froggy

“Tom,” Harry had said then, avoiding eye contact, looking nearly sheepish as he stared out the window of some impersonal cafe they’d never been to before, would never go to again, “It’s really nothing to do with us,” he’d lied, easy and without pause, “I just can’t have a relationship right now.”

Tom took a controlled sip of his espresso, barely registering the sub-par bean, focusing all of his energy on not lunging across the small, round wooden table they shared, taking grasp of Harry’s chin, and wiping away any idea of leaving him.

“And why is that?”

Harry’s expression flickered, a deep frown nearly succeeding at pulling his lips downwards.

“My,” he paused, “My apprenticeship with Dumbledore will be consuming. It’s not fair to you, all the time I’ll be gone.”

“Oh,” Tom surmised, a perfectly placid smile pulling at his white teeth, “You’re rather considerate, aren’t you, Harry. Thinking of me like that.”

So lost he was, that Harry barely detected the warning in Tom’s voice. Maybe it was because he didn’t remember, not yet. Usually it was Tom that needed to be convinced of their bond. Usually, at least one of Harry’s parents were dead. The both of them having made it past Harry's eighteenth never boded well.

“Yeah, well, I’ll be gone longer than we’ve been dating. Seven weeks.”

Tom finally put down his espresso. It barely mattered that he’d just been holding it awkwardly aloft, frozen. Harry wasn’t looking.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Tom said, standing, smoothing his coat, barely tolerating this farce of a break-up and the garishly hippie decor of the establishment around them, knowing there was no use to arguing now, knowing that all he needed to do was let himself linger, let a seed plant, “A shame, though.”

Harry finally tore his gaze away from whatever was interesting about Muggle sidewalk and city, people walking by. It was odd, seeing him without his scar, and perhaps, that was the reason for the stilted interactions that had so far characterized their relationship outside the bedroom.

They’d had duds before, Harry had told him. Lifetimes where one thing or another made it so Tom was stillborn, and Harry wasted years searching; where the basilisk had been too hungry to care he was the heir; where Voldemort died in a forest in Albania. One where Tom killed himself by smashing his face with a hammer— having inherited far too many of Merope's features, having been far later than usual.

This could be Tom’s turn to endure.

“A shame?” Harry dully echoed.

With a smile, his real smile, the sharp one his Harry had spent years biting at, that he could phantomly feel, all snide remarks, hard kisses, Tom answered.

“You were just beginning to be a good lay.”

*

In one lifetime, a very Muggle lifetime, they’d both ended up in the same underground boxing ring. Tom, because it allowed him to vent the anger he felt at his attending, Slughorn, and make money on the side; Harry because Lily had survived the Muggle-typical car crash that time, but not without a caveat, the expensive, pancreatic cancer kind. It was after Harry had broken The Rat’s right arm in a fight, and they’d agreed to rig their games to cash in on the bets, that they’d ended up sharing a cigarette outside the appropriately industrial and isolated London warehouse in which everything took place, that Harry said he remembered, choking not because of the smoke, as Tom had laughed at him for.

It was only later, when they’d met in the hospital, Lily grey, hand limp in Harry’s, that he remembered. Horrible timing to want to fuck one's soulmate.

*

In another, Tom had been Tommie, and she prowled the streets, the same she did her school in the mornings, avoiding a passed out Merope all the while. Good girl, straight A's, but with a more than poor home life, and a desperate need for cash. It was ripped straight from the cliche, Harry a roaming cop, Tommie mistaking him for john until the very last moment. 

In another, they’d met on the beach, two eager girls on spring vacation, all hands and unknotted bikini strings and sand in horrible, horrible places and long, long walks with nonsense, delightful conversation; another, Harriette’s car had broken down on a stranded portion of the highlands, and Tom was the not-so-kind stranger that stopped by her with a convenient cottage a few kilometers away, only little coincidences delaying his plans, until the inevitable, until the memories stopping him from tearing open Harriette’s chest and eating her heart.

Here, all Harry had wanted was a lover, but Tom knew Harry better than he knew himself at this point, and if there was anything that would keep him going, keep Tom in those thoughts of his, it was a potent mix of mystery and indignant rage.

Tom made sure to wipe the mind of his neighbors, his landlord, in the flat he’d been renting when he met Harry, this go around. Made sure to be overt about it.

*

“Thomas Riddle,” the doorman seemed puzzled, eyes flicking up towards the ceiling, as if attempting to recall the name, “No, can’t say I’m familiar.”

Harry knew they had been. He didn’t even remember Harry, despite the time he’d refused to let him up to Tom’s flat until Tom called, formally putting him on the accepted guests list, a fiasco that had taken a better part of an hour. It’d only been a few months since then— the lack of familiarity didn’t seem like natural memory loss, the fog of time.

