t touch you at all, whether he tops or bottoms. That’s abuse. Tom, he’s abusing you.” Abraxas reached forward to touch Tom’s shoulder lightly, but the boy smacked his hand away.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tom chuckled lightly, ignoring the way Abraxas’ face had pinched with worry and the way the boy limped as he made his way out of the Astronomy Tower. He closed his eyes, comparing Abraxas to Harry, and knew that Harry would always be the winner. It wasn’t abuse, Tom knew, because abuse was wrong. And Harry was never wrong.
XXX
May 16th 1943. 16 years old.
Albus watched the boy.
Tom was the same as he ever was, brilliant, attentive, but underneath it all there was a taste of darkness, a lust for power that admittedly was only kept in check by Mr Harry. Though, that didn’t make what Harry was doing right, not in the least. And Dumbledore worried for the boy, because surely, eventually, he would see that it wasn’t right, and Harry would no longer be there to keep him under control.
“Tom, my boy, can we speak?” Dumbledore asked, striding towards the handsome teenager.
Tom, who had just finished the last of his mock exams, had been standing with a group of fellow Slytherins. They were all fair-weather friends, he knew, those who had shunned him for his earlier years at Hogwarts and now pasted themselves to his side because he was the Heir of Slytherin and called him their Lord and desired to know how to please him. But only Abraxas had ever been granted the privilege to lie beneath him, pleasuring him with his body and mouth. But only Harry would ever truly be able to please him, and the sooner Albus spoke to him the sooner he could leave and see Harry again.
But he dutifully followed his Professor to the Transfiguration classroom. He sat in one of the chairs, crossing his ankles beneath the desk and folding his hands above it, and Tom waited.
He looked patient and polite, but Albus could see the intense dislike that Tom tried but failed to completely hide, swirling in his eyes. Tom had never quite forgiven him for that day five years ago when Dumbledore had suggested taking Tom away from Harry. He didn’t think Tom would appreciate it again now, but what kind of a person would he be if he didn’t even try? He had tried to contact the Aurors but according to them, no one lived at the flat the letter had arrived in, and there was no record of a Doctor Potter, a Mr Potter, or a Harry Potter of that approximate age anywhere in the Ministry records.4 He just didn’t exist and so there was nothing they could do about him. But Dumbledore could try and keep Tom away from the man, even if they couldn’t keep the man away from Tom.
“My boy, I have to recommend that you remain at Hogwarts again this summer. It really would be beneficial to you, with the NEWTs fast approaching, and the Defence Professor looking for an apprentice. You could spend the summer trying the position out. I know you were interested in it a year ago.”
“How do you know?” Tom asked curiously. He had wanted to teach, ever since he was thirteen and Harry had told him that he had once taught some of his friends in secret because their Professor was useless. Harry had been a rather good teacher, and Tom had hoped to be able to fill those shoes one day, but he didn’t want Dumbledore knowing his hopes and dreams.
“I know many things, my boy. The walls talk.”
Tom turned his head, and beside him upon the wall was a very familiar looking portrait. In fact, there was a matching one of this particular Wizard hanging in the Astronomy Tower, but Tom was sure it had been empty that night, very sure.
Though, while many people had secret trysts at Hogwarts, it was never enough to warrant the attentions of someone other than your Head of House. That Dumbledore was speaking to him meant it had something to do with Harry, and Tom was half scared that the portrait had heard him tell Abraxas about Harry touching him. But no, no, Tom consoled himself, because if it were wrong then Aurors would have been involved by now. But it was only Albus Dumbledore, and in the scheme of things he wasn’t really that important. So Tom pushed his chair back and stood up, glancing coldly at the frowning Professor.
“I’m going home, sir. Please stop interfering with my life.”
Dumbledore watched him go in silence. He couldn’t make Tom stay; he couldn’t force Tom to do anything. He wasn’t the boy’s legal guardian. He had considered adopting him, keeping him in the Wizarding world where he would be safe, but to do that he’d need the signature of Tom’s foster parents. He’d need Harry’s permission; Harry, who no one but Tom could seem to find.
A man that apparently didn’t even exist.
XXX
July 31st 1944. 17 years old.
Harry had done his research. It was only a matter of time, he now knew, before the spell would start to break down. It could take anywhere up to twenty years to end completely, and Harry had already been in the past for thirteen of those years. It could happen at any time, without warning, during the next seven years. Harry would have no say in the matter, he would be taken by surprise, blindsided and dumped back into his future. He might even be in the middle of sex while it happened, or taken a dump, or any other manner of embarrassing things could be occurring as he was tossed across time. No, he needed to have control over this, and with that need for control at the forefront of his mind, he had decided he needed to be the one to decide when he would return home.
There had been mentions of the counter-spell in several books he had managed to track down, but so far he hadn’t found the actual spell. But when he did, when he was ready, he would cast it himself, and wait fifty years for Tom to find him.
But Tom would have to survive those fifty years. He would have to still be Tom, and while Harry knew the boy would have to age partially at least, there was no way he was engaging in activities of any kind with a man who looked every one of his seventy-plus years!
Harry had found it, he’d stolen it, without having to kill the lonely old women, or frame her terrified house elf. The Locket was tucked away within his robe pocket, and Harry patted at the bulge lightly to reassure himself. Tom stood by his side, pale and silent, and he looked up at the large, sprawling mansion that took up most of their line of sight.
“This is where my father lives?” Tom asked in a soft voice.
“Does it bother you that he had all of this land, this property, and you’ve grown up with nothing?” Harry asked, genuinely curious. He had been angry when he had seen his house at Godric’s Hollow. Someone surely could have fixed it up and he could have lived there with Sirius as his guardian. Instead, they had left it broken and ruined as a memorial and shipped him off to the Dursleys. He had been envious of the adjoining houses, all of which looked bright and cheerful and welcoming in comparison to Number 4 Privet Drive, and he had hated them all for one selfish second.
“It makes me angry. He abandoned my mother to die, he abandoned me, but I didn’t grow up with nothing, Harry.” The seventeen year old smiled sadly at the only person who had ever seemed to love him. “I grew up with you. So let him have his riches and his bigotry. I have you. I don’t need anyone else.”
Harry gave the teenager a small smile before he took a deep breath and whispered, “I brought you here to kill them.”
Tom threw himself backwards, gasping. The only thing that saved him from sprawling across the pebbled driveway was Harry’s hands on his shoulders.
“What?” He hissed, looking horrified. Sure, as a child he had often imagined the other children and the staff at the orphanage dying slow, horrible deaths at his hands, but he had never once acted upon those desires. Even when Helen Doyle had died, it had been an accident and Tom had been distraught; though he had calmed considerably once he had realised that Harry wasn’t angry with him.
