Chapter Text
Potter and the cursed infant are gone for however long it takes the infuriating man to clean the child, and Tom somewhat doubts that Potter is as adept at keeping babies clean as Tom is—everyone got infant duty at the orphanage. Not even Tom’s ‘satanic nature’, as Mrs. Cole once so charmingly put it, could get him out of the dirty nappy rotation.
This means Tom has a bit of time to get himself back in order because Potter is entirely too good at getting under Tom’s skin. A skill no one, save Dumbledore, has ever possessed, and yet. This thirty-year-old child is going to ruin Tom’s perfect career with his impulses and morals, of all things!
The first course of action is calming down and getting his mental shields back to perfection. Then Tom will finish writing to Lucius—none of those articles can ever see the light of day, and Tom doesn’t care how many bribes it takes. The Malfoy coffers are certainly deep enough.
Then he will inform Potter that he is relieved of duty for the next seven days—without pay, naturally—and they will go to Tom’s house, where Tom will proceed to ignore the pain-in-the-ass Head Auror until Dumbledore hauls his ass back from what probably is a disgusting romantic getaway and takes the baby away.
After that, Tom will have to fire Potter, plain and simple.
Yes, that is a spell-proof plan. He hasn’t spent the last five decades building his career and gathering influence only to be undermined by a baby.
Tom fixes his hair and tries to listen for any noise coming from the bathroom, calculating how much time he has.
However, it seems Mother Magic really has it out for him, because as soon as he takes up the quill to finish the letter to Malfoy, the door to his office—warded and silenced, damn it!—flies off its hinges.
And of course, because Potter and his morals aren’t enough, a very distressed-looking Sirius Black barges in, unceremoniously stepping on Tom’s lovely door with his dirty boots.
“You’ve got nerve, you dirty old cradle robber!” Black spits at Tom, drawing his wand.
Yes, of course. Why ever not, Tom thinks, gritting his teeth so hard the sound hurts his ears.
“Step away, Black. I warded this office myself. One single hex and you’re as good as dead,” he informs Black, fixing his now dusty door back into place with a wave of his wand.
“Did you Imperius him, you pervert? What did you do to my godson?”
“Sirius?”
Potter stands in the en suite doorway with the baby in his arms, looking very confused and very wet—the whole front of his uniform is drenched.
Tom smiles at the inexperienced fool. What an amateur.
“Harry! Are you under a curse? Imperius? Be honest, pup, we can fix this!” Black is all over Potter now, poking him with his wand and casting a series of diagnostic charms.
“Get off me! The BDSM Department had a mix-up, that’s all,” Potter sighs, pushing Black away while conveniently using the baby as a shield.
Black blinks, seemingly only now noticing the baby, before breaking into a huge grin.
“Oh, and who’s this? Aren’t you precious? Oh, aren’t you the sweetest little darling?”
He proceeds to boop the child on the nose, to which she only gives him an unimpressed stare.
Clever girl, Tom will give her that.
“The mix-up,” Potter says, looking at Tom, probably searching for support but absolutely not finding it.
Black looks up at Potter and frowns.
“Harry… they don’t really do mix-ups, they're probably the single most efficient department here. Are you sure you aren’t being coerced?”
As if Tom would need to coerce anyone, let alone somebody like Potter.
“Please, Black, I actually have taste,” he drawls, attempting to return to the letter.
“Hey, Harry is a catch!”
“Sirius, shut up for Merlin’s sake!”
Sweet Salazar, Tom is actually going to get a cluster headache from these fools—he hasn’t had one in over ten years. He really will have to kill Dumbledore, even if it lands him in Azkaban.
“Both of you will be quiet! The reporters need to be stopped before it’s too late!” Tom snaps, then looks at Black. “How did you even find out?”
It hasn’t even been an hour. Oh Merlin, is it already all over the news?
Black gets a shifty look, which is really impressive because, in Tom’s opinion, the man always looks shifty. And somehow a little dusty, too.
“Parson and I were in Hogwarts at the same time. He sent me a Patronus. Don’t tell him I said that, though. He wasn’t gossiping, just wanted to congratulate me on a great-goddaughter.”
“So no one else knows?”
Sirius frowns.
“Probably not?”
That… is not reassuring.
“Get out, Black. Potter and I have to decide what to do with that,” Tom says, nodding toward the child happily sitting in Potter’s arms.
“She’s a girl, not an ‘it.’ C’mon, Riddle, don’t be a tit,” Potter frowns at him, and why does he have to look so earnest and genuinely bothered by it? And Black is nodding along and trying to pet the child like it’s a dog, probably.
“Fine. We have to figure out how to hide her for a week. Now get out.”
Potter nods at Black and says something to him in a low voice, probably that they’ll talk later or something equally useless.
He nods back, though he still looks confused, which honestly shouldn’t be surprising. In Tom’s books, he isn’t the cleverest person alive, if his voting record in the Wizengamot is anything to go by.
