Summer 1976

It was good to be in London again, good to be back on the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.

A moment later, Tom hissed angrily, and moved back to the safety of an empty back alley, away from the trampling feet. His tail flicked in annoyance and his eyes narrowed to slits as he memorised the oblivious wizard who had nearly trod on him.

Oh well. He would explore Diagon Alley in his human form later in the evening, when it was dark and the presence of another wizard concealed in a voluminous cloak would not be noteworthy. For now, the sun was shining and there was a nice patch of warm stone in this deserted little cul-de-sac. Tom curled around himself to bask.

Tom had spent the past thirty odd years reading ancient tomes, practicing the blackest of magic, and he had always found that a nap in the afternoon sun refreshed the mind and spirit. His time was precious, but a sunny summer afternoon like this was too good to waste inside a dusty attic room filled with old books and scrolls. There was pleasure in such simplicity.

The familiar sounds and smells of the wizarding world’s most prominent shopping street filtered through the air and lulled Tom into a doze.

He had spent the better part of his life outside of England, travelling and learning magic that the Ministry would prefer forgotten in the ‘civilised’ world. He had visited the Vampires in Romania, the Giants of the northern tundra’s, the Witchdoctors in central Africa, and the many wizarding cults in Asia.

Tom had travelled and learned, and he knew himself to be one of the most powerful and well-versed wizards alive. Certainly in England – although Albus Dumbledore deserved a fair amount of caution. However, Tom knew that when that confrontation came, when he decided the time ripe to challenge the Muggle-loving Headmaster of Hogwarts, he would defeat Grindelwald’s slayer.

The years of travelling and learning had ended, though. Tom had steadily been gathering a following over the past few years, testing the waters and sounding out potential allies. This summer, his return to England was for good. Come winter, Lord Voldemort would make himself known in the British Isles, and soon all would know and fear his name.

There was something appropriate to coming out this year, when he would turn fifty, and no one would remember the half-blood Tom Marvolo Riddle. He had certainly done his best to ensure that name would never be linked with Lord Voldemort. His Death Eaters knew him only as Lord Voldemort, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, and so would the rest of the wizarding world. Upon his fiftieth birthday, Tom Marvolo Riddle would cease to exist, giving way to Lord Voldemort. However, for now, Tom enjoyed the sun and merely dreamt of what was to come, his tail twitching every now and then.

Something tickled his senses and woke Tom. A light – so very light – tremor in the ground, which was nearly drowned out by the heavy steps of the witches and wizards passing by in the street a few yards away. And a scent – a most delicious scent – that wafted into Tom’s mouth. Prey.

Tom opened his eyes, but made no other move, and he quickly scanned the deserted alley for the source of that mouth-watering scent. There were rubbish bins to his right, and empty crates stacked up against a wall. Careful not to make a sound, Tom uncurled and slowly moved into the shadows. Not a moment too soon, it appeared, for there, from beneath a discarded Daily Prophet, crept a juicy-looking brown rat.

Tom watched the rat scurry around the alley, its little nose twitching as it investigated the refuse for anything edible. It was a nervous little thing, constantly looking around for any sign of danger, but oblivious to the predator slowly making its way through the shadows. For a rat, it was a marvel it had survived this long; its light-brown fur and well-looked-after state would indicate that it might be tame, an escaped pet. Tom imagined some little witch or wizard, crying to their parents that their familiar had escaped and disappeared. Tom’s current form did not allow him to grin, but he could not contain the pleased flick of the tip of his tail at that image.

The little rat remained oblivious and started to nibble on a wilted piece of lettuce.

Tom struck. A ginger-brown-striped form with glowing green eyes and white fangs pouncing out of the shadows, claws extended.

He did not strike to kill, however. Where was the fun in that? One paw landed heavily on the rat’s long tail, scraping it with his sharp claws. The other caught the rat by the gut and pressed it against the dirty pavement, but with enough care to ensure no bones were broken. Its little neck did not snap, and those sharp claws did not pierce it mortally. The little rat squeaked in terror, black eyes widening and the sharp smell of urine permeating the air. The stench of fear was heavy, and Tom revelled in it.

Then suddenly Tom no longer had a little brown rat at his mercy. In its place was a boy of maybe sixteen with light-brown hair, brown eyes and a round face. He wore simple but good-quality robes, and – besides the fact that only a heartbeat ago this boy had been a rat – there was not one thing remarkable about him.

