Property

The boy managed to find the study in the end. But of course, the house liked him. Tom supposed it had guided Harry some of the way: twisting its corridors into a new shape, tugging the boy along with its voices. Here, in here.

Harry stood in the doorway longer than necessary, as if frozen. The light caught at him, lengthening the shadows at the arch of his neck and the sharp hollows of his cheekbones. There was something truly beautiful about the boy's bones, or so Tom thought - and he knew about bones better than most.

"Come in, Harry." Tom leaned back in his chair, languorous. "Take a seat."

Harry obeyed, nervously perching himself on the edge of one armchair. The robe he wore was a little too big, but suited him far better than his old rags. Still, he was ill at ease in it. Every now and again he'd shift uncomfortably, tugging at a sleeve or hunching himself forward. In time he'd grow used to his new clothes, but for now Tom settled on enjoying Harry's discomfort.

"You're going to talk to me, Harry." Tom told him. "And then later perhaps I'll let you explore the house. You'd like that, I'm sure."

Harry stared at him. He did not seem to know what to do. His cheeks were still flushed from the steam of the bath, his hair wet and smooth. "I don't what you want me to say, sir."

"Tell me how you came to live with your aunt and uncle," Tom prompted. He kept his voice soft. "Did your parents abandon you?"

"They died," said Harry. He looked away. "I don't know any more than that, sir."

"Of course not." A pause. "And your aunt and uncle?"

"Them? They're alive. You know already sir, they sold me." Harry shifted in his seat again, clasping his hands together and clenching them tight. "My aunt kept me as long as she could, they thought they could change me. But I..." Here he swallowed hard. "I couldn't make myself right."

"But you survived."

"I was lucky," said Harry, almost too quickly. His hands clenched tighter. "I was lucky. I was always afraid of... but it doesn't matter. I was lucky."

"Stand up and come here," Tom murmured. Harry rose. The closer they were, the more tense the boy became. Tom could see it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his nails dug grooves into his palms. "Do you hate them?" he asked.

"It doesn't matter, sir." Harry whispered.

"Ah, but it matters to me," Tom said, equally quietly. "Tell me the truth, Harry."

"I don't hate them. But... but I wish I did."

Harry looked away from him. They were to near for eye-contact to be anything but uncomfortable. Tom waited, letting the pressure build and the flush grow darker on the boy's skin. Then he reached out and pressed his fingers, very gently, to the collar at the boy's throat. Harry restrained himself from flinching. "Good," said Tom. "Good boy."

"Please." Harry's voice was a mere thread now, shaky. "I know - I know what you want, you told me you want my..." A shuddering breath. "But please."

"Do you think begging will do you any good?" Tom asked. He phrased the question pleasantly. He could see the boy's confusion and his fear. It made his blood rush, his skin tingle with pleasure. This - more than touching the boy, more than taking him - was a thrill like no other. The thrill of the chase; of watching the fear grow until it became impossible to control. But he didn't express it, knew better than the reveal his own desires too soon. His fingers stayed still, and cool. "What do you think I want, Harry?"

"Why the questions, sir?" The boy's voice rose, trembling. But he was defiant too: he met Tom's gaze again, his face paling with sudden anger. "If you want... I can't stop you, sir. I can't, I can't do anything. I know there isn't much other use for a boy like me, you're stronger than me," he said, the words rushing out of him now. "Your magic is stronger than mine too, and I can't fight you, and I want to. I need you to know that sir. I don't want this but - but what else am I good for?"

Tom curved his fingers around the boy's neck, feeling the pulse beat, the trembling in his bones. Harry made a small sound as Tom leaned forward, as if startled, but the hand at his neck stopped him moving away. Tom pressed his mouth to the boy's cheek. The touch was light, barely a grazing of his dry mouth against the boy's warm skin. "We'll see, Harry," he whispered. "We'll see."

The boy finally began to struggle, and Tom released him.

"Go," he said. So the boy ran.

We'll see, Harry.

It was as if the words were imprinted on his brain. And there was nowhere to run to. He'd run down the large staircase, through halls he'd never seen before, and now he was just lost. But still trapped - still trapped in the middle of what felt like a horrible nightmare. We'll see, Harry. What did that even mean?

He shouldn't have told all those things to Mr Riddle, but he hadn't been able to help himself. No one had ever wanted to know how he felt before. Throughout his whole life he'd been forgotten, ignored, feared. Never spoken to in the way Mr Riddle spoke to him. He knew his owner was a dangerous man - Harry wasn't an idiot - but there was something entirely addictive about being noticed. About Mr Riddle wanting to understand him. I can't let him understand me, Harry thought. It already felt disturbingly like the older man could see into his soul.

Harry stopped running, eventually. He sat down on the ground, his back against a large window. The curtains curled around him. With an exhausted sigh he closed his eyes, drawing his legs up and clutching them with his arms like a child.

"I told him I'm worthless," he said to himself. He felt like crying (stupid, oh God he was so stupid). "I told him I didn't deserve any better..." And the worst part of all was that some part of him really believed he deserved no better. And an even more terrible part of him had wanted to be touched. He'd lied to Mr Riddle about that, and he thought his owner knew it too: that Harry craved for affection, any kind of it, any little proof that he mattered to someone. For longer than a second, longer than he should have, Harry hadn't wanted the man to let him go.

"I hate you," he said, restraining his tears. "I hate you so much."

And when he spoke, he wasn't thinking of Mr Riddle at all.