The drive back was quiet, Sirius dozing off against Harry's side, his small hands clutching the edge of Harry's coat. Tom watched them from across the car, his sharp grey eyes betraying nothing.
For Harry, the day had been a whirlwind of emotions—joy, exhaustion, and a lingering unease he couldn't quite shake. But as he glanced down at Sirius's peaceful face, he knew one thing for certain: whatever doubts he had about working for Tom Riddle, he didn't regret being there for Sirius.
As they pulled into the driveway, Harry shifted slightly, glancing down at Sirius with a faint smile.
"I'll carry him," Harry offered quietly, already maneuvering to lift the boy into his arms.
Tom, seated across from them, nodded once. "Be careful."
Harry didn't need to be told. He cradled Sirius gently, his arms steady as he stepped out of the car. The boy stirred slightly but didn't wake, his head resting against Harry's shoulder. The warmth of Sirius's trust tugged at something deep within Harry, and his smile softened as he looked at the sleeping child.
As he walked toward the mansion, Harry turned his head, intending to say something to Tom about the day. But when he glanced back, he caught an expression on Tom's face that made him freeze mid-step.
Tom Riddle was looking at him—not with his usual calculating sharpness, but with something softer. Something almost... human.
Harry blinked, startled. By the time his mind registered what he'd seen, the expression was gone, replaced by Tom's usual impassive mask.
"Something on your mind, Mr. Potter?" Tom asked coolly, stepping past him toward the entrance.
Harry shook his head quickly, brushing the moment off as a trick of the light. "No, just... tired, I guess."
Tom said nothing, but the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he held the door open for Harry.
Once inside, Harry carried Sirius up to his room, helping him change into his pajamas as he grumbled sleepily before carefully tucking the boy into bed. He adjusted the blankets and brushed a stray curl from Sirius's forehead before stepping back, his gaze lingering for a moment.
When he turned, he found Tom standing in the doorway, watching silently.
"Goodnight, Sirius," Harry whispered, though the boy was already sound asleep.
Tom inclined his head and gestured for Harry to follow him. They walked in silence through the grand hallways until they reached Tom's office, where he motioned for Harry to sit.
"How do you think the day went?" Tom asked as he poured himself a drink, his tone measured.
Harry leaned back in the chair, exhaling slowly. "It went well, I guess. The kids seemed happy, and Sirius had a good time. But…" He hesitated, his green eyes narrowing slightly. "It all felt... orchestrated. Like every moment was planned out."
Tom smirked faintly as he took a sip from his glass. "And you find that surprising?"
"Not really," Harry admitted, his voice tinged with wry amusement. "You're lucky Sirius is young enough not to notice. He just saw the fun in it all."
Tom's expression softened just a fraction, though his gaze remained sharp. "That was the intention. Children shouldn't have to shoulder the weight of adult concerns."
Harry nodded, though he couldn't quite shake the unease that lingered in his chest.
The conversation drifted into lighter topics—small details about the day, Sirius's laughter, the potted plant he'd insisted on bringing home. Harry found himself relaxing despite the company, the fatigue of the long day catching up to him.
When Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand, Tom arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should finally put that bedroom of yours to use."
Harry shook his head quickly. "I'm fine. I'll head back to the orphanage after—"
Another yawn interrupted him, cutting off his protest midway. Tom's lips twitched with faint amusement. "Clearly, you're not fine. Stay here tonight, Mr. Potter. That's an order."
Before Harry could respond, a knock at the door drew their attention. Tom's sharp gaze flicked toward the sound.
"Stay here," he instructed, rising gracefully from his chair. He crossed the room and opened the door just enough to speak with whoever was on the other side.
Harry caught a glimpse of Barty Crouch, his voice low and hurried as he spoke to Tom. Whatever the conversation was about, it seemed important, but Tom's calm tone never wavered.
Harry leaned back in the chair, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing moment. The rhythmic cadence of Tom's voice—smooth and measured—lulled him into a drowsy haze.
It was between one blink and the next that sleep claimed him, the world fading into quiet darkness.
.
When Tom turned back to the room, his words trailed off as he noticed Harry slumped in the chair, his head resting against the cushioned back, his breathing slow and even.
For a moment, Tom stood there, his sharp grey eyes studying the scene with an inscrutable expression. Then, with a faint sigh, he retrieved a blanket from the nearby sofa and draped it over Harry's sleeping form.
