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boyneptunee · 1 month ago

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7k, tomarry, so much fluff it'll rot your teeth

(or) Tom gets a new neighbour in the form of one Harry Potter and his dog. (Chaos ensues).

There was a bag on his front door.

Actually, there was a pink bag with white paw prints hanging from his front door handle.

Tom considered the offending object for a long moment, eyes searching up and down the hallway of his apartment building for anything that might be out of place. The same dark blue carpet that definitely needed cleaning, the same cream walls, the same fake plant by the corner that the keeper kept watering despite it clearly being plastic.

He found nothing out of the ordinary.

He sighed, long and tired. He took the offending bag by the handles and opened his door.

His head hurt behind his eyes, low and pulsing. The beginnings of a migraine had been threatening to topple over back and again for at least two hours, and the meeting he'd had to precede over had not made matters any better. There was nothing quite like having to listen to fools argue against each other over the most insignificant things for an entire day.

He was craving for the specific red painkiller that would hopefully make it go away, no matter how many times his doctors had told him the pill was bad for his health. How was he supposed to go about his life with a migraine pulsing behind his eyes and around his brain each day? They hadn't exactly given him any alternatives.

Back at the problem at hand, Tom laid the bag on top of his wooden table. The grain looked possibly offended at the colour that had been placed on top of it.

Inside, he found a handwritten letter and a single picture.

The latter had a delicate penmanship that looped and tilted just this way off center, not enough to look untidy but certainly enough for him to notice. It had not been written in a rush, but rather —and possibly— on a slanted surface.

Hi Neighbour!

My name is Aquila, and I've just arrived at my fur–ever home! I am five years old and still learning I should not bark at every stranger that walks past the door and how to ask to go potty. I am sorry if you hear me crying while my owner is away, know that I'm still getting the hang of being alone at home.

I've left some treats for you in the bag and I hope me being here is not much of an inconvenience.

If you see me on the halls please come say hi! I love meeting new friends.

A pawprint had been stamped on ink at the bottom of the letter, clearly handmade and just before the owner had sat down to write the little note, as the letters stopped just about the tip of one claw mark on the paper.

The picture featured a man with gold wired glasses, hair tied back on top of his head and holding a white haired dog. On the back of the picture, two names had been scribbled in a rushed hand.

Aquila & Harry

Harry, then.

He knew someone had moved to the apartment next door, the only one left in a single corridor that was previously occupied by a couple who'd grated on Tom's nerves more times than he could count. They had a tendency to play loud music just about the time where he got ready to sleep knowing he would have to wake early for work, and the distressing amount of wine bottles by the trash bins every morning made him weary of the means they had to afford to live in the building. If they were drinking themselves to an early grave surely they had no time to work?

But they had gone early that very same year, and so far no one else had signed the lease for the place.

Tom had toyed with the idea of moving, as the apartment next door was slightly bigger, and had better views as it sat on the corner of two streets. Then he thought about having to move his furniture around a second time after almost murdering the moving company he had hired and stopped the train of thought.

(Better let them live another day than having to deal with that again).

Inside the bag he found two bottles of licor, one chocolate and one vanilla flavoured (strangely, his favourite flavours of alcohol) and a single chocolate bar (the dark kind, strong and bitter).

Tom considered the contents for a long moment, before bringing a glass from the cupboard and pouring out the contents to mix himself a drink. The thought of taking the red pill for his headache and being forced to stay awake against his will as the painkillers worked against whatever was wrong on his brain made him want to curl into a ball and weep.

He could not loose another night of sleep. That would make it the third one in a row.

He ate a good bit of the chocolate and set to prepare himself dinner.

A knock stopped him just as he was putting water to boil.

He stood against the stove for a moment, closing his eyes and begging for a moment of solitude had been too much to ask, hadn't it?

The knock came again, three gentle rasps against the door.

The face that greeted him on the other side was non other than Harry, his new neighbour. A white puppy lay at his feet, big eyes gazing up at Tom like he was a new toy come Christmas.

The man held a red casserole at his hands and a pink blush at his cheeks, clearly flustered as he moved from foot to foot.

"Hi."

"Hello." Tom raised a single eyebrow, looking from the man's face to the casserole to his dog. "I got your bag." He settled on, as the man seemed too embarrassed to continue.