“Think of it not as murder, but as karma. They deserve it, they deserve this for abandoning you, for hating you without even getting to know you first. They left you Tom, they didn’t want you, but I did. I do! And I want this too! You know we won’t always be together, right? Eventually they will manage to separate us, but if you do this,” Harry said, pulling the Locket from his pocket and thrusting it at Tom. “If you do this then we can find our way back to one another. We can be together forever then, Tom.”
“What is it?” Tom asked, reaching hesitantly out for the shinning Locket.
“It used to belong to Salazar Slytherin. Your mother sold it while she was pregnant, to raise money to feed herself and thus you. She gave a way a part of her heritage, the only thing she owned that was worth anything, so she could provide for you, and yet your father has all this money and he couldn’t even offer you the most basic of things: food, shelter, warmth. There is a spell you could use to enchant the locket, you could make it into a Horcrux and place a part of your soul inside to keep it safe and no matter what happens we will always find our way back to each other.”
Tom’s fingers curled around the chain of the Locket. He looked up at Harry with wide eyes, and licked his lips nervously. “What do I have to do?”
“Kill them. Use the Killing Curse, I know that you know it Tom; I’ve seen you practising on the neighbours pets. The Curse will split your soul, and then focus on the locket, focus on pouring your soul into it. You’ll know it has worked when you are unable to open the locket again.” Tom pried the edges apart, and gasped at the painting of a serious looking man with a fuzzy, black beard. “If you love me, you’ll make the Horcrux,” Harry added, growing impatient with Tom’s silence. He had assumed that the boy would jump at the chance to inflict pain on someone else, but apparently his fear of Harry leaving him was still stronger than his desire to hurt. “I want this, Tom,” Harry added, leaning forward to brush their lips together. “I won’t leave you if you do this. This is to keep us together. Unless… Unless you don’t want to be together anymore?”
“Of course I do!” Tom shouted, cheeks flushing red. “You won’t be disappointed?” He asked then, in a meek whisper. Harry merely shook his head, and Tom, as desperate for approval as he ever was; still that pathetic four-year-old deep down inside, straightened his shoulders and turned resolutely towards the front doors of Riddle Manor.
Harry left him to it. Walking into the village of Little Hangleton and purchasing two bars of chocolate, because Tom would definitely need them. When he came back, Tom was crouching on the front steps of the house, half-hidden in the shadows beneath the overhanging porch, and the Locket was hanging from his neck. Harry ignored him, stepping around him and into the house. Everyone was dead. Riddle Senior splayed in the doorway of the dining room presumably killed as he tried to escape. Tom’s grandparents were slumped on the table, sitting side by side, both as dead as each other. Harry smiled to himself, unwrapping one bar of chocolate and making his way back outside to Tom.
“I’m so proud of you,” Harry whispered, green eyes glinting, as he handed the bar over. “Is there anything you’d like as a reward?”
“Make love to me,” Tom whispered, looking hopeful and sounding broken, and briefly Harry regretted his decision. But Tom needed to have a Horcrux, and this death was the only one Harry could justify. Strangers and helpless old women were innocent to him, but this family, these people were the reason Tom became Voldemort, the reason Harry suffered for years at his hands. They were the only ones who truly had it coming, in his mind; the only ones he could justifiably convince Tom to kill.
Harry shook his head and released a soft sigh. Then he reached down to pull Tom to his feet, lacing their fingers together as he whispered, “anything you desire, my love.” He led Tom back into the house, into the dining room where three bodies watched them in silence as Harry began to strip. Against Tom’s better judgement, he closed his eyes and allowed Harry to lead him.
XXX
October 18th 1944. 17 years old.
“Tom! Tom!” Abraxas shouted, but Tom didn’t stop of slow down. The Locket still hung around his neck and it reeked of Dark magic and sin, but no matter what Abraxas did or said Tom wouldn’t take it off. Harry liked the sight of it upon him, you see, and Tom was happy as long as Harry was. “Tom you need to listen to me!”
“What?” The boy finally turned around, eyes narrowed and lips turned down. He placed his hands on his hips, and the golden Locket swung lightly on its chain, until Tom reached up and pressed it against his chest.
“You can’t go back for Yule! You’re coming to my house and you have no choice in the matter. There, I’ve said it. I’ve already told my parents, and now they’re expecting you, and it’d be bad manners to change your mind at this point!”
“Harry will-” Tom began.
“No. No more Harry! It’s always Harry this and Harry that with you, Tom. Can’t you understand that what he did to you was wrong! People like him deserve to go to prison! It was abuse. It was rape. It was wrong, Tom!” Abraxas screamed at him, face flushed, and Tom remembered how the blonde had looked crying out beneath him years ago as he enjoyed topping. “It’s wrong!”
“What is wrong? That I love him, that he loves me, Abraxas? Is this jealousy talking?” Tom asked, with a chuckle, not sure if he should be amused by his friend’s behaviour or not.
“I’m not jealous. I’m worried. He shouldn’t have ever touched you like he did. Even Professor Dumbledore is worried about you, and I know the two of you don’t get on, but he’s been trying to keep you both apart for your own good. What he does to you… how long has it been going on?”
“I can barely remember when it started. But, Abraxas, it doesn’t feel wrong. It can’t be wrong, because Harry said-”
“Adults can be wrong too, Tom. And they lie. All of the time, sometimes to protect us and sometimes to hurt us, but you can’t always believe everything everyone else says.”
“Then how can I believe you?” Tom whispered. His eyes were closed, and he looked so hurt that Abraxas almost regretted this conversation, but it had to be done. Tom had to know.
“Because I’m your friend.” Tom opened his mouth, probably to comment that Harry was his only friend, or his only love, or his only parent, but Abraxas cut in again. “And he is a paedophile who had been abusing you for years. So trust me.”
“I need to think about this. I need, I need to think.” Tom told him, forehead creased as he frowned. There would be research to do, things in the library that he could read that would disprove Abraxas’ words (or, more worryingly, prove them). This must have happened to other people before him, Tom thought. He can’t have been the only stupid, pathetic, gullible child in the whole world, right? There would be proof. Once he found it, Tom would decide what to do then. “I’ll come to your home for Yule,” he told his silent friend, and then he left the room, heading straight for the library. But before he started researching, he wrote to Harry, to ask if it was true and to tell him of his plans for Yule.
When Yule passed and Harry still hadn’t replied to him, Tom knew he didn’t need to read more about psychopathology and grooming or conditioning to know the truth. Harry’s silence was all he needed.
XXX
March 24th 1945. 18 years old.
