zhana

There is no reply other than silence.

Almost too silent.

Even the crickets have hushed.

Gooseflesh rises along his skin and he draws his weapon, jaw tightening with nerves.

“I’m warning you! I know how to fight. It won’t be an easy one.”

His voice carries into the gloom.

Gods willing, he hasn’t managed to run afoul of a bear. A person he can scare and bluff. A pissed off bear will simply kill him for his misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

A twig cracks.

Harry tenses, shifting his weight low. Ready to fight, or to bolt.

The branches rustle unseen, from where the faint light of the moon can’t quite reach.

What he spots first chills his veins.

First, a luminous red gaze.

Then, from them emerges a dark outline that resolves in an almost dizzying swirl, into a plain-cloaked figure.

“My apologies,” the stranger says smoothly. His voice is low, but his tone is almost sweet. Honeyed. “I did not mean to startle you, good sir.”

A man – or something in the shape of one – steps forward into the moonlight and draws off his hood.

Dark curls cascade out, framing a pair of inhumanly bright eyes.

Immediately, every instinct screams for Harry to turn tail and run or, perhaps more wisely, to fall to his knees and beg for his life.

He does neither. Instead, he regrips his knife, stomach and shoulders knotting with reflexive fear, and stands his ground.

Instinct would get him killed.

Running would be giving permission to chase, and bowing is for those who wouldn’t mind losing their necks when they do.

“It’s no trouble,” Harry says, careful to keep his voice steady even as he trembles minutely at the knees.

“If I may ask,” the man says coolly, because it does not sound like much of a question, “what brings you to this part of the woods? At such a late hour, too.”

“I’m a merchant. A novice, really, as it seems that I’ve lost my way.”

“A merchant,” the man echoes.

“Yes,” Harry says, swallowing once. “I’m simply hoping for some rest before setting off anew at dawn.”

The man crosses the space between them in two easy strides, eyes never leaving Harry’s face. As if the knife in his hands were not there at all. His expression remains unbothered. “You poor thing,” the man says. “It must be difficult spending so many long days on the road all by yourself. Delighted to make your acquaintance.” He dips into a half-bow. “Tom Riddle, at your service.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Harry replies.

Every part of him has drawn tight with fear but he can’t run. He can’t.

“Tell me, my friend,” the not-man says lightly.

Harry doesn’t believe his gentle tone for a single second.

He watches, heart rabbiting in his chest as Tom’s hand reaches out. It moves calmly, without any notion of violence, but he still barely suppresses a flinch as it brushes against his cheek. Trails along his stubbled jaw. He does not dare move. 

“Did you know that today is All Hallow’s Eve?”

The question is airy. Tom’s eyes are anything but. They track Harry’s movement the way a patient predator would for his prey.

Harry shakes his head once, the barest motion.

But, suddenly, there’s something new at the edges of his senses.

Faint music. The bright trill of a flute. The wheezing cry of an accordion along with the distant echo of laughter. None of it had been there before. As if the merest mention of the day was the key to a riddle he hadn’t known to solve. An invitation.

“There is a ball tonight,” Tom continues, expression awfully blank. It is intensely at odds with the dulcet note to his voice. Something hungry swirls in his scarlet gaze. “The grandest ball of the year, in fact. I find myself in need of a date, and I should be most delighted if you would agree to accompany me. Tell me: what is your name, darling thing?”

Harry shakes his head again. He knows better than to offer his name. Or to accept.

“That’s really kind of you,” Harry deflects, sheathing his knife.

He pulls in a short, shaky breath even as his lungs scream, as if the air has chilled into shards of ice that scrape his throat raw.

Tom is no mortal creature, and if Harry’s guess is correct then he’s deeply, deeply in trouble. His steel blade would do precious little against the monster before him. He does have options, but he would need to fool Tom into letting him get back to his cart – to the wares and the special pack that he has hidden there.

“I’m afraid I’m exhausted from a hard day’s journey,” Harry says. He wills his face into an apology. “Again, I’m really flattered that you’d ask.”

Tom’s expression finally shifts into something sharper.

“Ah, ah.”

Angry or amused, it’s impossible for Harry to tell. Maybe both. Regardless of the truth, it’s much more real than whatever mask he had been wearing before, the one made for luring.