"Oh! Um—" Harry moved a bit, almost tripping on Aquila as he tried to shift his weight. "That's good."

"You needed something?"

"Not–not really." Tom took a metaphorical step back, looking at the man from head to toe. He looked just as he had in the picture, the same mess of curls tied loosely on top of his head, the same maroon sweater with golden stars on it. The same grin. "I made too much food?"

"Is that a question?" A slow smirk crawled up his face, unbidden.

Harry continued on babbling.

"I was wondering if you would like to have some? It's just–I heard you come in, and my fridge hasn't arrived yet so I can't really save any of it for later, and I didn't want to throw it out–not that it's bad! It's good I swear I cook for a living and–"

"Okay."

"–and I had already, huh?" Harry looked startled at him, clearly not expecting the answer. "Okay?"

"Yes. Come in, I'll put it on a plate and you can take your pot back." He waved a hand towards the inside of his dark apartment, he had only turned on a few lamps here and there, their orange glow gentle and dim, as his migraines more often than not made him sensitive to bright lights.

"Oh! Yes, thank you–" He moved to step inside and then stopped on his tracks, eyes settling somewhere near his feet. He looked back up at Tom, a question on the tip of his tongue.

"She can come in too, don't worry." The smile sent his way in response was possibly blinding.

The white dog –against all his judgment– entered his apartment slowly, almost sedately and looked and sniffed around from her place stuck to Harry's side. It was atypical behavior, to say the least. She was tall, and she reached Harry's hip easily at the shoulder. Her pointy ears were pinned back.

Harry must have sensed his hesitation as he guided them to the kitchen. He spoke unprompted as he guided them into the kitchen.

"She was rescued a month ago, from a breeding kennel." He sat the casserole on the counter and opened the lid to reveal a thick red sauce sitting on top of pasta, vegetables and meat alike scattered in between. It smelled heavenly, and it made his mouth water. When was the last time he'd had time to cook himself a proper meal? "She doesn't know how to behave like a dog, really. For the first few weeks she didn't know how to walk property either." A sad smile stretched on his face and his hand unconsciously reached for the dog's head. She leaned heavily on his leg and allowed herself to be pet, loving eyes looking up at Harry. "She's having a hard time with separation anxiety." Big green eyes locked on him, begging him to understand.

Tom suspected the food was a bribe, rather than a mishap, to grease him up.

"It's okay." He found himself saying, against his better judgement. The dog looked up as he spoke, assessing him with two different colored irises for a long moment. He stood close together to Harry, and as such she had no trouble leaning over and resting her weight against his own leg.

Harry startled back from where he stood, eyes wide.

Tom looked up at him, a little apprehensive at being used as a resting pole by a rather worryingly big dog.

"Oh." A laugh tore itself from his lungs and he leaned on the counter for support. "Your face! I should have taken a picture." Harry bit his lip as he leaned over to scratch Aquila behind her ear. "You are so good, sweetie." His gaze rose and met Tom's, almost conspiratorially. "She hates men." He declared, a hand on his hip.

"She clearly does not hate you." He pointed out.

"I know! But it took me days to earn her trust, I had to sit with her for hours and hours on end and I even read the entirely of the Hobbit—and you just–stood there." An amused smile settled on his face as he regained his composure.

"I am more of a cat person." He said, just to be contrite.

"Ah. That just about explains it. She has gone and fallen in love with what she cannot have. Typical." Tom rolled his eyes. Harry looked back at the food and gave Tom a suspicious look over. The facade of good Samaritan with clear intentions fell a little flat. "I hope you are not a vegetarian. I put way too much effort into this."

"Your bribe will not go unnoticed, I assure you. Now move over, I have plates right over your head." Tom moved his leg, prompting Aquila to let go and reached from around Harry to pull two plates and two glasses onto the counter, before reaching for the utensils he rarely had the energy to put to use and scooped out a good amount of the still hot pasta into the plates. "Sit on the table would you? I fear the two of you breathing down my neck will not bring dinner faster to your mouths." Harry stood still for a long moment by his side, and when Tom looked over he spied his jaw slack and mouth open.

"How did you know?"

"How did I know you had in fact meant this as an inducement or the fact you haven't eaten?"