Harry looked down at the parchment on the table. The spell was written on it, there in front of him, within arm’s reach. It was almost over and he was so close to having this all end. The punch line was fast approaching, and once the spell had been cast Harry would know whether the last fourteen years had been worth it. He would either find himself right back where he started, Tom having gotten over the abuse and sworn revenge on Harry Potter, or he would land in a whole new world, where Tom had never managed to overcome his training, his desire to sexually submit himself to his foster father. Harry didn’t know which would happen, but he knew he’d prefer the latter option.
His fingers traced the words on the parchment.
Beside him, on the sofa, sat a backpack, filled with anything of importance that Harry was bringing with him. He picked it up, and slipped his arms through the straps and rolled his shoulders until the bag settled into place against his back. With his wand in his right hand, and the last letter Tom had written to him in his left, Harry knew that this was the moment. This was his last moment here, because when Tom returned that summer he would be too late.
Harry would be gone.
And then they’d all learn how well his plan had worked out.
XXX
June 9th 1945. 18 years old.
He was calling himself Lord Voldemort now. It was an anagram of his real name, the name his parents had given him, the name Harry had used as he pounded into his body, as Tom had clung naively to him. But he wasn’t that person anymore. He was a different person now, a stronger person, and it was time that Harry learnt he had crossed the wrong person.
Abraxas waited silently behind him, wand in hand, as Tom opened the door to Harry’s little flat. The Locket hung around his neck, sparkling in the light from the corridor, and then dulling as Tom stepped into the dark room. With a flick of his wand the lights turned on, but there was no one within the room. It was silent, and Tom searched through the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, before finding himself standing stupidly once more in the living room with Abraxas at his back.
There was a piece of parchment on the table, with a spell that Tom didn’t recognize written on it. Beside it, was the letter Tom had written, asking Harry if he really was a paedophile, the letter to which Harry had never replied. Lastly, there was one more letter, and with shaking fingers Tom picked it up.
“Hello Tom,
It must be terrible of me, to not be there for you once you finally realised what I had done to you. But, I suppose, I’m a terrible person. I wouldn’t have done this if I wasn’t, now would i? But, really, you only have yourself to blame. That man, the one I told you about, who tied me up and hurt me for his pleasure, he was the man you would one day become if left unchecked. And the world does not need two such people… Though I suppose there are now him and me, so I have failed in that respect.
But I am confident that you will never be like us. It is too engrained in your very being, the disease to please, the need to submit, the wild clenching feeling you experience at the thought of someone above you or within you; I bet you’re feeling it now, remembering how it felt to let me take you, aren’t you?
I told you the world would conspire to tear us apart, but I know you, Tom, and I know you’ll horde that Horcrux close because deep down you can’t wait to see me again. I will return to you, in time, like I promised; and Lord Voldemort always keeps his promises, right? You’re standing there, reading my letter, and telling yourself you can’t wait to see me so that you can hurt me for hurting you, humiliate and punish me, like I humiliated you. To use me? But deep down, in a place inside of you where even you are afraid to look you know that you can’t wait for me to return because already you miss the feel of me pinning you down, buried to the hilt in your arse while you scream my name.
But don’t worry, my Tom. That day will come soon.
Your Harry.”
Abraxas took a step towards him, hands outstretched to comfort his friend, but Tom shoved them away. “I’ll show him,” the boy hissed, vowing revenge, “he’ll be sorry.”
But secretly Tom knew Harry was right. And there were tears escaping his eyes, because already Tom missed his friend and lover, and he wasn’t sure that his anger would be enough to keep him until Harry came home again.
XXX
1 - Tom has one of those horrible winter birthdays, which means by the time he is old enough to go to school the year has already started. He’ll be 12 during the 2nd term of his 1st year, and so on, so when Tom graduates he will already be 18 (as opposed to Harry, who turned 18 after he graduated).
2 - Young boys can get hard, they just cannot ejaculate until they reach puberty and sperm starts to be produced. Orgasm can also happen, as it is due to the stimulation of nerves, rather than the existence of sperm. My friend had a younger brother, and when he was 1 they could never get a nappy to fasten on him, because he was always erect. Apparently it was due to surges of adrenaline (but don’t take that at face value: it’s been a long time since she told me this). Puberty starts around 12 or 13 for boys, and as early as 8 for girls, but some are early bloomers. Like Tom, who apparently started ejaculating at 11!
3 - I lost track of my maths at some point, and now I think the ages/Hogwarts years in the latter half of the chapter might be incorrect. But as I said, Tom has a difficult birthday, unlike Harry’s very easy to follow age-to-year ratio.
4 - Harry would be around 40 now. I am assuming that since there was such a gap between the grandparents going to Hogwarts and having James, that they would have graduated and married by now, but would still be fairly young, and James doesn’t exist yet. So there’s Harry, who is 40, and there’s Harold Potter and his wife, in their late twenties.
* * *
Thanks for reading! I hope to have chapter 04 done.... Eventually. It’s going to be different! Wouldn’t it be cool to have a banner for this? But it’s never going to happen!
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January 19th 1941. 14 years old. 3
He had been putting up with it for three and a half years. Three and a half years of bullying and abuse and turning the other fucking cheek because it was what Harry would want even though Hogwarts was supposed to be different, and yet it was so much like living at the orphanage that some days Tom wondered why he even bothered. Three and a half years, and now Tom had had enough.
Prewitt curled around himself on the floor by Tom’s feet, and the younger Slytherin looked down at him with an angry scowl.
“Enough,” Tom whispered, thinking back on what he had discovered earlier that day in the library. Harry had known. Harry must have known. It was hereditary, Harry had told him years ago, back when Tom was still a child. Parseltongue was hereditary.
He cast a curse on the elder Slytherin, watching with glee as the boy screamed and writhed before him, at his mercy when Tom had no mercy to spare. “I am the Heir of Slytherin,” he whispered and Anthony Prewitt barely heard him over his screams. By this time tomorrow, everyone would know who Tom was. He wasn’t a Mudblood. He wasn’t even a regular half-blood, because he was the Heir to Salazar Slytherin and in his mind that made him as Pureblooded as the filth who was crying and begging at his feet. More so, in fact, Tom thought, looking down on the pathetic mess and casting another Dark curse.
“You will bow before me now, Prewitt.” Tom told him, “All of you will.”
When he left the boy alone, Prewitt was only capable of crying and shaking. He would later be taken to St Mungos for treatment, but no one would be able to prove that Tom had done anything to him, though Harry could guess once news of the boy’s attack hit the newspapers.
He had written to Harry that same night. His quill denting the parchment as in his anger Tom pressed down to hard, ripping the sheet in places. He scrawled angrily, questions about Salazar Slytherin and why Harry had lied to him.