His hand slides down from Harry’s cheek to his neck. It splays against his throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, then tightens. Not enough to strangle, but enough for breath to take some effort and for his pulse to flutter with dread. The strange music only grows louder in his ears.

“If you would like to live, you must know that I am not fond of liars. We both know that you did not set out until after midday.”

Fear zips up Harry’s spine, icy and bright, but it’s quickly overrun by a hot flare of anger.

“Keeping an eye on me, have you?” he snaps, surging against Tom’s hold.

His anger sputters quickly as embarrassment and horror both warm his cheeks. He inwardly curses his sharp tongue and doubly so for the fact that he’s never learned how to keep the willful thing in check. Especially when it would be so easy for Tom’s fingers to dig into his windpipe and tear it out for his insolence.

But Tom’s empty expression thaws into a smile.

“What a stubborn thing you are,” he says, seeming pleased. He brushes his thumb against Harry’s thudding pulse, and he hums – a considering noise. “It is not every day that a— How did you put it? That a ‘novice traveling merchant’ dares to stumble through my lands with a cart stacked full of iron. Such weapons are contraband here. The punishment is death.”

Harry’s eyes widen. My lands.

“I had no idea,” he croaks.

His words are completely earnest, insofar as him trying to cross through the woods. He had no intention of disturbing Tom or his people – not directly. As for the weapons, it was good money for a good cause: to be delivered to a hunting guild in a few days time. If an overly murderous fae occasionally became the target of such a guild, that was just the way of things. Intent matters, and he feverishly hopes that Tom will take him at his honest word.

“I’m just passing through, I swear.”

What shite luck to have him crossing into fae territory so soon after leaving town. The maps he’d reviewed had this entire area marked as neutral – still contested between clans.

“Who sent you?” Tom asks.

Harry glances away, biting his lip. He may be trapped, but he would rather have his throat crushed than drag more people into his mess.

When it becomes clear that he would not answer, the pressure, surprisingly, eases off.

Harry coughs weakly but remains in place as Tom’s hand hasn’t left either. That same awful thumb shifts to the hollow at the base of Harry’s neck, brushing at the sensitive skin there. Harry shivers against his will.

“No matter,” Tom says. “I have my suspicions.”

Harry’s sure he does. Harry would also very much like to be let go, although that seems more unlikely with each passing moment.

Tom examines Harry with an appraising glint to his eye.

“Someone less trusting than I would read such a thing as a provocation. A threat against me and mine. If you are truly unaware of what you have done, then I would wager that you have been made a useful fool.”

“Better to die a fool than an arrogant arse,” Harry counters, temper climbing once again despite his better judgment. “This isn’t how civilized folk do things.”

“Believe it or not, I have been very civil.”

Harry pointedly glances at Tom’s hand. “And this is your best manners? Clearly I’ve been missing out.”

The blink he receives in reply is slow, almost reptilian, and Harry immediately regrets opening his mouth.

“You are either very brave,” Tom says softly, “or very stupid.”

Then he extends one hand in a gesture so human and unhurried that Harry nearly takes it. Nearly. He knows better. The Order had been very thorough on that front.

So he lets the hand hang there.

The silence stretches.

Then Tom lowers his hand.

Something flickers across his face – not offense, thankfully – but it’s still not anything close to mercy.

“What a delight,” Tom says, and Harry grimaces at his complete lack of inflection. “You even know this.”

“I’m the unfriendly sort.”

“No.” Tom’s tone brightens as he appears to come to a new conclusion about his intruder. “Someone taught you. You know what I am, and yet you stand before me unafraid.”

Harry thinks that might be too much credit, and he’s uncertain if he should be even more worried that Tom finds himself impressed. Does the average human crumble before him? Harry can’t blame them if so.

“Please just let me go. I didn’t mean for any of this.”

“Mm, yes. Novice merchant, lost in the woods. You have been nothing if not consistent.”

Tom watches him for a long moment, waiting to see if Harry is willing to offer up more lies, and Harry can’t help but watch back. He hates that Tom is, despite everything, still mortifyingly attractive.

Then something about the atmosphere shifts.

It warms in a way that can only be unnatural, and Harry is startled to realize that he doesn’t care. He can’t seem to care.

He continues to stare into the mesmerizing depths of Tom’s eyes. Into the deep, glimmering red, like twin pools of blood. It should concern him how it soothes his flighty nerves, as if to say: worry not.