Something’s off.

He’d finished his time with Dumbledore, but hadn’t taken him up on his offer to become a permanent apprentice, to formalize their relationship, to continue as a battle-mage. He’d wanted time to think, and maybe even time to prove Tom wrong. Completely wrong. Just a few times. The sex had been good, hadn't it?

So, whatever this was, the obvious gap in the doorman’s memories, Harry had all the time in the world to investigate it.

"It's nothing personal," Harry remarked, over the shoulder as Hermione and Ron approached, both clutching their popcorn buckets, ready for their monthly movie night, arranging themselves on his couch, getting comfortable, "He just gave me the fucking creeps. It's Grindr, not a job interview. Just," he exclaimed when Hermione raised a brow, as if silently commenting for the nth time about her belief he was emotionally unavailable, "Look."

misterdildo

> Is it more offensive for me to enquire about your name, than your penis? You behave as if so. 

goldenballs

> i'll show you mine if you show me urs

misterdildo

> [ATTACHMENT: A long, thin pale cock being gripped by a single, long knuckled hand, fingers just as thin, just as pale. His nails are well maintained, cuticles trimmed. An expensive watch gleams, purposefully exposed. The background is blurred, but it's obviously a public restroom, bland tile and a glimpse of a stall divider in the bottom corner.]

goldenballs

> not what I meant

misterdildo

> I dislike your demeanor. That was clear innuendo.

Hermione whipped her head away, a scowl twitching her lips at the dick pic, could have warned us, she muttered, and sheepishly, Harry agreed. Ron stared at the screen intently.

"That's an Audemars Piguet watch," Ron murmured, "I don't think I've even seen that model before, must have been extremely limited production-"

"He's uptight," Hermione began, both of them easily tuning out Ron, "But it's not like you were being particularly welcoming either. I saw those messages you tried to hide, scroll past, Harry."

Harry grimaced. He'd tapped into his gallery, grabbing a good photo of his abs, a tease of his cum gutters, and made a vulgar comment to respond to the start of the conversation, when misterdildo had sent a Hello. That had been a week or so ago now. Conversation had been relatively light if a little formal on misterdildo's end, but ultimately teasing, testing— for what Harry had assumed would be a simple hook-up. 

"Whatever. I didn't ask you to criticize me, just..."

"Sympathize that some lost soul on Grindr was looking for a real connection when all you wanted was a booty call?" Ron pouted his lips mockingly, handing Harry's phone back, snapping out of his watch induced fugue. Ever since his coming of age, Ron had been enamored with timepieces. It ran in the Weasley DNA, Harry and Hermione thought, given how carefully they maintained that family clock of theirs. Being a fucking shit, ran similarly in the bloodline. 

"It's Grindr," Hermione butted in, shoving a handful of buttery popcorn into her mouth, "Harry's right."

"I'm right," Harry crowed, before placing his phone face down on his coffee table, grabbing the TV remote instead, "And I'm ghosting him."

His phone dinged, once, twice, but Harry ignored it, they all did, settling in as the movie began to play, production studios flashing.

misterdildo

> I'm a forgiving man.

> [ATTACHMENT: That same pale hand splayed over a tight stomach, fingers pointing down, as if teasing towards something more. A faint happy trail is visible, clearly groomed to perfection around his navel. The background is blurred, and this time, completely indiscernible. The man is sitting on a leather office chair, that is evident, buttoned shirt rucked backwards, that same watch sparkling silver and enamel green, posture relaxed. Arrogant.] 

> I can see that you're online.

> Have it your way. 

*

"Mr. Riddle," Harry smiled, shaking his hand firmly, fighting through his nerves, making intense eye contact, knowing full well that no measure of fondness that his parents held for him would matter if they didn't secure the distribution rights to the upcoming Knights of Walpurgis film, "I've heard great things, many great things. It's a pleasure to put a face to the email handle."

Harry laughed, the sort of stilted, ha-ha-ha, he only employed when doing business. Tom Riddle smiled slowly back at him. It was an uncomfortable expression, and Harry nearly grimaced. It had been a long month– his only reprieve was an upcoming movie night with Ron and Hermione.

"A pleasure," Tom repeated, their hands separating, and, for a moment, his watch reflecting the light pouring in from the vast, windowed office they were standing in, blinding Harry, "Yes. You could say that."

Harry flashed his smile once more, squinting intensely, and brushed off Tom's odd tone with the ease one did a stray piece of lint. Everyone had their quirks. 

“Harry,” Tom said, “What an interesting name.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” Harry managed, following Tom’s cue and sitting, though in a far less grand chair than the leather artistry Tom lowered himself into, “Yep. Harry. That’s me.”