Harry had only replied with one sentence, and as he read it Tom felt his fury reach boiling point. How dare that hypocrite! Tom thought angrily, how dare Harry! He promised himself that he wouldn’t go back, wouldn’t crawl for someone who would lie to him, told himself he’d stay at Hogwarts this summer, that he’d finally take up the offer Dumbledore had been trying to force on him since his first year. Dumbledore wanted Tom away from Harry, and Tom wanted as much space between them as possible right now. He told himself, as he re-read the one line letter, that he wouldn’t miss Harry at all, even as his body still ached from the times Harry had taken him over the Yule break.
“I never lied to you, as you never asked.”
Tom set the note on fire with a flick of his wand and a whispered spell, and he watched as it burned, fighting back the urge to reach out and rescue Harry’s note, to horde it with the rest of the things Harry had ever given him or written to him. He was pathetic, he thought, as the letter turned to ash.
XXX
December 22nd 1941. 14 years old.
Tom had managed to avoid Harry for the summer between his fourth and fifth year, but he hadn’t spent a birthday alone since he was four-years-old, and he didn’t want to start now. So when Yule came around again, Tom refrained from signing the register that meant he would be staying at Hogwarts, instead he packed his things and followed his school-mates to Hogsmeade to board the Express home.
Home. He had thought about the meaning of the word for the entire train ride, and he was still no closer to understanding what it meant. Did it mean that as long as Harry was with him, he was home? Or was Hogwarts his home, where he was taught things and could experience things, and now had a group of followers who succumbed to his every whim? Or perhaps the orphanage was his real home, the place where he had been born, where he had started life? Though he was fourteen now, the summer that he had skipped out on would have been his last year at Stockwell. He would never have to go back, Tom realized. He could spend all of his time with Harry now, or at Hogwarts, and when he graduated, surely Harry would still desire and love him.
But he was angry with Harry still, for keeping things from him, for keeping secrets even if Tom could admit the man hadn’t actually lied. Did he really want to go back to Harry?
He couldn’t go to the orphanage. The train was almost at King’s Cross Station now, so he couldn’t go back to Hogwarts. Merlin, he thought, had he even told Harry that he was coming back? Would Harry even be there to collect him?
Harry was there, waiting with his arms crossed while he leant back against the wall. He looked patient, and he stayed silent until Tom approached him. “Dumbledore wrote and said you were returning for the break.”
“Yeah,” Tom said softly, scuffing his shoe against the ground. “I’m still angry with you.” He told the elder Wizard, following dutifully as Harry led the way out off of the platform and down into the underground, to catch a train to Vauxhall Road.
Harry didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, and Tom half regretted his brash words. He wasn’t angry enough to compensate for Harry ignoring him, or hating him, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. He didn’t have it in him, not now, not yet, not after having been away from Harry for so long, not after escaping physical abuse for so many years. The fear just wasn’t in him anymore, and Harry knew it too. But that would change soon, Harry promised himself, glancing at Tom’s sullen expression from the corner of his eyes.
( warning: sex & underage )
The moment they closed the door to Harry’s little flat behind them, Tom turned and pushed himself hard against Harry’s chest. He wouldn’t apologize, but he could do this. He would offer himself up, he would enjoy every moment with his lover, and he would revel in the feelings that only Harry could stir up within him. He would pant and moan and scream and Harry would know that he was forgiven without Tom ever having to say a word.
“You owe me,” Tom hissed against the shell of Harry’s ear. Harry pushed the teenager backwards, until Tom lay sprawled across the small sofa. Without hesitation, Tom rolled onto his stomach, his legs still hanging over the arm rest, and said, “You didn’t tell me. The least you could do is fuck me.”
And so Harry did. Tom loved every second of it, even though Harry’s grip was harsher than normal, and his thrusts were furious and painful, and the adult kept biting down on his neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood. When Harry came, he snarled against the back of Tom’s neck and pulled away, leaving the boy still hard and writhing, but unattended to. Tom rolled over, his legs still spread, still offering himself to Harry, as he stroked himself hurriedly, desperate to orgasm. Harry’s come was smeared across Tom’s arse and thighs, dribbling out of the clenching hole, wet and sticky, and mixed with a hint of blood.
Tom slept after his orgasm, eyes closed in bliss, never knowing that Harry had raised his wand to him and cast him into sleep. And as Tom slept, Harry cleaned him up, and gathered him into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest.
( end warnings )
It was time for Tom to be reminded of what he truly was. No more of this Heir of Slytherin greater-than-thou nonsense. No more backchat or backbone. It was time for Harry to remind Tom of who, exactly, was in charge in this relationship.
When Tom woke, it was hours later and there were horribly loud noises echoing all around him. Air raid sirens, Tom realized, because they were in the middle of a war. He was no longer at Hogwarts, where they were safe and protected, and he was obviously not inside of Harry’s flat, where magic would keep them safe. He was back at the orphanage, even though he was too old, and he was lying on the floor in a room with everyone else, all crushed together as the noises wailed around them, warning and terrifying them in equal turns.
“Why am I here?” Tom asked, trying to sit up. He could barely move without pain lancing up his spine and down his thighs. Harry had been brutal with him, but Tom didn’t regret it, didn’t resent it. But it was making it hard to move, and Tom needed to move, needed to go and get back to Harry, but Mrs Cole was there with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back to the floor.
“Mr Harry said you didn’t have anywhere else to go until you graduated. He’s agreed to pay for your board and keep, and we’ve agreed to continue housing you until you turn eighteen and leave that boarding school of yours.” She told him, her voice nasally and cold. She looked down on him, the lines of her face standing out against the paleness of her skin, and her mouth turned down as she eyed the bruises along the side of his throat.
Tom’s hand came up to cover Harry’s marks. His heart was pounding in his chest, with fear, with the shame that accompanied crying in front of an audience, and with hopelessness. Had last night been Harry saying goodbye to him? Harry had left him, truly, he thought to himself, trying to make the words sound right in his mind. How could this be? Harry had loved him…
Tom gasped, his eyes flying to meet Mrs Cole’s. “Did he say he was coming back?” She shrugged at him, before walking away to comfort some of the younger children who had also begun to cry. Maybe Harry thought Tom didn’t love him anymore, and that was why he had left. Had Tom driven him away?
He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face into his arms, continuing to sob quietly as the sirens blocked out all other sounds but the frantic, terrified beating of his heart.
Harry was gone.
XXX
December 29th 1941. 14 years old.
It had been seven days. The sirens had been wailing almost constantly, and as secluded by magic as Tom had been for the last year and a half he hadn’t realised how much the war had been affecting London. It was terrifying, to be locked inside of the orphanage for fear of a bomb dropping on his head if he ventured outside. He was too afraid to make his way to Harry’s flat, to see if Harry was still living there, waiting for Tom. He couldn’t find any owls or pigeons flying about, and so he couldn’t send Harry a letter. And Harry still hadn’t come back.
