Property

Harry was sleeping, which suited Tom well enough. His wrists were bound, as a precaution against any further escape attempts, though only lightly. Tom saw no reason to be cruel with the boy quite yet. He'd placed the boy in his own bed in his rented rooms; covered him in blankets, bound him carefully. The snow was falling more heavily now, and the roads would soon be blocked. This did not bother Tom. He had other ways of escaping this town, small and god-forsaken as it was.

For now he was content to watch the boy sleep.

Harry was not a pretty child. He was not even much of a child anymore. His limbs were long and angular with an adult's harsh maturity, his skin tanned from too much sun. But his mouth was soft. He had wavy hair, wild, and the eyes that were intensely, brilliantly green. Tom had always been fascinated by strange things, things he should have not wanted. And this boy, this child was everything that should have been forbidden to him. That was enough reason to want him: want him sickly, wrongly, unnaturally.

But I won't touch you, he thought. Not like that. Not yet. I have other plans, Harry Potter.

It was hard to find children like this one, these days. Gifted children. Monstrous, according to the untalented, blind, mortal masses. Children like him - witches, wizards, Tom's own kind - kept to themselves. Far, far away from mortals. They were not slaves. In fact, it was surprising that Harry had survived so long among mortals - had not been burned and murdered in one of the other myriad of other ways he could have been. If Tom had guessed correctly (and he was rarely wrong), the boy was unusual even for a wizard. Special in a way that had kept him alive.

Tom had use for that. But only time would tell if Harry was really what was necessary to help Tom achieve his goals. He would just have to have patience with the boy. Harry, still sleeping, made a small sound and shifted beneath the covers. He did not look like something special right now. Just a ragged, tired human.

The older man sat down by the bed, and rested one booted foot against the edge. His sharply handsome face was taut and thoughtful. In the bed Harry continued to sleep, oblivious to the wizard by side, or the creeping hand of his magic filtering into Harry's dreams.

When Harry finally woke up many hours had passed, and it was night.

"So you're awake," said Riddle. "You've been asleep for a long time. Sampson hasn't been taking proper care of you."

"Sampson?" said Harry. After a moments hesitation he asked, "My owner?"

"Old owner. I'm your owner now."

"No," said Harry. "No, no."

Tom Riddle laughed. It was a very quiet laugh, warm and mellow and gentle. He did not seem to Harry's anger at all seriously, even though Harry was very angry and very, very afraid. He tried to scramble off the bed and found that his hands were bound to one of the posts. He bit down on his lip and tried to tug harder. Riddle stilled him with the softest touch of his fingertips to Harry's wrist. More of a warning than anything else. But Harry saw the look in his eyes, and understood that it was time to stop.

"So you'd rather have an abuse drunk for an owner than me?" Tom said, and laughed again. "I should be insulted. I could be very good to you, Harry. I'm careful with my property."

Harry responded to that with silence. He did not want to go back to his old owner, but even that would have been preferable to being with Mr Riddle. There was something frightening about the older man. He was kinder, clearly. But Harry couldn't help but sense a darkness in him, hidden by the warm smiles and the charming face.

"Why don't you tell me the truth?" Tom's voice was even. He lifted his hand away. "I know more about you than you think. So go on; there's no reason to lie."

"I wouldn't rather go back to him. I just... don't want to be a slave at all."

"Ah," Riddle said, and leaned back in his seat. He brushed his dark, tousled hair away from his face. "Freedom isn't all you think it is," he murmured. "I've seen boys like you destroyed by," here he waved his hand airily at the window, "people like them. They hate our kind, Harry. But I could protect you, if you chose to be obedient. Will you trust me?"

"I don't trust anyone," Harry said, recoiling. He wished, desperately, to not be tied up. Not to be vulnerable in front of this man, not like this. "I won't... I can't trust you, and I can protect myself."

"Just like you've always done, correct?"

"Yes."

"Fine," said Riddle, narrowing his eyes. "I'll let you go. But where will you go? You've got no money, no food. No clothes for the weather. Maybe someone else will take you and make you a slave again." His dark eyes ran lazily over Harry's form, in a way that made the boy squirm. "And a nice boy like you... Who knows what they'll do to you?"

"Just what you'll do to me," he said shakily, and hated how weak he sounded. "I heard what you said. You want - "

"I know what I want," interrupted Riddle. "And I know what I'll do to you, too. But the question is: will you obey me, Harry?"

Harry was silent for a long time.

"It doesn't look like I have a choice," he said.