A stretch of silence caught between them, as Harry processed the words.

"Huh, both."

"You were too nervous for someone who was just dropping off leftovers, for one. You stomach is making odd sounds, for another." At that, Harry turned impossibly pink. He hurried down the hallway towards the living room. Aquila stood by his feet for a long second before huffing and turning tail to follow her owner.

What strange new neighbours he had somehow acquired.

Harry was a lovely creature of habit, he had come to find.

Too trusting, too kind, too nervous around new people.

He seemed unused to luxuries and complained about the high prices of produce around their neighbourhood more often than not as they sat down to eat each night. (Because dinners where now mandatory, between Aquila wanting to spend time with Tom, escaping at every opportunity a door was open, and Harry still yet to have his fridge delivered, they had come to an agreement to sit down and cook each night just after Tom got home for work).

Harry, who worked at a restaurant where he was definitely overworked to the bone and didn't pay him nearly enough for him to be able to afford to live in their complex.

Harry, who wore baggy clothes three sizes too big in a style that was so clearly not his own and who flinched at loud noises, even Aquila's barks.

Harry, who smiled so softly and blushed so prettily.

Four months of their company and Tom had grown accustomed to the three rasps at his door after he arrived home.

He had grown to know the timber of Harry's sweet voice, the citrus smell of his perfume and the weight of his body as he leaned against Tom for support, whether it be after a long day of suffering through work or to hide his face in the crook of his neck during a scary film.

He had grown accustomed to Harry in ways he hadn't thought possible.

The migraine already pulsing behind his eyes at the early hours of the morning set the tone for the rest of the day.

He was not above murder as he stepped foot at work.

He wore a rage path all day through the building, and his underlyings made sure to steer clear of him all day, giving his office a wide berth.

Coming home should have been a blessing.

Except.

Except he had already taken his pills for the pain, sat down on his couch and waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

But Harry did not come.

He tried to recall the conversation from the night before, to see if there was any indicator Harry would be late, or that he would not show up at all.

He made his way to the door with long strides, decided to check if Harry was home at all.

The light coming from beneath the door was not a good indicator, as he knew Harry left multiple lamps on through the living room for Aquila (even if she didn't need it) along with several toys scattered throughout and the door to her cage door wide open.

She would come to the door if Tom knocked, he knew.

So he did.

The tippy taps of her nails against the wood alerted him of her presence. She sniffed long and hard in the space between the door and the floor, before yipping delightedly (and wasn't that wonderful? she had stopped barking first and sniffing second, and it had only taken her some four months).

But there was not a second set of steps approaching the door behind her, and Aquila remained sniffing and yipping on her own.

Tom knocked again, harder this time. He could hear the dog turning and thumping against the wood.

She did not sound distressed, or angry.

Harry was not home.

Tom sighed. He supposed he could get started on dinner on his own.

He had set the plates on the table, food still hot and covered over the oven and a glass of wine dangling from his hand.

Two hours.

He had waited two hours.

He cursed himself back to Sunday for not asking Harry for his number in all the months they had known each other and where Harry and Aquila had all but moved in.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he knew little to nothing about Harry at all.

Sure, he knew he worked in a kitchen where he was regularly verbally assaulted, from the few times he had been able to pry said information out of Harry, and that he was paid an average wage and nothing more.

He loved Aquila more than anything in the world, and Tom had come to find he did too.

But he never mentioned partners, or friends, and much less family.

His world seemed to revolve around Aquila, Tom and the restaurant.

He went out often with Aquila on long walks everyday at least twice and even took hikes around the surrounding mountains every weekend. He pampered her with toys and soft blankies and heating pads for her bed. He felt bad about leaving her in her cage everytime he left come, and as such had decorated the cage with cloths and toys and filled it to the brim with love. The rest of his apartment was suspiciously and pointedly empty.

He spent his nights more often than not in Tom's apartment, cooking or watchig Tom cook. Four months they had known each other, and not once had they missed a meal.

And at last, he worked the day shift at a restaurant downtown, far from their apartment building but not so far he had to take the public transport. He walked there everyday as soon as the sun rose and got home just after lunch rush was over. From what Tom knew and from what little he had seen of his almost empty apartment, he was taking a few classes at the local college but could not afford to take the full blunt of a year's course due to work.