It had been seven days, but Tom had finally realised how stupid he had been.
He should have come home last summer. He should have thrown himself into Harry’s arms on platform nine and three-quarters and never have gotten angry about the Slytherin thing. Who cares about Slytherin, Tom mentally shouted. Harry was gone, and that was all that mattered now. Harry was gone and so nothing else could matter.
“Hello Tom,” a voice softly said.
He had been lying on his bed in his old bedroom because the staff hadn’t gotten around to housing anyone in it yet. Harry had made sure it was still free for him, Tom was sure. Usually he spent his days crowded in the shelter with the others, but today was the first day in a week that there had been no signs of the German planes, and it had been deemed safe for the children to sleep in their appointed rooms.
But at the sound of the voice, he sat up straight in his bed, eyes wide and disbelieving.
“You’ve come back!” He breathed, heart racing. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. After seven days without Harry, he was there now, standing stiffly in front of Tom as the boy ran forward, pressing his face to Harry’s neck and sobbing desperately. “Don’t ever leave again! Never leave me! I’m so sorry, I am, I’m so sorry. I’ll never, ever, ever behave like that again. I was stupid and foolish and angry, and I shouldn’t have been because I should have known that you’d never lie to me, or do anything to hurt me. I’m such an idiot! No wonder you hate me,” Tom finished with a distressed sob. “Don’t hate me,” he added in a whisper.
“I don’t hate you, Tom.” Harry told him, hands lightly running up and down Tom’s back. “I’m just very disappointed in you.”
“I’m sorry!” Tom breathed, tilting his head back and raising his chin. He waited, hoped that Harry would do what he wanted, because surely Harry couldn’t have forgotten what the chin movement meant after only seven days.
Harry gave a soft sigh. “Last chance, Tom. I don’t like people who don’t behave themselves.” Harry leant down slightly, because Tom was nearly as tall as him now when he stood up straight, and he brushed his lips lightly over Tom’s pursed ones, comforting and assuring him the way they used to do when Tom was a child in need of reassurance.
“Never leave me,” Tom begged, hands shaking as he reached up to cup Harry’s cheeks. He pulled the man’s head down for a real kiss, and Harry melted into the touch, having missed the touch of the younger boy.
“Only if you behave.” Came the standard reply, and Tom nodded feverently, clinging tightly to his saviour and abuser, and Harry smirked smugly into Tom’s black hair, pleased that his plan had worked and a little surprised by how much Tom had fallen apart without him. It made him tingle inside, just thinking how completely Tom actually did belong to him, how desperately Tom needed him now.
He pressed a kiss to the top of Tom’s head, before pushing him back towards the little orphanage bed. With a wave of his wand the door was closed and Tom was naked. Without needed to be touched, Tom was hard and willing and ready, legs spreading on either side of Harry’s hips and back arched, offering himself up like he had been trained to do.
And Harry grinned again.
Then he took him, uncaring who would hear Tom scream, because Muggles could be Obliviated easily. And when the sirens started to wail again, Tom ignored them. He didn’t push Harry away and run towards the shelter to cower and hide. Instead, he spread his legs wider, wrapped them tighter around the elder Wizard, and bared his throat, because this was all that matter. As long as he had Harry, he was happy. And Harry would keep him safe.
XXX
April 12th 1943. 16 years old. 3
Harry thrashed from side to side, bucking his hips and rolling his head. This wasn’t happening, he told himself, as Tom hovered above him, pushing within him. It wasn’t real. This hadn’t happened in twelve years, he told himself sternly; Voldemort didn’t exist anymore.
But he was there, above him, within him. With each thrust of Voldemort’s hips, Harry gave a soft cry. A part of him remembered this; a part of him revelled in it. After nine years as Voldemort semi-willing whore, how could his body ever forget the feel of the man above him, buried to the hilt inside of him, how could his body ever link these sensations to the fear and loathing and shame that had swallowed him whole for that one year, just one, where he had fought back against every rape, against every humiliation. His body remembered. His body craved, and though his mind screamed out in protest, his cock swelled and exploded, seed coating his stomach and Voldemort’s hand and the man grinned down at him, red eyes flashing and lips curled back mockingly.
“Come home to me, pet,” the Dark Lord whispered. “You can’t stay gone forever. Eventually the spell will run out, and you’ll have to come home. To me.”
Harry’s eyes snapped open. His sheets were twisted around his legs, and his pants were sodden and sticky, but his arse wasn’t hurting and that alone was enough to calm him. It had been a dream. Nothing more than a dream. But as he sank back into his pillow he thought about the words from his dream. Was it possible, he thought? Had the Vorago spell had an expiry date or a counter spell? Could it suddenly wear off and Harry would find himself drawn unexpectedly back into 2008, or would the Voldemort of his past come back to Malfoy Manor and find Anthony Moore tied up on the floor, wandless, and Harry gone and conjure him back into the future?
Harry threw himself out of his bed, the one between the kitchen and the living room in his small London flat, that he had never bothered to move out from. The pornographic images he had shown to Tom were still lying face down beneath “The Catcher in the Rye” and in the top drawer of the dresser they rested on was the Dark Arts book Voldemort had gifted him with before he escaped. This book contained the Vorago, and Harry flipped it open onto that page, the spine creased in just that one spot as it was all Harry had ever bothered to read from this book. But now, now it was time to research further.
XXX
Same time.
( warning: sex )
At Hogwarts, while Harry researched at home the spell that had started this new life, Tom was doing research of his own. Abraxas Malfoy lay spread out beneath him, flaxen hair spread like a halo around his flushed face. They were both naked, and Tom’s hands were pulling lightly on the other Slytherin’s swollen cock.
Tom loved Harry, he did, but sometimes he wondered what it would be like to be on top. The last time he had ever implied such he had been nine-years-old and visiting Diagon Alley for the first time. And for the first time, Harry had hit him. He hadn’t done it since, well unless you counted light spanking during sex, but Tom didn’t, because Harry had really hit him, just because he mentioned fucking Harry instead of the other way around. Tom knew Harry had bottomed for that other man, the one who had tied Harry up and taken photos; one of those photos was kept at the back of Tom’s photo album, and sometimes Tom ran a finger over the straps of black leather on Harry’s body and wondered if Harry would ever submit to him like that.
He wanted to know what it was like.
He wanted to know what it was Harry felt as he breeched Tom’s body, as he rode him and used him and came within him. Tom wanted to know what it would be like to be the one in charge, and he had wrote to Harry asking for permission to go through with his experiment. Harry, being the amazing, wonderful man that he was, had given Tom full permission to experience someone else, as long as Tom topped. No one but Harry would ever be allowed within Tom’s body.