Tom arched his back and his ginger fur stood on end. He hissed angrily and his tail whipped from side to side in agitation.

An animagus. The rat was an animagus. This boy - who could not have graduated from Hogwarts yet – had managed to master one of the most difficult transfigurations. A skill it had taken Tom – as an adult and the most powerful, educated wizard in Britain – more than five years to acquire. Furthermore, the boy’s animagus form was genius, and Tom’s mind was already whirling with the possibilities and opportunities open for a wizard with the skill to turn himself into such a small and innocuous creature, a creature that was among the three most favoured wizarding pets. He must be unregistered, too, or Tom would have heard of it from his Ministry spies, not to mention the fact that any official animagus training was restricted to Transfiguration masters only.

Tom was impressed, and it took a lot to impress Lord Voldemort.

He had taught himself to become an animagus; read every book on the subject, studied every word written. He had worked on it for years and in complete secrecy. There was not a living soul who knew of Tom’s ability to turn into a ginger-striped tomcat; not even his most trusted and valued followers had any idea.

Becoming a cat had not featured high on his wish list. Every book had told him, had repeated, that there was no way of controlling or pre-determining one’s animagus form. But Tom had tried; oh, how he had tried. He was Salazar’s heir; he had the gift of Parseltongue. The only form that would befit him was that of a snake, and he had done everything in his power to ensure that would be the result of his arduous studies. All to no avail. Upon his first attempt, he had turned into a ginger-coloured cat, and, no matter what he did, he had not succeeded in changing that. He had been disappointed beyond belief and violently angry. However, after he had calmed down, after he had vented that anger and frustration on some hapless Muggle, he realised the benefits of his new animagus form. He realised that he had, in fact, struck upon a more advantageous form than a snake could have ever been.

Wizards distrusted snakes; they were an obvious symbol of dark magic, and only dark wizards had snake familiars. A cat, on the other hand, was such a common creature, such a lovable creature, that no one – wizard or Muggle – would suspect that something evil might lurk beneath that soft and silky orange fur, that velvety purr. No one would ever suspect a harmless tomcat of being the Dark Lord Voldemort; no one would ever perceive him in his animagus form as any kind of threat. Well, except to their pet bird or rat, that was.

The boy was shaking – even now, Tom could still smell the delicious scent of fear wafting off him – and had taken out his wand to perform a quick cleaning spell on himself. Then the boy cursed as he remembered the restrictions on under-aged wizardry. He need not have worried about that though; here, just off Diagon Alley, there was enough stray magic to mask a little spell like that. Besides, a set of charms on Tom himself masked any magic he cast, or magic cast near him, from the eyes of the Ministry.

“Stupid cat,” the boy muttered. “I bet this kind of thing would never happen to Sirius or James.” The tone of self-loathing in the boy’s voice caught Tom’s attention, and he filed it away for later thought. For the moment, he was thinking of ways to get the boy to a more... private place with no danger of any witnesses.

“Shoo! I’m not really a rat so you can just go off and find yourself a meal somewhere else, shoo!” The boy pushed himself up on his knees and waved at Tom with both hands, but Tom held his ground. He eyed the boy’s waving hands, eyed the wand the boy was still holding.

“Shoo! Scram, you stupid cat! Go awa- aaauw! Hey, my wand!”

Tom slashed the foolish boy’s hand with his claws, and when he, predictably, dropped his wand in surprise, Tom grabbed it between his teeth and darted out into the street, dragging it along as best he could, given its awkward shape. A dog would be more suited for this kind of action, but Tom managed, and he could hear the boy shouting behind him, yelling for people to stop him. Nobody did, rather the opposite, giving the ginger tomcat with a wand in its mouth a wide berth as they amusedly watched the chase.

Left into a side-alley, then right, then right again, left, through the maze of little streets until Tom was sure the boy was lost and would not realise he was now in the darker part of London’s wizarding world. He paused a moment to adjust his hold on the wand, and to ensure the boy was still following him, then started climbing a normally hidden flight of stairs into one of the buildings. At the top of the stairs, he waited and watched as the boy hesitated, panting from exertion. Once he was sure the boy had spotted him, Tom turned the corner and – out of the boy’s sight – changed back into his human form. He opened the door to his rooms and left it slightly ajar, deposited the wand on the coffee table and poured himself a drink, before sitting on the couch opposite the door.

