aubade: a poem welcoming or lamenting the arrival of dawn, usually in the voice of a departing lover.
Dreams come in disjointed fragments, each featuring a different incarnation of Riddle: Lord Voldemort collapsing in the Great Hall; a Horcrux shrieking in the throes of Fiendfyre; and finally, a thin boy sitting on a dirty windowsill, looking straight at Harry with cold eyes.
“You’re back,” he says, then adds, before Harry can register the shock of being seen, “But you will leave, just like everyone else.”
I won’t, Harry wants to protest, except room 27 is already flickering, and the grim of East London is replaced by the chill of Hogwarts dungeons. In turn, the boy transforms, limbs lengthening and eyes reddening, to trap Harry beneath his body.
“Free me,” he whispers, icy (dead dead dead) hands roaming Harry’s face. “Only you can.”
I don’t want to. Harry clutches the other man’s robes, gritty with soot. “I don’t know how.”
“You lie.”
“But you’ll be gone.”
“Free me.”
The final entreaty is spoken in Parseltongue, the sibilant syllables stirring buried memories, and Harry jerks to consciousness.
He’s disoriented by comfort. The bed is soft, the air is fragrant with the saltiness of the sea, and all is quiet save the occasional breeze from the window and the sputtering from the fireplace as each log succumbs to its fate. Most importantly, there is a body curled around him, warm and secure. Eyes still closed, Harry strokes the arm flung over his waist, fingertips ghosting over fine hairs and small goosebumps, the physical contact sending waves of desires sweeping through him.
The body shifts, the arm tightens, and he remembers.
His hand plunging through Riddle’s shoulder. Dumbledore’s admonition and Snape’s disapproval. The Room of Requirement transforming into this seaside chamber.
And everything that transpired afterwards.
Gingerly, Harry half-rises on his elbow to observe the man beside him. Riddle, he thinks, because even after physical intimacy, he can’t see the man by another name. He embodies it so completely: a riddle, an enigma.
An arm snakes around Harry’s shoulders, and Harry allows himself to be guided under the blankets.
“Did I wake you?” he whispers.
“I don’t sleep, remember?”
Illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight, Riddle looks peaceful and innocent, a perfect facsimile of someone in the bloom of life. Harry smooths back his dark curls and admires his features: the high cheekbones, the aristocratic nose, and the strong jawline, all inherited from his hated Muggle father, marred by decades of dark magic, and restored to him by Death.
Riddle’s eyes darken with amusement. “I'm flattered that you find me aesthetically pleasing.”
Harry snorts but doesn’t argue. Riddle’s hand trails down his back and rubs circles against the bare skin. Harry’s breath hitches. Everything feels so bloody domestic that he can almost pretend they are two lovers on a holiday to the seaside, basking in the afterglow of lovemaking.
Just as sleep threatens to overtake him once more, Riddle speaks. “It’s almost time, isn’t it? That’s what Dumbledore told you.”
Harry tenses, giving the answer away without having the chance to lie.
YOU ARE READING
(Never) Let Me Go
FanfictionWhen Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts for eighth year, he meets a new classmate: Tom Riddle. For better or for worse, he's the only one who does. this story is not mine. It belongs to Ailora, from ACHIEVE OF OUR OWN. this book is the first part of h...