“Why can’t I-?” Abraxas trailed off as Tom pressed two fingers into him. “I don’t want to bottom!” He said petulantly, before gasping in surprise as Tom found his prostate.
“Only Harry is allowed inside of me,” Tom told him. With a whispered spell, one that Tom didn’t really like because he much preferred the feel of Harry’s fingers preparing him, Abraxas was stretched and ready for him, and Tom pressed forward, sinking into the body beneath him that tensed and twisted as Tom stole its virginity, as Tom split him open.
Abraxas cried out, and Tom knew it was from pain. He could remember how much his own first time had hurt, but Harry had been there, rubbing him and comforting him, and so Tom rubbed his fingers lightly across Abraxas’ hipbone and whispered, “it is ok. It’ll be ok.”
And when they were done, Abraxas winced with every movement.
( end warnings )
Tom lay back on the floor of the Astronomy Tower, looking up at the stars and feeling rather disappointed. There had been no flashing lights behind his eyes, his heart had pounded but it hadn’t been the same, there was no gasping, breathless feeling like he was about to die from the pleasure, and there had been no Harry there to comfort him. All in all, Tom decided, his experiment was a failure. Perhaps he would enjoy dominating Harry if the chance ever arose, but until then, he would be content to be Harry’s, and only Harry’s.
“It’s wrong, you know.” Abraxas told him calmly as he redressed.
Tom continued to lie there naked, thinking about Harry and how long there was left until he could see him again. His arsed clenched at the thought, butterflies came to life within his stomach, and he was suddenly so excited by the prospect of being taken again, unable to wait until May when his mock exams would be over and he could go home and throw himself into Harry’s waiting arms.
“Hmm?” He asked, only half listening.
“He shouldn’t touch you at all, whether he tops or bottoms. That’s abuse. Tom, he’s abusing you.” Abraxas reached forward to touch Tom’s shoulder lightly, but the boy smacked his hand away.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tom chuckled lightly, ignoring the way Abraxas’ face had pinched with worry and the way the boy limped as he made his way out of the Astronomy Tower. He closed his eyes, comparing Abraxas to Harry, and knew that Harry would always be the winner. It wasn’t abuse, Tom knew, because abuse was wrong. And Harry was never wrong.
XXX
May 16th 1943. 16 years old.
Albus watched the boy.
Tom was the same as he ever was, brilliant, attentive, but underneath it all there was a taste of darkness, a lust for power that admittedly was only kept in check by Mr Harry. Though, that didn’t make what Harry was doing right, not in the least. And Dumbledore worried for the boy, because surely, eventually, he would see that it wasn’t right, and Harry would no longer be there to keep him under control.
“Tom, my boy, can we speak?” Dumbledore asked, striding towards the handsome teenager.
Tom, who had just finished the last of his mock exams, had been standing with a group of fellow Slytherins. They were all fair-weather friends, he knew, those who had shunned him for his earlier years at Hogwarts and now pasted themselves to his side because he was the Heir of Slytherin and called him their Lord and desired to know how to please him. But only Abraxas had ever been granted the privilege to lie beneath him, pleasuring him with his body and mouth. But only Harry would ever truly be able to please him, and the sooner Albus spoke to him the sooner he could leave and see Harry again.
But he dutifully followed his Professor to the Transfiguration classroom. He sat in one of the chairs, crossing his ankles beneath the desk and folding his hands above it, and Tom waited.
He looked patient and polite, but Albus could see the intense dislike that Tom tried but failed to completely hide, swirling in his eyes. Tom had never quite forgiven him for that day five years ago when Dumbledore had suggested taking Tom away from Harry. He didn’t think Tom would appreciate it again now, but what kind of a person would he be if he didn’t even try? He had tried to contact the Aurors but according to them, no one lived at the flat the letter had arrived in, and there was no record of a Doctor Potter, a Mr Potter, or a Harry Potter of that approximate age anywhere in the Ministry records.4 He just didn’t exist and so there was nothing they could do about him. But Dumbledore could try and keep Tom away from the man, even if they couldn’t keep the man away from Tom.
“My boy, I have to recommend that you remain at Hogwarts again this summer. It really would be beneficial to you, with the NEWTs fast approaching, and the Defence Professor looking for an apprentice. You could spend the summer trying the position out. I know you were interested in it a year ago.”
“How do you know?” Tom asked curiously. He had wanted to teach, ever since he was thirteen and Harry had told him that he had once taught some of his friends in secret because their Professor was useless. Harry had been a rather good teacher, and Tom had hoped to be able to fill those shoes one day, but he didn’t want Dumbledore knowing his hopes and dreams.
“I know many things, my boy. The walls talk.”
Tom turned his head, and beside him upon the wall was a very familiar looking portrait. In fact, there was a matching one of this particular Wizard hanging in the Astronomy Tower, but Tom was sure it had been empty that night, very sure.
Though, while many people had secret trysts at Hogwarts, it was never enough to warrant the attentions of someone other than your Head of House. That Dumbledore was speaking to him meant it had something to do with Harry, and Tom was half scared that the portrait had heard him tell Abraxas about Harry touching him. But no, no, Tom consoled himself, because if it were wrong then Aurors would have been involved by now. But it was only Albus Dumbledore, and in the scheme of things he wasn’t really that important. So Tom pushed his chair back and stood up, glancing coldly at the frowning Professor.
“I’m going home, sir. Please stop interfering with my life.”
Dumbledore watched him go in silence. He couldn’t make Tom stay; he couldn’t force Tom to do anything. He wasn’t the boy’s legal guardian. He had considered adopting him, keeping him in the Wizarding world where he would be safe, but to do that he’d need the signature of Tom’s foster parents. He’d need Harry’s permission; Harry, who no one but Tom could seem to find.
A man that apparently didn’t even exist.
XXX
July 31st 1944. 17 years old.
Harry had done his research. It was only a matter of time, he now knew, before the spell would start to break down. It could take anywhere up to twenty years to end completely, and Harry had already been in the past for thirteen of those years. It could happen at any time, without warning, during the next seven years. Harry would have no say in the matter, he would be taken by surprise, blindsided and dumped back into his future. He might even be in the middle of sex while it happened, or taken a dump, or any other manner of embarrassing things could be occurring as he was tossed across time. No, he needed to have control over this, and with that need for control at the forefront of his mind, he had decided he needed to be the one to decide when he would return home.
There had been mentions of the counter-spell in several books he had managed to track down, but so far he hadn’t found the actual spell. But when he did, when he was ready, he would cast it himself, and wait fifty years for Tom to find him.