Tom would take care of things. Tom would take care of him.

And in the morning, Harry would be on his merry way – nevermind what he lost in the in between. 

Even knowing this, his fight gradually ebbs away. His body goes slack. A wash of vertigo nearly sweeps him off his feet, and he sways like a sapling in the wind. Tom reaches out to steady him, and the contact, just a hand on his shoulder, sears him. Consumes his thoughts.

The music – the ball – sounds like it’s a few steps away now. Just behind the nearest trees.

At his surrender, Tom’s face softens. The curve of his mouth turns indulgent. His hand also moves away from Harry’s throat and down. Over to his collar, then lower, fingertips sliding over his sternum, as if tracing the shape of his bones.

“On a normal night, I would kill interlopers such as yourself. Fortunately for you, I find myself in a festive mood. It has me uncharacteristically generous.”

He steps in closer, their bodies now only a breath apart. It’s close enough that Harry can count Tom’s individual lashes. Not that he would do such a pointless thing even if they are attached to an especially nice face.

“So, I will give you another chance. Your name, boy.”

The sound of music and laughter is nearly deafening in Harry’s ears. He still can’t tear himself away from Tom’s eyes, rooted by the intense weight of it, the otherworldly power of it, directed entirely at him. A panicked lie manages to bubble up through the paralysis.

“Hedwig.”

Tom inclines his head, brows raised. “Hedwig. A strange name. Must I remind you—”

“No,” Harry chokes. Lies would only get him killed faster. “She’s my—”

His voice falters, head spinning with the crushing sense of defeat – he’s dead either way, it matters not what he says because Tom will kill him and leave his bones to the forest to feast. Hoping against hope, he forces himself to push through his fear.

“She’s my horse. Tied off thirty paces toward the path. I can’t just leave her.”

Tom stills. Harry shuts his eyes, body tensing once more as he braces for the end.

But it doesn’t come.

Another hand grabs him firmly by the hip and pulls them together. Harry’s eyes fly open, startled, and he finds himself pressed tightly against Tom. Even Tom’s scent, woodsy but clean, seems tailormade to draw him in. To quiet the fearful part of his mind that still clamors to save his own skin.

“I will ensure that she is taken care of by my most trusted,” Tom murmurs. “As long as you give me what I want.”

The words shimmer.

The music is a violent cacophony.

It’s in him, a silvery glow that has no business being there, threading through his thoughts, into his limbs, and settling at his temples with a pressure not unlike what it had felt to be choked. Present and total, he’s helpless against it.

A memory springs up like a desperate shield: Dumbledore’s voice, dry and calm, reciting a lesson in a dim storeroom where no one was meant to be: a sufficiently powerful fae possesses the power to compel. It is not persuasion, but a charm that bends the mind. Resist, or die.

Harry holds onto the memory. The warning. The reason why speaking would be terrible. He can feel it, there, at the front of his mind—

Tom leans in, and the memory slides away before Harry can catch it in time.

Please, he thinks. I can’t.

His name isn’t a secret. It’s just a name. But in this moment, he strains against Tom’s words, against the command that had wrapped around each sound, to keep his name inside himself. He fights with everything he has. He cannot. He will not—

“Your name, child.”

Harry’s mind goes briefly, horribly white.

He feels himself forming the word, the shape of it familiar and all too damning, and there is a valley between the moment that his lips move and the moment that he understands that they have. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes at the sound of his own name falling from his mouth. His doom, Tom’s prize, spilling out into reality.

“Harry,” Tom repeats.

Harry hates the way that he makes it sound like something good. As if he’d eaten the name and enjoyed the taste of it. Tom’s hand trails even lower, pressing into each of Harry’s ribs before sliding down to the hem of his linen shirt. And then slipping underneath it. Palming the trembling flesh along his abdomen.

“Close,” Tom says. “But I would like the whole thing. Be good for me, Harry.”

Harry quivers, each one of Tom’s magic-laced words continuing to overwhelm him.

Hushed by that intoxicating voice. Devoured by that terrifying touch, pulsing golden waves of warmth and pleasure against his oversensitized skin. How Tom drifts even lower, toward the humiliating bulge in his trousers. It is all he can do to resist bucking up to encourage Tom faster, for even a hint of the delicious pressure that would wipe away the rest of his thoughts. He’s had his fair share of tumbles in the hay throughout his travels, but he’s never been more desperate for it than now.