The wards on this building were formidable, making it unplottable and all magic practiced within unnoticeable. Any wizard or witch fortunate enough to be brought to Lord Voldemort’s home would be unable to determine its location – a particularly ingenious variant of ‘Confundus’ guaranteed that. And only those whom Tom allowed would be able to make it through the deadly traps he had hidden everywhere.

Tom leaned back and sipped his Firewhisky. There was the hesitant sound of footsteps on the stairs, then on the landing. He could feel the boy’s apprehension. One corner of his mouth curled up.

“H- Hello? Is anybody here?” A very soft knock on the door, making it fall further open.

“My wand!” The relief in the boy’s voice was obvious, and he rushed forward – hand stretched out – before stopping abruptly at the sight of Tom sitting on the couch, watching him. The boy stood there frozen for a while as neither of them spoke.

Tom knew the picture he made, that of a distinguished middle-aged wizard, with short black hair and silver streaks at his temples; expensive black robes, an angular face with bright green eyes. His ability to appear reassuring – kindly even – was a great asset, even if he did not use it often. However, now his face was impassive, and his free hand rested at his side, fingers playing with the end of his wand, as he looked at the intruder. When the boy still did not move or speak, Tom merely raised an eyebrow in amused query; he was not one to make things easier for other people.

“Um, sir? I’m very sorry for intruding like this, but – That’s my wand; a cat grabbed it,” his eyes darted around the room in search of the missing feline, “and I followed it all the way here, and it’s my wand. Please, c-could I have it back?”

“A cat ran off with your wand, you say?”

The boy blushed a deep red in humiliation and nodded.

“How on earth did that ever happen?”

“It- it, uh, scratched me, and I dropped my wand and it ran away with it.” It was a jumble of words, growing nearly inaudible toward the end. Tom had to contain an amused chuckle.

“And why would a cat scratch you?” he asked instead, a stern look on his face.

The boy paled and gulped, obviously realising that he was speaking to the cat’s owner, who would most likely not be pleased to hear he might have harmed the man’s cat. “I didn’t do anything to it, I swear. I was just – just trying to make it go away, I didn’t touch your cat, I promise!” The boy’s fear was positively delicious and made Tom’s body hum with pleasure and anticipation.

“Hmm.” Tom stood up and walked to the sideboard with his empty glass. He glanced back at the table and the wand lying there, then to the boy. “Your wand?”

“Yes, p-please, can I have it back, sir?” he stammered, nodding anxiously. His eyes were wide open in fear, and Tom fancied he could hear the boy’s heart pounding. Oh, this one was a treat indeed.

He turned back to the sideboard, and poured himself another inch of Firewhisky as he nonchalantly replied, “Of course.”

“Thank you.” The sound of footsteps on the wooden floor; the boy picking up his wand; the rustle of clothing as he put it away. Foolish, foolish boy. Tom smiled as he took a second glass from the cabinet beneath the drinks.

“I- I’ll just be going then. So sorry for bothering you, sir, thank you.”

Tom let him get all the way to the door.

“What is your name, boy?”

The boy froze, his hand on the doorknob, and his entire body spoke of apprehension as he looked back at Tom.

“P-Peter Pettigrew, sir.”

He saw the boy flinch, and did not need Legilimency to know that Peter had realised too late that it might have been a better idea to give an alias instead of his real name. This time Tom did not hide the smirk on his lips. Whatever House Peter was in, he was certainly no Slytherin.

“Peter,” he tested the name in his mouth, tried to remember any mention of Pettigrew. Didn’t a Pettigrew own that little bookshop just off Baize Alley – the one specialized in Muggle literature and science? Or had Flourish & Botts finally put it out of business? “Would you like a drink, Peter?”

He did not wait for an answer, instead poured whisky into the second glass, and then picked both up. “Do take a seat,” he said, indicating the couch with a nod of his head. He pretended to ignore the boy’s – Peter’s – hesitation, and sat down on one side of the couch. He put the glass on the table and sat back, sipping from his own drink as he watched Peter pick his way around the low table and then perch on the very edge of the couch, as far away from Tom as possible.

“Drink.”

The boy accepted the glass and very carefully took a small sip, then a larger with a look of surprise on his face. “It’s good,” he said, taking another sip.