So, he was a student, he worked during the day and he came to Tom at night with his little angelic companion. Nothing about his daily routine explained why he lived in the apartment next to Tom, or why he was missing right at that moment.

Another hour crawled by before he finally (fucking finally) heard the lock on the door to his left turn and open. He could hear Aquila's excited yips and turns as she greeted her owner.

Tom was by his own door and out of the apartment before he could blink. He caught up to Harry just as he was about to close his door.

When he caught a look at his face, he foced his way between the door and Harry, crowding into his space. He had the beggings of a large bruise on his cheek, and his lip had been split open and oozed blood in between breaths, dripping down his chin and neck where it had been carelessly and roughly cleaned.

He didn't look Tom in the eye as he took a step back. Aquila seemed to sense something as off, and stood between their bodies with her hackles raised.

"Harry?" He received no response, and the man only looked towards the floor and away, arms clutching at his side. Actually, he was standing a bit funny, leaning more on one side to the other. Tom narrowed his eyes. "Come on darling, I have dinner ready for you."

"I'm not hungry." Harry muttered back, turning away from him.

Something hot and angry licked at his insides, begging to be let out and to swallow whoever had decided hurting Harry had been a good idea.

He took a deep breath and let it go.

"Dinner, Harry." He insisted, his tone booking no argument. "And possibly painkillers, after. Lord knows you have no medicine in that decrepit bathroom you call your own." He approached him, mindful of Aquila who, as much as she seemed to love Tom, was loyal to Harry to a fault.

He leaned into his space, breathing the same air. If Harry minded Tom so insistent in his space he didn't protest. He leaned his forehead against the side of Harry's curls and took him in his arms gently and steered him out the door.

Aquila followed silently.

Dinner was awkward.

Harry barely touched his food and Tom was too concentrated on his face to finish his.

He did not ask questions he knew he would not receive an answer to. Instead, he let Harry stew in his silence, absentmindedly petting Aquila beneath the table.

Finally, when it was clear neither of them would eat a single bite more, he rose from his chair and set about finding his first aid kit.

When he got back, Harry was still sat by the table, long fingered hand moving the silver fork from one side of the plate to the other, green eyes looking at a point somewhere beyond the living room.

The anger simmered inside of him like a dragon.

He set the kit on the wooden surface a little too harshly, making Harry slam back to himself and startle where he sat. Aquila raised her head, curious at the noise.

Tom took their plates away to be washed later, and when he came back he found Harry sitting sideways on his chair and looking from the aid kit to the front door.

Hah. As if.

"Up." Tom instructed with a wave of his hand. Harry looked up at him, startled. "Get up Harry Potter, or so help me I will drag you up."

Harry's bottom lip stuck out, a knee jerk reaction each time Tom added his last name in conversation, like a reprimand.

He stood up on wobbly legs and tilted his head at Tom, waiting.

He was terribly obedient when he was upset.

He sighed.

He grabbed Harry carefully by one thin wrist and moved him around to the head of the table. He crowded into his space once more and lifted Harry onto the surface by his hips, prompting him to sit by the red kit he had left at the corner.

He tilted Harry's head back by his chin to get a better look at the shiner on his face. Harry stiffened beneath his hands but did not complain or pull away.

He set about cleaning the wound on his lip and looking for an ice pack for what was sure to be a big bruise on the side of his face.

After, he set a single pain killer cut into two by his side and a tall glass of water, knowing from experience Harry could not take his pills dry.

He settled himself in the space between his legs and leaned his hands on the wooden surface by his hips, a stubborn tilt to his eyebrows on place.

Harry would not escape without giving out some answers.

"Who did this to you?" He would not walk around useless questions. Straight to the point and after, straight to bed.

"No one." Harry mulled for a long second. "I fell on the restaurant st–"

"Don't bullshit me. You know better than to lie to my face." Harry snapped his mouth shut with a click. The green of his eyes seemed terribly dull. "Harry," he started, after taking a deep breath and letting it go to calm the rage begging to spill over "no one will harm you here. No one will touch a single hair on your head while you are with me, do you hear? Not a single person. Let my grave be spat on and my body turn to ash before I let anyone treat you with anything less than respect." He touched Harry's cheek, mindful of his sensitive skin as he settled a hand on the back of his curly head. "You need not lie to me, darling. Whatever it is you are hoping to hide, whoever it is that has hurt you has no power here."