“Please,” Harry whimpers, not above begging. He’s not sure if it’s for Tom to stop or to keep going, but it’s not as if it matters.

Tom would take what he likes.

“I do like the sound of a pretty boy crying so needily,” Tom whispers, leaning forward.

“I can’t—”

“You can,” Tom says, and closes the gap.

Tom kisses him deep and steady, hands wandering over Harry, hungry and possessive. He pushes Harry back until he thuds into rough bark, gasping. And Tom takes the opportunity to take even more, to press in. Harry moans as the kiss grows more urgent, tongues sliding together. His hands fist into Tom’s cloak. Heat rushes into his gut. It’s dizzying, and his every nerve alights with sensation. Tom’s presence, solid and irrepressible, drowns everything else. Even the odd, whimsical music fades into the background.

He’s never had a kiss like this before. Like he’s being eaten alive. Power and heat spin out into the air as a breeze cuts through the clearing, shaking the trees and making the very ground tremble beneath him. Or perhaps that’s only his legs finally giving out as he slumps, dazed. Only Tom holds him firm against the tree to keep him from collapsing to the ground.

Everything whites out into an overwhelming pleasure as the last of his rationality is devoured by a beast.

And when they break apart, Harry can’t remember why he had been so afraid.

“How about now?” Tom asks, a hand smoothing down Harry’s waist. Just on the edge of cruel, but Harry’s mind finds it comforting nonetheless. “Would you like to try giving me your name again?”

“Ah,” Harry says. That’s right. It’s such a small thing, and it would make Tom so happy. “Harry James Potter.”

Like an arrow straight into the hide, something breaks open within him. He’s pierced to the core. Pinned on a board for Tom to flay as he pleases. And most of all, Tom’s smile grows even wider. Toothy with too many teeth. His nails sharpen into claws that prick ruby beads out from Harry’s flesh everywhere they go, like a veil of jewels in the night.

“A perfect name for a perfect boy.”

Tom says it so brightly that Harry preens.

“Will you dance with me tonight, Harry?”

Tom’s face is radiant and full of eternal promise. It’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen. His answer – yes, yes, yes – rests on the tip of his tongue, but sticks as an echo of something terribly important reverberates within his bones, nearly forgotten. He grasps onto it, this lone lifeline in this too comfortable dark. Like an immortal flame, never to be extinguished, his will to survive surges forward and lights the way.

“Yes,” Harry says, “but…”

Tom blinks, betraying a sliver of his surprise. “But?”

“Will we just leave my wares behind?”

“So dutiful,” Tom chides, and yet, his expression turns amused. Perhaps by Harry’s continued defiance – the rare toy that hasn’t broken – or perhaps by Harry’s simple, guileless use of ‘we,’ as if they are companions, when only moments before Tom had held Harry’s life within his palm. 

When they both know that Tom still does.

Still, for better or for worse, such odds stacked against Harry aren’t enough to make him give up. He hides a fist behind himself and clenches it hard enough to draw blood so that the pain might force the pleasurable silver-misted fog in his mind to clear away.

“Anyone could stumble across it,” Harry points out. “Would be bad if it gets into the wrong hands.”

“You doubt my men,” Tom says, disapproving.

“Why leave things to chance?”

“Why indeed. Perhaps you are not as foolish as you look.”

At that, Tom steps back. His heat leaves with him, and a weakened, childish part of Harry rails against the loss. But it’s just enough space that Harry’s senses return in a trickle.

He holds himself against the tree as before and remains pliant. The honeyed weight lingers in his limbs, and he doesn’t fight it. If Tom believes him still under thrall, he may be able to get away with more and look for an escape before it’s truly too late.

With an aristocratic flourish, Tom gestures in the direction of the path. “Lead the way, darling.”

Harry retraces his steps from earlier in the night, now feeling so very long ago, but his memory serves him well. He spots his cart through the thicket, some thirty paces away.

“Straight ahead,” he says.

Tom’s expression twists with obvious distaste. Harry’s never met one of Tom’s kind himself – few return from such encounters, even with the Order’s training – but he is aware that they’re able to sense iron from a distance. The more powerful the fae, the further.

Harry distinctly gets the sense that thirty paces is very far indeed.

