Cold Comfort... (Is All It Takes)

A man crept down the corridor of the hotel silently. It wasn't the grungy, hovel B&B type others would have expected. Not the kind used by pimps and whores. No, this young man had expected this amount of grandeur and sophistication when he had received the owl. He knew what Tom was like.

This young man, only a year out of school, was done with life. There was no other reason he would have been here otherwise. He didn't care what happened anymore, not to him, not to the wizarding world, not to muggles. It just didn't mean anything. What was the reason for this pitiful outlook on life?

Well, what is the reason for most of the misery in the world, magical or muggle? Betrayal. Deception. Hurt.

Two days ago, (not that he knew it was two days, he hadn't kept track of time since he had left Hogwarts...two days ago) he had been faced with something his could never have imagined, not in his worst nightmares.

The dead body of his best friend, and brother in all but blood, Ron Weasley.

That in itself, he had seen many times before, in his nightmares. The harsh reality had hit him harder than anyone could have thought, which is why they waited until the next day to tell him the worst.

Ron had the Dark Mark burnt onto his arm.

He'd left in shock. He had nothing left. Hermione dead, Ron dead and a betrayer, Dumbledore he no longer trusted--hadn't done for three years--and no family to speak of save the Dursleys, who he hadn't seen since he had moved out a year ago into a flat in London with Hermione and Ron.

Ron.

He hadn't believed it. No-one had at first, least of all the family, and that included Harry. But there it was, the Dark Mark, clear as day. Certain as the truth. Final as death.

He stopped outside room 772. Checking around to make sure no-one was watching, he pulled his Invisibility Cloak out from under his robes and pulled it around him. With one last look around he Apparated inside the room.

As soon as the tiny pop announced his presence inside the room, several pairs of eyes had turned towards the door. A few wands had been pulled out and brandished, but there was nothing there for them to see. He waved his hand around Lucius Malfoy's face just for the hell of it, resisting the urge to smash his face in, before settling himself in a chair in the corner of the room, watching as the crowd of Death Eaters still watched the empty space by the door warily. All except Tom. Yes, Lord Voldemort himself, sat at the head of the table with little less than amusement playing on his features as he observed the reactions of his followers, knowing full well what had just occurred.

"There is no-one there," he intoned sharply. "Sit down, I don't have time to waste on your paranoia." They all sat down again silently.

"As I was saying, Hogwarts will be vulnerable on these nights, and it is then that we shall..."

Harry zoned out. He wasn't interested, in truth. The only reason he'd shown up an hour earlier than Tom had told him to, was to see if it caused any particular reaction in Tom himself. He couldn't give a rat's arse what Malfoy or any other of the leeches in the room did, period. But he was interested in Tom. Exceedingly interested.

The Death Eaters all left after about an hour, leaving him and Tom alone in the room. Of course, to an onlooker, it would have just been Tom. But Harry was there, oh yes. In fact, at that moment, the infamous Boy-Who-Lived was staring absently at the bed at the side of the hotel bedroom, wondering despite himself if it was soft and bouncy. He jolted slightly as he realized what he had been doing.

"Are you going to stay under that cloak all night, Harry?" Tom asked the table quietly, having no idea where to look. Harry got up from the chair and walked around to the table, where he swiftly doffed the cloak and swept it over a chair. He promptly sat down on it. Tom surveyed him curiously as he looked around the room.

"Have you eaten?" Harry turned to him, giving him a withering look. Tom looked disappointed.

"Honestly Harry, you think I'd poison you? That's so incredibly..." he gestured for a suitable word, summoning a platter of something suspiciously green and smelly as he did so.

"So incredibly like a sick, murderous, super-villain?" Harry suggested frankly, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room. He frowned momentarily at the green stuff on the plate.

"I was going to say dull, but have it your way," Tom replied, not missing a beat. He summoned a fork, and scooped some of the green stuff into his mouth, and crunched it slowly.

Harry shot him an enquiring look.

"Fried seaweed." He said, not looking at him as he helped himself to another forkful. However, he summoned another fork and placed it near Harry's elbow. As he had expected, Harry didn't take it. Not yet.

"So, Harry, enlighten me. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Harry sat stunned for a moment.

"Don't play games," he managed finally.

"Excuse me?" Tom asked, twirling his seaweed around his fork.

"I said--wait." He rummaged around in the pocket of his robes, searching for the letter he had received earlier that day. His hand met with ash. The letter had destroyed itself. He slammed a fist down on the table, now far more unsure of what to do than he had been all evening.

Tom watched all this with curiosity. When Harry slammed an ash stained hand down on the shiny mahogany, he nodded in understanding and scooped anther forkful up to his mouth.

"Ah," he said once he had swallowed. He watched as Harry struggled with his thoughts for a few seconds, then picked up a forkful of the seaweed and inspected it before having an experimental nibble.