Harry's lip wobbled and trembled.

Aquila whined at their feet.

Harry gasped a breath in too fast, hands reaching for the edge of the table as he leaned forward. Tom rubbed his neck with careful fingers. When he lifted his head again, tears where making their way down his face.

"It's a long story." He tried, at first. Tom leaned on his space and hummed, encouraging. "My uh, my uncle. He showed up at the restaurant today. I guess he wanted to see if his nephew was as much as a failure as he had expected." A bitter smile grazed his lips, and one of his hands lifted to hold onto Tom's wrist. He leaned a bit into his touch. "I thought him asking to meet the chef would just a brief talk down on how awful my cooking was–and that would be it. But it wasn't." He paused, closing his eyes and hiding his face against Tom's arm. "He was waiting for me by the back door when I finished my shift. He—" A hiccup left his lips, and it was enough for Tom.

He embraced Harry, holding him close and letting him sob on his shoulder. Aquila bumped her cold nose against his leg and when he looked down he found two judgmental eyes looking up at him.

A shudder went through Harry and the hiccups increased. Tom leaned a head on top of his curls and dragged a heavy hand up and down his back.

He sighed, taking a moment to give Harry a candy that had been shoved somewhere deep in his emergency kit.

"Eat." He mumbled in the space between them, having leaned back to look at him. Harry took the sweet into his mouth with no complains, tears still streaming down his face. "That's it, good boy."

He let Harry borrow himself again onto his neck, and set himself to wait out the storm.

Long minutes passed.

His weight grew more and more as Harry leaned most of his body on Tom.

He let Harry slump completely against him, tired and sleepy and hurt all in one, before he took the executive decision to move him to a more comfortable location.

He grabbed Harry by the back of his thighs, shushing him as he protested between weak sobs, and walked them to his bedroom.

He put Harry down carefully, and he was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. A few stubborn tears made their way down his face, but his breathing evened out and his body slumped in exhaustion.

He let Aquila settle at the foot of the bed, curling in tight circles and keeping watch towards the door.

The candy laced with sedatives certainly worked magic.

Then he was out the door with his hand on his phone.

Finding out exactly who Vernon Dursley was and how he was related to one Harry Potter was easy.

All he had to do was wake Abraxas and prompt him to look into Harry's files. He had been listed in the past as his next of kin–he was the husband of his only known living relative, Petunia Dursley nee Evans. His mother's sister.

Then Abraxas found his private records, and it went downhill from there.

Harry Potter, by all accounts and purposes seemed to be a troubled teen. Skipping classes, trouble concentrating, showing up with bruises and scrapes all over his body. A delinquent if anyone cared to ask.

He seemed to live in the background of everyone's mind's for eighteen years.

Then a god father seemingly popped out of the woods, rich beyond measure. And this man. This man Tom knew by name, if not by face.

Sirius Black. He had been wrongfully convicted of murder and promptly let loose once the court had been aware of his case. He was deemed unstable and too erratic to care for a child, and thus Harry had been left at the mercy of his aunt and uncle until he turned eighteen.

That's where his records all but stopped.

There was, however, a single property on his name: it listed the apartment right next to Tom's as his.

The camaras they found pointing at the alley at the back of a decrepit looking restaurant were more than enough to put a bounty on the man.

Tom made sure all traces of it were gone.

Tom would have to get the real story out of Harry sometime.

Someother time, that is.

For now, he had what he needed.

He gave Abraxas the green light.

Come morning, Vernon Dursley would be nothing but a bad memory on a child's nightmares.

He went back to Harry and settled himself on the uncomfortable armchair he had been meaning to throw out but kept forgetting to. Laying next to Harry as he was felt wrong, even by his standards, and leaving him alone (even if Aquila snoozed by his feet) felt even worse.

So he laid his feet in the bed by Aquila's tail and rested back against the armchair.

He fell asleep with the sound of two synchronized breaths.

Harry, strangely enough, woke first.

He was groggy and disoriented, and only Aquila's familiar weight by his feet let him relax enough to curl into his side. His legs bumped into something as he tried to bring them closer to his chest, and his breathing hitched on his throat.

