Tomarry One Shots

feel the heat of you in my bones

Summary: When they were children Tom promised Harry he would never become Voldemort. He lied.

Ship: HarryPotterxTomRiddle/Voldemort

All credit goes to Lion_guy17 on Ao3

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It is a dark and dangerous thing, he thinks, to be in love with a man so cruel even the devil has forsaken him.

"Harry, darling, pass me the lighter, won't you?"

And so he takes the little golden box— he doesn't know why they both still do it the Muggle way— and watches Tom flick it open. Sparks. A little flame that could burn him alive. Maybe he wants it to. Immolation on this dark night for the man that is greater than human who lies beside him, ash drifting onto his bare chest.

Harry takes a drag. It doesn't do much for him anymore, does nothing but make his hands stink, but Tom doesn't lie to him when they are smoking.

He doesn't know when that became something so rare.

He crushes the half-burned cigarette on his wrist. It doesn't hurt, not really, he thinks as he watches his skin bubble with the heat.

"Episkey. Darling, why would you do such a barbaric thing to yourself? We have things for that, you know."

Harry watches Tom's fingers spin around the pale holly of his wand. Not Tom's, his. In his other hand the cheap Muggle cigarette burns, lighter abandoned on the pillow beneath him.

When did it become natural? For Tom to grab his wand instead of his own? Have they always been so similar?

"Tom."

It's a whisper. Barely perceptible even to himself.

"Tom," he tries again, louder.

"Yes, darling?"

"Will you fuck me tonight?"

Instead of answering, the man beside him stubs out the remains of his cigarette and tosses aside Harry's wand.

And it is something slow, and smooth, and gentle, something Harry never could have thought Tom capable of, before.

He remembers the rough ecstasy of their first time, when Tom was a seventh year and Harry was a sixth. He remembers the crying and begging of their last before the war when Tom had whispered, oh so sweet, that he would destroy the world to find Harry if he left.

He remembers once, in the Room of Requirement, in the middle of the war, when Tom had told him ever so softly that he would give it all up if it meant Harry would touch him one more time.

Harry, naively, had believed him.

Afterward, they lie together, warm and content in the green silk sheets of Tom's bed. Because it is not Harry's, no matter that Harry had slept more nights here than Tom ever will, it is not Harry's.

It is moments like these that Harry feels like an unwelcome guest in his own body, in his own life.

Not for the first time, he wonders what became of Ron and Hermione.

He could find out. Ask Tom.

He's not sure if he wants to.

The gorgeous man beside him runs a finger over his chest.

"Look at the world we've made. Isn't it everything you've ever wanted?"

Harry's tongue feels like lead when he answers.

"Yes, Tom, my love, yes."