But Tom would have to survive those fifty years. He would have to still be Tom, and while Harry knew the boy would have to age partially at least, there was no way he was engaging in activities of any kind with a man who looked every one of his seventy-plus years!
Harry had found it, he’d stolen it, without having to kill the lonely old women, or frame her terrified house elf. The Locket was tucked away within his robe pocket, and Harry patted at the bulge lightly to reassure himself. Tom stood by his side, pale and silent, and he looked up at the large, sprawling mansion that took up most of their line of sight.
“This is where my father lives?” Tom asked in a soft voice.
“Does it bother you that he had all of this land, this property, and you’ve grown up with nothing?” Harry asked, genuinely curious. He had been angry when he had seen his house at Godric’s Hollow. Someone surely could have fixed it up and he could have lived there with Sirius as his guardian. Instead, they had left it broken and ruined as a memorial and shipped him off to the Dursleys. He had been envious of the adjoining houses, all of which looked bright and cheerful and welcoming in comparison to Number 4 Privet Drive, and he had hated them all for one selfish second.
“It makes me angry. He abandoned my mother to die, he abandoned me, but I didn’t grow up with nothing, Harry.” The seventeen year old smiled sadly at the only person who had ever seemed to love him. “I grew up with you. So let him have his riches and his bigotry. I have you. I don’t need anyone else.”
Harry gave the teenager a small smile before he took a deep breath and whispered, “I brought you here to kill them.”
Tom threw himself backwards, gasping. The only thing that saved him from sprawling across the pebbled driveway was Harry’s hands on his shoulders.
“What?” He hissed, looking horrified. Sure, as a child he had often imagined the other children and the staff at the orphanage dying slow, horrible deaths at his hands, but he had never once acted upon those desires. Even when Helen Doyle had died, it had been an accident and Tom had been distraught; though he had calmed considerably once he had realised that Harry wasn’t angry with him.
“Think of it not as murder, but as karma. They deserve it, they deserve this for abandoning you, for hating you without even getting to know you first. They left you Tom, they didn’t want you, but I did. I do! And I want this too! You know we won’t always be together, right? Eventually they will manage to separate us, but if you do this,” Harry said, pulling the Locket from his pocket and thrusting it at Tom. “If you do this then we can find our way back to one another. We can be together forever then, Tom.”
“What is it?” Tom asked, reaching hesitantly out for the shinning Locket.
“It used to belong to Salazar Slytherin. Your mother sold it while she was pregnant, to raise money to feed herself and thus you. She gave a way a part of her heritage, the only thing she owned that was worth anything, so she could provide for you, and yet your father has all this money and he couldn’t even offer you the most basic of things: food, shelter, warmth. There is a spell you could use to enchant the locket, you could make it into a Horcrux and place a part of your soul inside to keep it safe and no matter what happens we will always find our way back to each other.”
Tom’s fingers curled around the chain of the Locket. He looked up at Harry with wide eyes, and licked his lips nervously. “What do I have to do?”
“Kill them. Use the Killing Curse, I know that you know it Tom; I’ve seen you practising on the neighbours pets. The Curse will split your soul, and then focus on the locket, focus on pouring your soul into it. You’ll know it has worked when you are unable to open the locket again.” Tom pried the edges apart, and gasped at the painting of a serious looking man with a fuzzy, black beard. “If you love me, you’ll make the Horcrux,” Harry added, growing impatient with Tom’s silence. He had assumed that the boy would jump at the chance to inflict pain on someone else, but apparently his fear of Harry leaving him was still stronger than his desire to hurt. “I want this, Tom,” Harry added, leaning forward to brush their lips together. “I won’t leave you if you do this. This is to keep us together. Unless… Unless you don’t want to be together anymore?”
“Of course I do!” Tom shouted, cheeks flushing red. “You won’t be disappointed?” He asked then, in a meek whisper. Harry merely shook his head, and Tom, as desperate for approval as he ever was; still that pathetic four-year-old deep down inside, straightened his shoulders and turned resolutely towards the front doors of Riddle Manor.
Harry left him to it. Walking into the village of Little Hangleton and purchasing two bars of chocolate, because Tom would definitely need them. When he came back, Tom was crouching on the front steps of the house, half-hidden in the shadows beneath the overhanging porch, and the Locket was hanging from his neck. Harry ignored him, stepping around him and into the house. Everyone was dead. Riddle Senior splayed in the doorway of the dining room presumably killed as he tried to escape. Tom’s grandparents were slumped on the table, sitting side by side, both as dead as each other. Harry smiled to himself, unwrapping one bar of chocolate and making his way back outside to Tom.
“I’m so proud of you,” Harry whispered, green eyes glinting, as he handed the bar over. “Is there anything you’d like as a reward?”
“Make love to me,” Tom whispered, looking hopeful and sounding broken, and briefly Harry regretted his decision. But Tom needed to have a Horcrux, and this death was the only one Harry could justify. Strangers and helpless old women were innocent to him, but this family, these people were the reason Tom became Voldemort, the reason Harry suffered for years at his hands. They were the only ones who truly had it coming, in his mind; the only ones he could justifiably convince Tom to kill.
Harry shook his head and released a soft sigh. Then he reached down to pull Tom to his feet, lacing their fingers together as he whispered, “anything you desire, my love.” He led Tom back into the house, into the dining room where three bodies watched them in silence as Harry began to strip. Against Tom’s better judgement, he closed his eyes and allowed Harry to lead him.
XXX
October 18th 1944. 17 years old.
“Tom! Tom!” Abraxas shouted, but Tom didn’t stop of slow down. The Locket still hung around his neck and it reeked of Dark magic and sin, but no matter what Abraxas did or said Tom wouldn’t take it off. Harry liked the sight of it upon him, you see, and Tom was happy as long as Harry was. “Tom you need to listen to me!”
“What?” The boy finally turned around, eyes narrowed and lips turned down. He placed his hands on his hips, and the golden Locket swung lightly on its chain, until Tom reached up and pressed it against his chest.
“You can’t go back for Yule! You’re coming to my house and you have no choice in the matter. There, I’ve said it. I’ve already told my parents, and now they’re expecting you, and it’d be bad manners to change your mind at this point!”
“Harry will-” Tom began.
“No. No more Harry! It’s always Harry this and Harry that with you, Tom. Can’t you understand that what he did to you was wrong! People like him deserve to go to prison! It was abuse. It was rape. It was wrong, Tom!” Abraxas screamed at him, face flushed, and Tom remembered how the blonde had looked crying out beneath him years ago as he enjoyed topping. “It’s wrong!”
“What is wrong? That I love him, that he loves me, Abraxas? Is this jealousy talking?” Tom asked, with a chuckle, not sure if he should be amused by his friend’s behaviour or not.