He lowered the heavy blanket covering his eyes and took a peak at the morning scene in front of him.

Tom Riddle sat in a position that could not be comfortable to sleep on, in a green antique armchair right by Harry. His long legs were stretched out and his feet rested up on the bed, and Aquila had taken the opportunity to lay her own head against the man's shins.

His curls fell over his eyes in a display Harry had never seen in the time he had known him. He always seemed so poised. So put together.

His breathing was deep and even, and both of his big pale hands rested on his stomach.

Harry considered him from his place on the bed.

So long in fact, that when he stopped counting the curls on the man's head and lowered his gaze to his face, he found himself trapped by two intense blue eyes.

From the first moment Harry had settled eyes on his neighbour, he knew he would be trouble. After all, there was no way this handsome, rich man spent all his evenings alone entertaining a broke college student and his emotional support dog.

And yet.

And yet, there he was.

He was more patient than his demeanor would betray, and he always treated Harry and Aquila gently, with care. He let his space be invaded again and again each night, he let Harry make a home in his kitchen and a mess of his furniture, between his clumsiness and Aquila's white hairs just about on every surface of the place.

He was such an intense person, dry and a little abrasive at times, but he always smiled at Harry like there was a secret in the space between them, just theirs.

There was a reason Aquila had taken an instant like to him.

(Harry had too, even if his intentions at first had been to bribe the man into compliance, to not tell on Harry for having a troublesome dog).

(Harry shouldn't have worried in the first place. About Tom. Or Aquila).

"How are you feeling, darling?" His voice was raspy, and he winced as he moved his neck from side to side. Clearly he had slept on an uncomfortable position. "Harry?"

"Hmm? Better?"

"Is that a question?" Tom leaned forward into Harry's space, caressing a warm hand through his loose curls.

"Better." Harry mumbled back, eyes closing and snuggling deeper into the mattress.

Tom hummed back, pleased.

"I'll make breakfast, yeah?" The hand settled at the back of his curls and helf firm. "Sleep some more, Harry."

Harry could do nothing but agree.

He liked Tom's apartment.

He liked it more than his own, at least.

Sirius had given him a whole place for him and him alone (and no furniture).

Harry had been too embarrassed to point it out.

So he had started small.

A mattress, a chair and a table. Utensils.

Then Aquila had come along, and he had not been able to help himself.

He had bought countless things: her cage, blankets, dog beds and cushions alike, toys and treats and clothes and so many collars to stack on one another that made her look like an old lady holding her pearls–

And then, Tom Riddle had come along. And Harry had little need to be in his empty apartment, other than spend the few hours between the time he got back from work, and when Tom arrived back at his place.

So. He liked Tom's apartment.

This, however, had been the first time he had stepped foot into his bedroom.

He knew, logically, that their apartment plans were the same. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, huge living room. A separate kitchen and a big balcony. All of it overseeing the city at their feet. And yet.

And yet, sleeping in Tom's bed, in Tom's room felt alien. New.

He looked at the apartment with new eyes now.

It somehow looked cozier.

He found traces of himself and Aquila all over. From dog toys to blankets thrown over the living room couch, to the dog bed in the corner, to colourful cushions Harry had brought from his own apartment that did not match Tom's own monochrome greys and blacks. Even the carpet on the living room had been his choice, after he had complained one too many times about the cold wood beneath his feet as they sat brushing Aquila and making a mountain of white fur by her side. Tom had snapped back that he would get a cushioned carpet just so Harry would shut up.

And he did.

In the kitchen there were even more traces of himself, things he had forgotten be had brought over from his apartment so long ago. From utensils and pans he had picked out from a magazine one day as they sat around, to silly mugs on Tom's cupboards that would not be mistaken for his.

Had they... had they been living together like this for so long? Harry had not even noticed when Tom's home became his own.

He wondered how long it could last.

Tom was standing by the stove, and by the ever growing pile right by his hip he was making pancakes.

There was an easy lean to his body, shoulders relaxed forward and he was leaning most of his weight on one leg. His hands moved in sure circles, mixing the batter and dropping it on the hot pan. His curls remained untidy, brushed back by a careless hand and in disarray.