Harry used the distraction Voldemort's last victims gave him, sprinted to Cedric's corpse and accioed the Triwizard cup. He breathed a sigh of relief when the cup touched his hand, only… only nothing happened. Why did nothing happen?! He was still at the graveyard-

Harry slowly turned around, horror pouring from every part of his being, even the Death Eaters had stopped breathing.

Voldemort was marching towards him, his fury contrasted by the maniacal grin spreading on his monstrous face. "Did you really think you could escape Lord Voldemort?" the dark wizard laughed, and his followers stiffly jeered along. "Any last words?"

Harry opened his mouth, no thoughts besides 'Shitshitshit I'm so dead' going through his mind—but Voldemort never intended to grant him this mercy, too angry that Harry nearly escaped.

"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort whispered, etching every second of his enemy finally falling into his mind. The widening of the boy's eyes, the intake of breath that was never exhaled, the light leaving those once vibrant eyes. Dead. The Boy Who Lived was finally dead. Voldemort had won, the Prophecy was over.

Yet…the air felt strange. Something was different. Not as it should be.

"Am I dead?"

Despite himself, Voldemort's whole body flinched, and even the few followers of his fell over themselves in shock. Voldemort turned around and…there was the Potter boy. He looked just like he had about a minute ago, just a bit more transparent.

A ghost.

"Why in Salazar's name are you so hard to get rid of?!" Voldemort nearly shouted, but tried to keep at least a semblance of control. Barely.

Harry's eyebrows twisted in confusion, but then his eyes fell on his corpse lying on the ground. "Oh. Am I a ghost?"

"No, you are a nuisance," Voldemort said. Harry just blinked at him, and Voldemort had never looked at a ghost long enough to notice that they still did that. Blinking. Was that normal or just a Harry Potter thing?

When Harry just kept staring at Voldemort, the wizard gave an annoyed sigh and pinched the white skin where there had once been the bridge of his nose. Between clenched teeth, he impatiently said, "Of course you are a ghost! What else do you think you are?"

Harry shrugged and walked over to his dead body, crouching next to it, touching it. His milky hand went right through it, making the boy frown. "Why is my hand going through things, but I'm not sinking through the ground?"

"Ghosts can float, you are probably just floating."

"Am I?" Harry wondered, and Voldemort couldn't believe he was standing here discussing such needles things with the boy he had just triumphed over.

"Go haunt someone else," Voldemort told him and turned towards his dumb-looking followers. "We are leaving. Lucius, I expect to use your Manor as a headquarter."

Lucius bowed, still shaking a little like the pathetic baby that he was, and said, "Of course, my Lord."

Voldemort apparated himself and Nagini into Malfoy Manor, not sparing the ghost a second glance. Once there, he made himself at home in a comfortable armchair in front of a fireplace that was still burning in summer. Next, he called a house elf for a meal for him and his familiar.

"Do you think I can still eat?"

Voldemort nearly jumped out of the armchair in startled surprise, heart beating wildly. Only with his superior self-control did he manage not to shout a curse. The Potter boy had followed him.

"Didn't I tell you to go somewhere else?" Voldemort snarled. Ghost Harry looked as nonchalant as he had at the graveyard, shrugging his shoulders and wandering through the room. He discovered that he could slightly move a portrait, so he began to make all the paintings crooked.

"You only said I should haunt someone else. Maybe I want to annoy you as revenge? Or I am actually here to haunt the Malfoys; in that case I am even following your orders."

Voldemort took a deep breath in and decided he would ignore the menace. On second thought, he cast a silencing charm around Harry so Voldemort would not need to hear him. Perfect.

In that moment, the shaky elf brought him a steamy dish, and a dead rabbit for Nagini. Everything was going well, until the boy decided he wanted to test his question. Only just in time did Voldemort manage to pull his meal out of reach. "This is my food. Hands off."

The boy's mouth opened and closed, but Voldemort's spell spared him of having to hear Potter's annoying voice. "Shush," he said, making a hand motion for Harry to leave.

This only made the boy petulantly cross his arms, before he visibly got an idea. Instead of trying to touch the food, he reached out for Voldemort. Not having anticipated this, Voldemort did not pull away in time. While the ghost's hand went clean through Voldemort's robe, he felt a cold hand touch his rib. The hand did not go through him. This was not normal. Voldemort was starting to panic; he knew what a ghost's touch felt like, he had lived seven years in Hogwarts, for Salazar's sake!

Harry seemed to have come to the same conclusion that he should not have been able to touch the dark lord. Something was wrong. Maybe a remnant of Lily's protection? But Voldemort had used the boy's blood for resurrection–