Black heads for the door, but stops after a beat.
“Pup, I mean it. You can tell me the truth. I won't judge.” He looks at Tom, then at the baby, then back at Potter again. “Well… I will, but only until dinner. Remus would beat it out of me by the time the scones were served, you know that.”
Potter at least has the decency to turn red at that, which pleases Tom greatly.
“Sirius! I am not having some torrid affair with Minister Riddle. Come on, I have more self-respect than that!”
The audacity!
“Excuse you, Potter, you couldn’t possibly do better.”
Tom waits for an insult, or maybe for that fetching pink on Potter’s cheeks to deepen, but Potter doesn’t miss a beat. He just says:
“No need to apologize, Minister.”
Oh, firing Potter won’t be enough. Tom will have to strangle him too.
—
Potter’s flat is… not what Tom expected.
Not only is it located in a simple Muggle neighborhood, but the house seems Muggle too—there are standard wards and some special Auror-grade spells on the perimeter, but besides that, Tom can sense absolutely no magic of any kind in the ordinary-looking building.
Also, the flat is small. Harry Potter is Black’s godson and heir, at least until the flea-ridden dog and the absolutely-not-a-werewolf of his get a wishbaby of their own, and the Potters had been a rich family, certainly rich enough that Potter could buy or rent something more decent than whatever this one-bedroom mediocrity was.
And he is Head Auror, for Salazar’s sake. He cannot be that bad at managing money.
But aside from the lackluster size and the surprising number of Quidditch memorabilia, what strikes Tom most is how clean and tidy the place is.
It’s fucking spotless, Tom thinks, and instantly frowns at the curse word.
Potter is really rubbing off on him.
Every surface in the little flat is clean: no trash or dust of any kind, no endless stacks of paperwork and cursed gear that Potter still has in his office despite being written up for it every month for three years straight, no tea stains and no army of teacups.
“Your house-elf must be breaking its back to keep your apartment this clean, Potter,” Tom notes drily and looks at the basket he is currently holding.
The girl stares back at him, and Tom can almost swear she is giving him a dirty look, which is silly, because she is a baby and babies don’t do that.
They have come here to fetch Potter’s meager belongings—Tom’s house is too heavily warded for Potter to just wander in, and he is not redoing his protection spells for the sake of seven days.
So now he has to haul the child around while Potter bangs around his bedroom, presumably just as spotless.
“Oh, I actually don’t have a house-elf, though Kreacher certainly offered,” Potter says, poking his head out of the bedroom door, then promptly returning to making too much noise for what should be ‘just getting my pajamas and a toothbrush, I swear’.
“Then I suppose your knowledge of household spells is commendable. I was not aware they were teaching housekeeping in Auror Academy.”
The snipe is a low-hanging fruit, really. He might as well tell Potter he’d make a great wife, but it has been a terribly long day and Tom wants to set something on fire so, so much.
Finally, Potter emerges from the room dressed in Muggle jeans, of all things, and carrying a Muggle backpack.
He is also wearing what Tom thinks are sneakers. Oh, Merlin.
“Can you believe I’m actually utter shit—sorry, baby girl—at those too? Molly certainly tried to teach me enough times.” Potter laughs and proceeds to shove about fifteen books into the backpack from his very organized shelf.
“I actually like cleaning, it calms me down when I’m stressed. And being Head Auror is basically ninety-nine percent stress and one percent giving stupid speeches to the press.”
Tom frowns, because surely not—
“You cannot say that you actually clean it all by hand?” Like a Muggle stays unsaid but still hangs there loud and clear.
Potter, who is currently vanishing food from his refrigerator, gives Tom a winning smile.
“That’s right. Mop and bucket, and those very fancy melamine sponges they have nowadays. Big fan of those, I am.” He laughs again and shuts the fridge with a bang.
“Right, let me water my plants and we can go, yeah?”
“Alright, Potter. Since apparently you are a regular house-elf yourself, it wouldn’t do to keep you away from your duties.”
Tom sets the basket with the child on the coffee table before sitting down on the sofa—much softer than he would have thought, the pillows well-fluffed too.
“Haha, well I certainly spent long enough in a cupboard and did enough housework, didn’t I? I guess if the shoe fits and all.” Potter huffs and wanders off somewhere again.
The child seems to be slowly dozing off, which grants them silence, at least. Tom ignores Potter and tries to focus on the bookshelf—until his words truly register.
Spent long enough... in a cupboard?
“Is this one of those ‘pop culture’ references the younger employees keep making?”
Tom really hates those, because not only are they an affront to wizarding culture, but also because if he has to hear one more intern muttering 'feels good, man' in the hallway, Tom will be forced to do something drastic.
What felt good? And why were they talking about it? And who the hell were they even talking to?