Aquila bumped into his side and whined long and low.

Tom turned at the sound, looking over one shoulder, flat spatula on one hand. His blue eyes scanned Harry from the tip of his hair to his littlest toes. Only when he appeared sure that he was not further injured in the minutes that he was not within his sight does he turned back to the stove, turning off the heat and leaving the utensils by the plate filled with food.

He turned to Harry.

"How are you feeling, darling?"

There was a knot of worry ever growing down his throat. A worry that had not gone away since he was little and could not comprehend why no one would love him as he loved them.

"Better." Was all he could utter, leaning his body on the archway to the kitchen. Tom made a humming sound, approaching with long strides.

He took Harry's chin in his hands and tilted his head up against the light. By the wince on his face, he could tell without having the need to feel around his skin that the bruise had gotten darker.

"We should ice this." His fingers moved around the shape of the bruise, careful not to press too hard onto the skin. "How did you sleep?"

"Like the dead." Tom hummed.

"I figured. Why don't you sit down, darling? Let me finish here and we'll eat."

Tom glanced at the timer on the oven and set about finishing their meal.

Harry had a brief moment of panic where he realized he should be at work. His throat closed and he must have made some type of noise, as Tom returned to his side.

"What? What is it?" His hands settled on his body, gentle and searching for any hurt he couldn't see.

"I—work."

"Fuck work, Harry. You're hurt and you should rest."

"I can't miss a day, they'll cut my check and I can't—"

"Don't worry about it." His voice was firm an self assured.

"Tom! I can't afford—" Hands settled on his shoulders and brought his head back up. Two intense blue eyes looked down at him.

"Don't. Worry. About it." It was all but a promise, as he willed Harry to walk down the short hallway towards the living room. His hands guided Harry to a chair and he sat down heavily. "Whatever you need I can more than make up for, Harry."

"And if they fire me?"

"Then you'll be better for it." His hand grabbed his cheeks with one hand and squished. "I mean it, darling. Whatever you need I can get you." He held Harry still as he let him process the words. Finally, Harry nodded.

Had he promised to take care of him and Aquila?

Surely Tom didn't mean he would—be Harry's sugar, did he?

The thought alone made his cheeks warm.

Aquila bumped her cold nose against his side and he squeaked.

Alright then.

After breakfast, Tom insisted of driving him to a private clinic to get checked out, and no matter how much Harry protested and grumbled and actually held onto his front door with both hands for dear life, he would not take 'no' for an answer.

As it was, he found he had two cracked ribs and the split lip had possibly, definitely, certainly needed sutures. (Oh, well. Too late for that).

Tom sat by his side like a particularly dark cloud of anger and resentment, looking down at the poor doctor that addressed him with way too many honorifics to be normal. He also cradled Harry gently and helped him up the examination table.

By the time they got back home, Harry was about ready to starfish on Tom's bed and hope for the best next time he woke. Hopefully in a week's time.

The doctor had given him a list of things he couldn't do, such as: no sudden movements, no heavy height lifting, and definitely no carrying Aquila up.

Tom sat him down on the couch of his living room and went about collecting his medication. As such, he probably didn't notice the fact that the news channel had been left on the TV.

Harry watched with a growing pit in his stomach as the news played out.

Vernon Dursley had been found late that night (early in the morning) by a dried up river bed in the woods. His body had been mauled by a wild creature, the reporter sad. A tragedy, for his family and friends.

No one, it seemed, dared to point out why the ageing man had been alone at night in such a place.

The news reporter only spoke of a kind man who left behind a frail wife and a single son. No mention of Harry.

He was not breathing.

Tom Riddle came back in the room at that moment, tall glass of water on one hand a handful of small boxes on the other.

His steps halted as he took one look at the TV, eyes dispassionate and cold, the kind of look that made children run the other way and people cross the street, before they settled on Harry, and his eyes were warm and kind again.

Harry gulped in a handful of air and struggled to regain his composure.

There was a battle of emotions inside of him.

No one had ever stood up for him, ever. No one had ever looked at Harry with anything more than contempt on their eyes (except maybe Sirius, and he only ever looked sad when he wasn't wasted).

No one would ever kill for Harry, surely.