"Foolish," he muttered under his breath, though his tone held no real bite.
He shook his head, deciding against remaining there in this peaceful office. He decided to go to his bed. However, the morning came with a restless haze for Tom Riddle. Sleep had evaded him for most of the night, his thoughts tangled in a web of irritation and curiosity, all centered around one singular figure currently occupying his office couch. It was rare for his carefully controlled demeanor to falter, rarer still for a single person to command so much of his attention. And yet, Harry Potter—or Hadrian Peters, though he no longer looked like him—had an unsettling way of disrupting his meticulously ordered life.
Tom had risen earlier than usual, the faint gray light of dawn filtering through the heavy curtains of his bedroom. After a quick wash and a cursory glance at his schedule for the day, he found himself walking toward his office—not because he needed to see Harry, of course, but because there was work to be done. Important matters to attend to.
The door creaked faintly as he pushed it open, and his sharp grey eyes immediately landed on the sleeping figure curled up on the couch. Harry's head rested against the cushion, his features relaxed in a way Tom hadn't seen before. The blanket Tom had draped over him last night had slipped slightly, revealing the curve of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble.
Tom's gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he tore it away, forcing himself to focus on the stack of papers waiting on his desk. He sat down and began to sift through them, his mind only half-engaged with the contracts and reports. Every so often, his eyes flickered toward the couch, drawn against his will to the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest.
An hour passed, though Tom barely noticed. His focus had frayed completely, and the sharp efficiency that usually defined his work had given way to a quiet restlessness. With a sigh of frustration, he stood and crossed the room to the couch.
It was time for Harry to wake up.
Tom reached out, his fingers hovering above Harry's shoulder. But then he hesitated, his hand pausing midair. Something about the sight of him—so unguarded, so vulnerable—stilled his movements. The thought of shaking him awake felt almost... harsh.
Before he could stop himself, Tom's hand shifted, his fingers brushing against Harry's hair instead. It was softer than he'd expected, the strands slipping easily through his fingers.
Harry sighed softly in his sleep, a sound that sent an unanticipated jolt through Tom's chest. And then, as if to further unravel him, Harry shifted, nuzzling slightly into Tom's hand.
For a moment, Tom froze. The warmth of Harry's breath against his skin, the quiet intimacy of the gesture—it was disarming in a way he couldn't quite explain. He should pull back. He would pull back. Any second now.
But he didn't.
Instead, he found himself caught in the moment, an uncharacteristic wave of emotion washing over him. The thought flickered through his mind unbidden: he wanted more of this. More moments like this one, where the world felt still, and Harry was here, and Sirius was safe.
It was a dangerous thought. One he couldn't afford to entertain.
And yet...
Harry stirred, his brows furrowing slightly as he began to wake. His eyes fluttered open, and for a brief, drowsy moment, he didn't seem to register where he was—or whose hand was still tangled in his hair.
Then realization dawned, and Harry bolted upright, his face flushing a deep red as he pulled the blanket closer around him. "I—uh—what...?"
Tom straightened, his composure snapping back into place like armor. "Good morning, Mr. Potter," he said smoothly, his voice as calm as ever. "It's time to start the day."
Harry blinked, clearly still disoriented. "Right. Yeah. Morning." He rubbed at his eyes, his movements hurried and self-conscious. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... fall asleep here."
Tom waved a hand dismissively. "You were exhausted. It's understandable." His tone was clipped, betraying none of the turmoil still simmering beneath the surface.
Harry glanced at him, his green eyes sharp with curiosity. "Did you...?"
Tom cut him off before he could finish the question. "Colin will bring you breakfast shortly," he said briskly, turning toward the desk. "You'll need your strength for the day ahead."
Harry frowned, clearly puzzled by Tom's abruptness, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he stood and stretched, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he straightened his shirt.
Tom's gaze flicked to him briefly, then away. "You should prepare yourself, Mr. Potter. There's much to do."
"Yes, sir," Harry said, his voice tinged with mild amusement. He paused for a moment before adding, "Thank you. For last night, I mean."
Tom inclined his head but said nothing, keeping his attention firmly on the papers before him. It wasn't until Harry had left the room that he allowed himself to exhale, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly.
He would not let this happen again. He couldn't afford to.
Harry Potter was a mystery—a fascinating, infuriating one—but he was also a distraction. And distractions had no place in Tom Riddle's world.
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