“I’m not jealous. I’m worried. He shouldn’t have ever touched you like he did. Even Professor Dumbledore is worried about you, and I know the two of you don’t get on, but he’s been trying to keep you both apart for your own good. What he does to you… how long has it been going on?”
“I can barely remember when it started. But, Abraxas, it doesn’t feel wrong. It can’t be wrong, because Harry said-”
“Adults can be wrong too, Tom. And they lie. All of the time, sometimes to protect us and sometimes to hurt us, but you can’t always believe everything everyone else says.”
“Then how can I believe you?” Tom whispered. His eyes were closed, and he looked so hurt that Abraxas almost regretted this conversation, but it had to be done. Tom had to know.
“Because I’m your friend.” Tom opened his mouth, probably to comment that Harry was his only friend, or his only love, or his only parent, but Abraxas cut in again. “And he is a paedophile who had been abusing you for years. So trust me.”
“I need to think about this. I need, I need to think.” Tom told him, forehead creased as he frowned. There would be research to do, things in the library that he could read that would disprove Abraxas’ words (or, more worryingly, prove them). This must have happened to other people before him, Tom thought. He can’t have been the only stupid, pathetic, gullible child in the whole world, right? There would be proof. Once he found it, Tom would decide what to do then. “I’ll come to your home for Yule,” he told his silent friend, and then he left the room, heading straight for the library. But before he started researching, he wrote to Harry, to ask if it was true and to tell him of his plans for Yule.
When Yule passed and Harry still hadn’t replied to him, Tom knew he didn’t need to read more about psychopathology and grooming or conditioning to know the truth. Harry’s silence was all he needed.
XXX
March 24th 1945. 18 years old.
Harry looked down at the parchment on the table. The spell was written on it, there in front of him, within arm’s reach. It was almost over and he was so close to having this all end. The punch line was fast approaching, and once the spell had been cast Harry would know whether the last fourteen years had been worth it. He would either find himself right back where he started, Tom having gotten over the abuse and sworn revenge on Harry Potter, or he would land in a whole new world, where Tom had never managed to overcome his training, his desire to sexually submit himself to his foster father. Harry didn’t know which would happen, but he knew he’d prefer the latter option.
His fingers traced the words on the parchment.
Beside him, on the sofa, sat a backpack, filled with anything of importance that Harry was bringing with him. He picked it up, and slipped his arms through the straps and rolled his shoulders until the bag settled into place against his back. With his wand in his right hand, and the last letter Tom had written to him in his left, Harry knew that this was the moment. This was his last moment here, because when Tom returned that summer he would be too late.
Harry would be gone.
And then they’d all learn how well his plan had worked out.
XXX
June 9th 1945. 18 years old.
He was calling himself Lord Voldemort now. It was an anagram of his real name, the name his parents had given him, the name Harry had used as he pounded into his body, as Tom had clung naively to him. But he wasn’t that person anymore. He was a different person now, a stronger person, and it was time that Harry learnt he had crossed the wrong person.
Abraxas waited silently behind him, wand in hand, as Tom opened the door to Harry’s little flat. The Locket hung around his neck, sparkling in the light from the corridor, and then dulling as Tom stepped into the dark room. With a flick of his wand the lights turned on, but there was no one within the room. It was silent, and Tom searched through the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, before finding himself standing stupidly once more in the living room with Abraxas at his back.
There was a piece of parchment on the table, with a spell that Tom didn’t recognize written on it. Beside it, was the letter Tom had written, asking Harry if he really was a paedophile, the letter to which Harry had never replied. Lastly, there was one more letter, and with shaking fingers Tom picked it up.
“Hello Tom,
It must be terrible of me, to not be there for you once you finally realised what I had done to you. But, I suppose, I’m a terrible person. I wouldn’t have done this if I wasn’t, now would i? But, really, you only have yourself to blame. That man, the one I told you about, who tied me up and hurt me for his pleasure, he was the man you would one day become if left unchecked. And the world does not need two such people… Though I suppose there are now him and me, so I have failed in that respect.
But I am confident that you will never be like us. It is too engrained in your very being, the disease to please, the need to submit, the wild clenching feeling you experience at the thought of someone above you or within you; I bet you’re feeling it now, remembering how it felt to let me take you, aren’t you?
I told you the world would conspire to tear us apart, but I know you, Tom, and I know you’ll horde that Horcrux close because deep down you can’t wait to see me again. I will return to you, in time, like I promised; and Lord Voldemort always keeps his promises, right? You’re standing there, reading my letter, and telling yourself you can’t wait to see me so that you can hurt me for hurting you, humiliate and punish me, like I humiliated you. To use me? But deep down, in a place inside of you where even you are afraid to look you know that you can’t wait for me to return because already you miss the feel of me pinning you down, buried to the hilt in your arse while you scream my name.
But don’t worry, my Tom. That day will come soon.
Your Harry.”
Abraxas took a step towards him, hands outstretched to comfort his friend, but Tom shoved them away. “I’ll show him,” the boy hissed, vowing revenge, “he’ll be sorry.”
But secretly Tom knew Harry was right. And there were tears escaping his eyes, because already Tom missed his friend and lover, and he wasn’t sure that his anger would be enough to keep him until Harry came home again.
XXX
1 - Tom has one of those horrible winter birthdays, which means by the time he is old enough to go to school the year has already started. He’ll be 12 during the 2nd term of his 1st year, and so on, so when Tom graduates he will already be 18 (as opposed to Harry, who turned 18 after he graduated).
2 - Young boys can get hard, they just cannot ejaculate until they reach puberty and sperm starts to be produced. Orgasm can also happen, as it is due to the stimulation of nerves, rather than the existence of sperm. My friend had a younger brother, and when he was 1 they could never get a nappy to fasten on him, because he was always erect. Apparently it was due to surges of adrenaline (but don’t take that at face value: it’s been a long time since she told me this). Puberty starts around 12 or 13 for boys, and as early as 8 for girls, but some are early bloomers. Like Tom, who apparently started ejaculating at 11!
3 - I lost track of my maths at some point, and now I think the ages/Hogwarts years in the latter half of the chapter might be incorrect. But as I said, Tom has a difficult birthday, unlike Harry’s very easy to follow age-to-year ratio.
4 - Harry would be around 40 now. I am assuming that since there was such a gap between the grandparents going to Hogwarts and having James, that they would have graduated and married by now, but would still be fairly young, and James doesn’t exist yet. So there’s Harry, who is 40, and there’s Harold Potter and his wife, in their late twenties.
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Thanks for reading! I hope to have chapter 04 done.... Eventually. It’s going to be different! Wouldn’t it be cool to have a banner for this? But it’s never going to happen!
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