And yet he knew, deep down, Tom Riddle had everything to do with the mauling of an old man who was getting on his years right after assaulting his nephew.

There was guilt, and mortification. There was also a curl of satisfaction so strong it made Harry question his sanity.

Tom scanned his face, possibly gauging his reaction. A tiny satisfied smirk stole away at his lips, and it was about all the confirmation Harry needed.

Aquila pawed at her dish by their side, and the moment was broken.

Tom let out a long breath, like he'd been holding it in the whole time he looked at Harry, before settling the meds by the small coffee table and urging Harry to take them.

He pet Aquila softly on her head and tugged lightly and playfully on one of her ears. He promised dinner for her and dissapeared again towards the kitchen.

Aquila looked back at Harry, a goofy look to her as her tongue lolled out and she yipped. She looked content, full and a little mischievous.

He was being silly, he decided.

Tom Riddle knew the exact moment Harry caught on. He was terribly quick, the little snake.

He had watched from the corner of the hallway as Harry was stuck dumb by the news on the TV. How the thought process went about and around his head before settling in the cold facts. Tom had leaned his head on the wall, a smile he couldn't fight off right on his face.

Harry was his. Aquila too. And nothing would ever hurt them again.

Days turned into weeks, and Harry never really left.

His apartment was left empty and unused, and one fine friday afternoon while they watched movies snuggled on the couch Tom asked Harry why he hadn't rented it out in the first place, since the monthly payment would have been more than enough to get him a small apartment somewhere in the heart of the city and even leave some money to spare for him to spend on the daily.

Harry—well. He had never thought about it, and he was a little too embarrassed to admit it.

It had all happened terribly fast, after all. Sirius suddenly in his life, the new apartment, Aquila, and Tom.

Then Tom asked him if he would like to rent it out now. The matters of where Harry would stay rather obvious.

"Are you asking me to move in with you?" He couldn't help but ask, the need for confirmation strong in his gut.

"Aren't you already?" Tom answered back, a smirk playing at his lips as he tilted his head in Harry's direction.

"I wouldn't be able to pay my half of the rent and—"

"Harry." He interrupted. The look on his face was terribly indulgent, amused. "You don't need to go back to work. I make more than enough."

"Are you serious?"

"More than. You can be my trophy wife." He said, teasing just a bit if the raised eyebrows and amused eyes had anything to do with it. A slow smile crept up his face, and he leaned his body on Harry where they sat side ny side on the couch. Harry squeaked as he tried to fight him off. "You can prepare dinner for me every day and we can take Aquila on her night walks together—"

"We already do that, Tom!" He laughed as nimble fingers tickled his sides.

"—And we can go grocery shopping together like one of those disgusting couples that don't move past the produce section—" He continued on, like he didn't have Harry down at the mercy of his hands.

"We do that too!" He laughed uncontrollably, his ribs protesting the movement.

"—you already sleep in my bed, you eat my food in my living room in my apartment, you even water my plants—"

"Okay! Okay, point taken." Harry laid on his back, face caged in by two strong arms. Tom gazed down at him gently.

"Good."

The kiss planted on his forehead preceded the one left on his lips.

Tom was warm and heavy, a grounding weight that melted his anxiety away and left him gasping for air as teeth grazed the wound on his bottom lip and bit down. Pain surely shouldn't feel that good.

Tom leaned more of his weight down and one of his hands sneaked around his hips, making him arch up and away from the touch and into Tom's body.

Tom took small bites of his cheek, his jaw before descending like a vengeful god onto his neck. He bit down with intent, and no matter how much Harry protested and tried to pry him away from his skin he didn't let up until he was satisfied.

He feared he may have woken a monster.

The lips that returned to his mouth turned more gentle, languid and warm. Tom slid his tongue against Harry's and he could do nothing but hum at the feeling of the both of them, together and moving as one.

Harry had never felt so free.

There was a bag in the door to his new apartment.

The bag was pink, and it had pawprints on it.

Inside, there was a letter and a single picture of a couple and their white haired dog.

(OR) pruning shears on AO3, 7K, one shot

#soulseeker #ao3 #tomarry #fanfic #tom riddle #tomarrymort #archive of our own #tomarry fic #fic recs #hp fic recs #tom kills people #what is new #so fluffy #its on ao3

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