Potter freezes with a watering can in hand and looks at Tom, eyebrows drawn up. The water quickly starts to pour over the top, drowning the poor ficus.
“Seriously?”
“I am not known for joking around, am I, Potter?”
And sure, maybe his tone is entirely too rude for the situation, but Tom refuses to be bested by that weird sentient green frog the recent graduates mulling around on useless internships keep talking about.
“I thought you, of all people, would know. They had a whole spread about it in the Prophet, didn’t they?” Potter shrugs and proceeds to vanish the puddle off the floor with a wave of his hand.
“What are you talking about?”
They couldn’t possibly still be talking about the pop-culture references. Could they?..
“Come on, Riddle, are you seriously telling me my adoption mess isn’t on my personal file?”
“I do not care to know the sordid details of your personal file, Potter,” Tom snaps because he honestly could not recall, or care.
Potter was appointed Head Auror three years ago because of his exemplary work and a series of big busts on illegal artifact trading—which had put quite a wrench in Tom’s plans, but he couldn’t very well disappear Potter after the Prophet and Robards were singing his praises, damn him.
Tom could hardly deny him the position, so he had done the smart thing—given Potter the job and then tried to get him fired as soon as possible. But Harry Potter had turned out to be like a particularly resilient strain of mold.
He simply did not give up. Or let up, for that matter.
Since his appointment, the bribe budget has become astronomical.
So no, Tom did not remember anything from Potter’s file aside from the fact that he had indeed been adopted by Black.
He wonders if Potter will rage at the insult or huff in shame. After all, Tom has just told him he did not consider him important enough.
But Potter just starts laughing, like the lunatic that he is.
“Merlin, that’s a first! Do you know, I actually thought you disliked me so much because I grew up with Muggles.” Potter fixes his glasses, his cheek now a little pink from his insipid giggling. “Wow, I guess my work ethic is simply bad enough to warrant three years of non-stop ass-riding.”
Three years of non-stop ass—
That could not be the same Queen’s English they had all apparently learned in school.
“Potter...” he hisses quietly, because how is this joke of a man capable of such cheek?
But Potter doesn’t seem to care. He just goes back to his plants. And why does a thirty year old man need seven identical avocado saplings anyways?
“Sorry,” he starts, his back turned to Tom. “I’m just used to everyone knowing. Anyways, after my parents got killed by a hit-wizard, you know, after that big case my dad was investigating, I got shipped off to live with my aunt’s family. They, um, weren’t too keen on magic, I guess.”
He shrugs, and the gesture looks... small, somehow.
“But then I got my Hogwarts letter, and then Sirius found me, so it all turned out well, didn’t it?”
Potter turns around and flashes Tom a broad grin, as though he has just recounted an amusing childhood anecdote.
Tom stares at him.
“Your relatives used to lock you up in a cupboard?”
“Yup.”
Potter nods, focusing on his plants again. The 'p' pops off his tongue with cheer, light as anything.
“Did you—”
And Tom knows he should drop it, because this is becoming a real conversation with emotional value, and he simply does not do those, hasn't done them in decades. Everything is leverage, and blackmail, and strategy. And this is...
This is something else. Something he has no use for.
“Did you seek retaliation, at least?”
“Merlin, no! I’ve never seen them after the hearing, but I talk to my cousin sometimes, though. He turned out alright. Has a boyfriend now and everything, lives not too far from here.”
Tom knows revenge intimately. He knows the deep hurt that demands satisfaction by any means necessary—he killed his father and grandparents, after all.
And Tom Riddle Sr. had been absent. He had abandoned Tom, yes, but not— Not whatever Potter is alluding to.
How could Potter not do anything?
“They mistreated you. Did you not want to make them pay?”
Potter turns to him again and grins. Grins!
And it looks genuine too. Tom’s passive Legilimency confirms that he isn’t upset, either.
“No. Reckon it’s not my place, you know? Life will get them, or something to that effect.”
He waves Tom off and wanders back toward the bathroom.
“Potter, you and your kindness are an affront to the natural order of things,” Tom says, because he cannot even begin to imagine being mistreated in such a manner and simply... letting it go. No sane person should.
This earns him a bark of laughter from the bathroom, the small echo dulling the sound.
“Ha! That’s exactly what Aunt Petunia would say. Well, she’d call me ‘freak’ and make me weed the garden for days, but reckon she was just too dull to spell it out all fancy.”
Potter finally comes back, grabs his backpack and looks at Tom, all earnest and pleasant, even though perhaps he shouldn’t be.
“All done. I think the plants will survive. Will we apparate?”
He reaches for the basket, where the child is now sleeping, probably lulled into slumber by their talking.
“Yes.”
Tom nods and grabs the basket right out of Potter’s hands.
“Come. The alley behind your house should do.”
“I can take her. The backpack is spelled to be light, I don’t mind.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Tom walks out of the flat before Potter can argue, leaving him a step behind.