"Not bad."

"I like it. I take it you thought it was me."

Harry's head shot up as he looked at Tom in shock, the fork slipping from his grasp, his mouth open, one thought playing through his mind: Was he looking at the bed too?

Tom allowed himself a smirk as he studied Harry's face.

"I meant the letter, not the seaweed. I take it you thought the letter was from me."

The Boy Who Lived blushed.

Not waiting for an answer, Lord Voldemort placed his fork down on the table carefully, his gaze never leaving the young man who sat before him. Slowly, he took the younger man's hand in his own and caressed it slowly. Harry didn't budge.

"You're cold," he whispered, not sensually, but accusingly. Harry stared wordlessly as Tom stood up and pulled him up with both hands. "You also look tired," he told him. He led him over to the bed.

By the time comprehension had taken hold of Harry's head again, it was too late, and he had already fallen backwards onto the bed. Which, by the way, was soft and bouncy, just in case you were wondering.

For Harry, that night was cruel. Tom took his time, never letting Harry's completion come, only torturing him with his body. The fact that Harry wasn't gay didn't enter into it; he was too grateful to Voldemort. He seemed to be the only one who could make him forget, if only for a short while, about Ron and everything else that he had lost. Tom made the night long and painful, and Harry let him, because the pain Tom inflicted dulled out the pain Ron had caused him.

Some time before dawn, Harry awoke to the faint, rhythmic sound of Tom's heartbeat. He lifted his head slowly from Tom's chest and rolled over onto the cool pillows, keeping his eyes shut. He lay there for a few seconds before he felt Tom's surprisingly warm fingers caress his hair. He lay still as Tom brushed away his fringe, and traced his scar with his fingertips.

His eyes flew open in surprise as sleep finally deserted him. He had felt nothing. No searing pain. He hadn't even had a nightmare, and he had been closer to Voldemort that night than he had been in his entire life.

Or had he? Had he been close to Tom Riddle, rather than Lord Voldemort?

His sharp green eyes met Tom's silver orbs. Harry played the thought that it was Tom, and only Tom, and kept hold of that thought as the older wizard began to speak.

"It is surreal to think you were little more than a year old when I gave you this." He traced the scar again, gently, almost lovingly. Harry had to agree that it was a little unreal. It was also unreal that he was in bed with this man, but he let that one slide. It was too early in the morning to start using logic.

The similarities between him and Voldemort were astonishing, when thought about. Both orphaned at an early age. Both unloved by those they grew up with. Both choosing Hogwarts as their true home. Both with the strength and determination, and, Harry suspected, courage. They even looked alike; thin, black hair, tall...

...but as Harry's flashing green emeralds stared into Tom's silver-grey diamonds, they both knew the rift between them was beyond repair. After all the fighting, all the loss and hardship, how could they ever be...at peace?

Harry dressed more quickly than Tom, finding that with the rising sun his sense of right and wrong was coming back full force. It was telling him to get the hell out of the hotel.

Once he was dressed, he took a few seconds to peer at the mirror; it gave him a view of Tom without him having to turn and face him. He had pulled on a pair of black, tailored trousers, and hadn't bothered to button the white, short-sleeved shirt he wore. The shirt was what caught Harry's attention for those last few minutes. It quite simply wasn't what he had been expecting of the self-proclaimed Greatest Wizard of this or any other age.

So distracted was he that it took him by surprise when Tom came up behind him and rested his hands on his shoulders. His head rested in the crook of his neck. The feel of Tom's breath on his cheek was hot. His hands were cold. But Harry didn't pull away.

Instead, he turned, allowing Tom to envelope him in his arms for a short, small, formal goodbye kiss. Without Harry realising it, it became more passionate, and he found himself becoming more demanding. Tom's lips parted for him, allowing him to delve inside his mouth. He only stopped when he heard Tom moan into their kiss. That simple sound jerked him completely out of his lust, although he didn't quite understand why.

They exchanged one last look, one last touch, and then the Boy Who Lived turned to leave.

"Harry?"

"Tom?"

"Tell the Ministry to examine the body more closely. The Dark Mark they will find on it is a wound inflicted after he died. Your friend fought valiantly and bravely, and resisted all that the Death Eaters could tempt him with. You should be proud to have befriended Ron Weasley."

Harry blinked.

A man crept down the corridor of the hotel silently. This young man, only a year out of school, was restarting his life. There was no other reason he would have come here otherwise. He had a lot to care about now; not just him, not just the wizarding world, not just muggles, but now he cared about Lord Voldemort. The very reason for most of the misery in the magical world. Betrayal. Deception. Hurt. All his doing.

But there was truth in him. And that was worth everything. And a little cold comfort was all it had taken for Harry to see it.