Author's Note: Though this is a oneshot, I will have a prequel. Which is why it is listed as "In Progress". Please R&R! I appreciate the comments greatly.
Was it a dream? Or an alternate universe? Was it a reminiscence of the past? Or was it reality, that he had somehow found his way into his life again, leading him on a rollercoaster of hidden, frustrating and pent up emotions that he couldn't seem to rid himself of no matter how hard he tried?
It was always the same set of events. Lie to his friends about how tired he was and go to his room early, so he could get prepared for the night's encounter. Lie in bed after he was dressed and groomed, and wait until his roommates' snoring filled the room, signaling that they were fast asleep. Then, creep out of the Gryffindor dormitory and head towards the Room of Requirement, the only place where they ever met, the only place where they could ever meet again.
He couldn't remember when his feelings of hatred and disgust had given way to a strong, hot desire, one that filled him until he could barely move anymore, simply swoon over thoughts of him. Was it since the first kiss? Or maybe it was the way that he had approached Harry, his lips brushing against his ear, and his cold whispers sending shivers down the boy's spine. Could it have been the way his nails had dug into Harry's shoulders, or how his hands had clutched him, pinning him against the wall so it bruised?
"I won't hurt you," the boy's eyes had glinted mischievously, "unless you want me to."
But he had wanted it. He had wanted everything that the other boy had been willing to give to him.
He walked three times in front of the door, not even bothering to clear his mind since his thoughts would bring up the room that he was searching for nonetheless, and then he pushed his way into the dark room, only lit by candles with a red flame that he was sure his lover had conjured. Closing the door behind him, he walked into the center of the room, looking around for the person he knew was there.
"You're late," came a slithering voice in his ear, the closeness of his body heat already making the hair on the nape of Harry's neck stand up.
He turned around, facing Tom's cool stare. "Sorry. Filch."
The other boy came closer, speaking his words in their private language of parseltongue. "I wanted you."
The cold fingers that grabbed his chin made Harry's breath freeze in his chest, coming with more effort and deliberation. A finger stroked along his jaw line, another hand underneath his shirt, caressing his stomach in a way that made his knees weak with longing. Then those lips were on his, pulling him into a hard kiss, full of desire and impatience, which Harry returned in full. Their mouths opened, tongue touching for a brief moment before Tom pulled Harry's tongue between his teeth and bit it, making the other boy's heart beat faster and a slight groan escape him, full of both pain and need.
Tom pulled back, his lips curving in a cold smile for a slight second before rubbing his now bloody tongue over his teeth. "You taste just as delicious as you look."
Harry blushed involuntarily; the way Tom had said it implying that he knew exactly how much of an effort he put into getting ready for one of their Room of Requirement encounters. A hand pushed its way through the Gryffindor's hair, and he closed his eyes to hide the weak and pleading look that had filled them. He hated how easily Tom could manipulate him, causing him to groan with pleasure even when he wasn't willing to. It made him angry whenever he thought about it, and about how pathetic he was around his lover. But he could never resist; the temptation was too great.
His shirt came off, and he felt it drop to the floor, not even sure when the buttons had been undone. He sat on the edge of the bed, using the other boy's Slytherin robes to drag him towards him. The black garment slid off easily, revealing clothes that fit the handsome boy's figure perfectly beneath it. Harry put his arms around Tom's neck and pulled him closer, gasping as teeth broke the surface of skin on his own neck.
Harry froze. Then he looked around for the source of the white light. Tom grabbed his head and roughly forced him to look his way, his eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Did you just see a flash?" Harry asked, glancing around once more for the source of the light, but finding it hard as his head was still in the other boy's grip.
"I saw nothing."
"But there was something! I saw it."
"You are imagining things."
Hands were on his spine now, trailing their way up slowly, causing him to want to melt into the Slytherin's arms.
He turned to look at Tom, not allowing himself to be distracted just yet, when a mouth crashed on his own, biting into his lower lip, hard fingertips pressing into his lower back. A torrent of heated emotions enveloped him, overpowering his brain, and effectively preventing him from noticing the subsequent flashes that followed.
The pictures were everywhere. Pictures of his secret shame. Pictures of what had happened. Everything was exposed for the entire world to see. And the whole world did, or at least inside of Hogwarts, but it wouldn't be long until even outside of Hogwarts they knew as well. That's how it always was.
Harry stomped his way to the Room of Requirement with no regard for avoiding the stares or insulting whispers that followed him from students as he walked by. The professors were slowly cleaning all the explicit pictures—made even worse by the fact that they were moving—from all the school's nooks and crannies. But even that wasn't enough to stop the comments. They had adopted a position of silence, glancing at Harry only if they had to, and then with a mixture of embarrassment, admonition, and disappointment. He hadn't been called to the Headmaster's office yet, but he was sure that once he was, it wouldn't be pretty. Tom's face had never been shown, and Harry had no intention of admitting who it had been. He would have to make up a believable story along the way. After all, Harry had "killed" him in his second year. Claiming that Tom Riddle was the boy who he had been sleeping with would get him a one-way ticket to St. Mungo's.
He crossed the wall that lead to the Room of Requirement twenty-one times before it finally opened. The first six times were marked by him thinking about his anger and about school, neither helping him to open the door to the room that he was looking for. Upon opening it, he crossed to the center of the room, it lighting itself up as he went, and he looked around.
"Come out! I know you're here!"
He frowned and started to pace in several random directions at once. After several minutes of doing this, trying to think and hold in all of the emotions that seemed to be overcoming him, Harry burst. He started to yell obscenities, angry remarks about what the scandal was going to do to his life, and how he would now have to hide away from the magical world, disguised as an old cat lady for the rest of his life. He tried to bait the boy, guilt him, and reason him into coming out. Until finally, he gave up on yelling, deciding to sit down and wait.
Tom couldn't hide forever.
But apparently he could. The boy never showed up. Harry wasn't sure how long was in there, whether it was hours or days. He slept. And he paced. He yelled more. He slumped. And eventually, he gave up, deciding that maybe Tom was a figment of his imagination after all. Perhaps he was fooling himself. Or perhaps he was slowly going insane.
On his way to the door, his knee ran into the corner of a table that he was certain hadn't been there the previous times that he had been in the room.
On the desk was a white piece of parchment, with neat and legible handwriting on it, saying only three words.
Come to me.
And underneath the words was a glistening dagger.