He hurries forward to remove the tarp, as well as flip up the second layer of tarp underneath, tossing the shell of fruits out of the way, tumbling and thudding onto the earth to reveal a heap of iron weaponry – longswords, shortswords, maces and the like.

As Tom examines the cargo, Harry discreetly snags the pack that he had tucked into a hidden compartment beneath the boards near the front of the cart. He risks a quick glance at his handsome captor to confirm that he hadn’t seen the move and suppresses the urge to rifle through his score right away.

Not yet. Tom might notice the pack, but he may not ask to examine the contents.

With a sweep of Tom’s hand, the breeze shifts. Whispers tickle at the edges of Harry’s thoughts, and he knows not to listen for the words that they form lest they drive him mad.

The pile of weapons begins to glow, turning first red and then brighter and brighter, until they melt together into an incandescent slag, the acrid scent of burnt cedar filling the air as Harry’s cart bursts aflame from the heat. The impromptu bonfire briefly lights the night, stretching the shadows all around them, and Harry could swear that the one belonging to Tom lengthens even further still into something grotesque. He can hardly bear to look at it, stomach swooping in horrified protest at even a glimpse of the monstrous form that must lay beneath Tom’s alabaster flesh.

Tom turns to face him. “Now, shall we return?”

It is not as if Harry truly has a choice, but Tom evidently likes to pretend.

“Yes,” Harry says, squaring his shoulders. And he lets Tom lead him deeper into the wood to where the merriment rings out with glee.

They walk further and further within, but orienting in foreign woods has fortunately been one of Harry’s better talents. Still, he has little time to waste. He reaches into the pack and draws out the cloak. He does so without alerting Tom, and his worry bleeds away into resolve. The plan that unfolds in his mind is simple: get the cloak on, get to Hedwig, go. It would be a hard ride in the dark but Hedwig has done worse and so has he.

Tom, a few steps ahead, tilts his face upward as though reading the stars.

He’s doing it often, Harry notices. Looking up, or away, or into the middle distance with a casual air. He’s generously not imposing himself upon Harry for entertainment. Under other circumstances, he would even make pleasant company. 

“You’re very quiet,” Tom remarks, still looking at the sky.

“Tired,” Harry says.

“Of course.” Tom pauses, still not looking. “We’ll find you somewhere comfortable to rest, when the dancing is done.”

Harry shakes the cloak loose along its folds. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I have my moments.”

He could swear he hears a smile in it.

He gets the cloak over his shoulders, settles it into place, and waits for Tom to turn and find empty air where his novice merchant used to be.

Tom does not turn.

He walks on, hands clasped behind his back.

Harry stands perfectly still for three seconds in the dark beneath the cloak and watches him go.

Then Harry runs.

He makes it only a handful of paces before Tom speaks.

“Your horse is the other way,” Tom says pleasantly. “No fault of yours, mind – these woods have a will of their own.”

His expression, for the first time all evening, is fully, genuinely amused – not the suppressed, short-lived thing from before, but something much wider and realer that reaches his eyes and transforms his face for just a moment into something that looks almost, bafflingly, human. Fond.

Tom nods to his left. “Hedwig is that way.”

Harry falls back into step beside him. The pack strap sits against his shoulder, and he fiddles with it mindlessly if only for something to do with his hands. Anything to distract him from feeling so unfairly punished by traveling alone – now worse than alone – at night.

“How long did you know,” he asks, after a moment.

Tom doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Since you palmed it from the cart. I thought you would attempt to kill me with whatever you had squirreled away, and I was curious how far you would get.”

Harry’s jaw tightens. None of this surprises him – Tom would, of course, enjoy mind games like this – but the ease of his dismissal stings regardless. He is outmatched, for the moment.

“The cloak, however, is a surprise. A fine piece of magic.”

The appreciation in Tom’s voice makes his hackles rise. That cloak was his father’s. Tom has no right to how covetous he sounds saying it.

“Aren’t you going to take it?”

Tom’s answering smile can only be described as hungry. “I would rather you give it to me because I asked.”

“Never,” Harry spits.

“Then no,” Tom replies just as easily.

They continue on in strained silence, with several more rows of increasingly gnarled trees passing them by. Surprisingly, Tom speaks first.

“For what it is worth,” he says, a smile playing at his lips, blood-red gaze sliding to Harry, “you have made it the farthest.”

A cold comfort.

“Thanks,” Harry scowls.