Tom nodded and sipped his own drink, observing Peter. The boy was no stranger to alcohol then; he had undoubtedly experimented with his friends at school, or at home while his parents were away. Or a private still perhaps, although he did not seem the Ravenclaw type. But again, definitely not a Slytherin, to accept a drink from a stranger.

“Tell me, how old are you, Peter?”

“Um, I’m seventeen. Sir.”

“A fine age. So... starting your last year at Hogwarts then?”

Pink tinted his cheeks again and Peter shook his head, his eyes trained on the coffee table and avoiding Tom’s face. “Sixth,” he mumbled. “I was held back a year in primary school.” He knocked back the last of his drink.

“There is no shame in that, Peter. Would you like another drink?”

The boy’s eyes darted from his empty glass to Tom to the door and back, and then he shook his head. “No, I – Thank you, but I should probably be going now, sir.”

“Nonsense.” Tom picked up the boy’s empty glass and went to refill it. “Here, it is still early, I am sure your parents will not be waiting for you with your supper just yet,” he said, pressing the glass into Peter’s hand as he sat down next to him. He let his finger tips brush over the boy’s own hand, felt the sweat and barely contained tremors. “I do not often get visitors, and you seem like an interesting young man with stories to tell.” He settled back against the couch again, his body angled toward the boy. “Which House are you in?”

“Who- Who are you?”

Ah, a Gryffindor perhaps, despite the fear. Tom smiled – a smile that showed his teeth and would make his green eyes seem to glow. “Who am I? I suppose it is only fair that I introduce myself. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle. You, Peter, may call me Tom.” He did not know what possessed him to give this boy his real name; perhaps it was the thrill of revealing such a secret to somebody who would not realise the magnitude of the revelation.

There was no recognition on Peter’s face. Nor should there have been, but it still pleased Tom. “Now, tell me a little about yourself: what House are you in?”

“Gryffindor,” the boy answered, taking a swig of the whisky. His movements were already looser, the alcohol alleviating the tension and fear. It made this game, and the anticipation of later, all the sweeter. Tom put his empty glass on the coffee table.

“A noble House indeed. Isn’t Minerva McGonagall Head?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, and she teaches Transfiguration as well. Do you know her? Sir,” he added quickly, as an afterthought.

“Relax, Peter. I told you: you may call me Tom. And yes, I know McGonagall; we went to school together.”

“Oh?” the boy was obviously trying to calculate how old Tom must be, as he finished the leftover whisky in his glass.

“Did she teach you how to become an animagus?”

“Wh- what?” Peter coughed, spilling whisky down his robes and nearly dropping his glass. Tom deftly plucked it from his unresisting hands and put it on the table where it would be safe.

“I – I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.” All the blood had drained from Peter’s face and the fear that had subsided only moments ago returned tenfold.

“Come now, Peter. Do not lie to me. It is quite an accomplishment: being able to turn into a rat at will.” As he spoke, Tom began moving closer to the boy, trapping him with his words and his movements.

Peter shook his head in denial, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “No – I don’t –”

“Who taught you? How long did it take? Or did you teach yourself?”

“I’m not – I don’t know what you’re talking –”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped the order this time. Tom was sitting right next to Peter now, and he touched the boy’s right hand. He let his fingertips gently follow the angry red lines left from the cat’s scratch. “I saw you.” This time his voice was gentle again, but he remained close to the boy, his face only inches away from Peter’s.

Realisation dawned. “The cat – that was you!”

Tom nodded. He had kept it a secret for so long, and it was good to finally see the admiration and apprehension for this hard-won skill. As for Peter ever revealing this secret: whatever the outcome of this afternoon, Tom would ensure the boy’s silence above all else.

“Imagine my surprise when what looked like a tasty afternoon snack turned into...” Tom let his eyes roam appreciatively over the boy in front of him, “an equally tasty young man.”

Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief and he pressed back into the couch, away from Tom. He could smell the boy’s fear, and it was intoxicating. He looked at Peter, who was by no means beautiful or handsome – a little too rotund for that, his eyes too watery, his features too ordinary. Nevertheless, he was not ugly, and there was more to attraction than just a person’s looks. This boy had managed to become an animagus at seventeen. And he was absolutely terrified of Tom.

However, there would be time for that later. For now, Tom wanted answers. He moved away from the boy, giving him some room to relax, but not enough that he could escape easily.

“Who taught you to become an animagus? A teacher?”

“No, they don’t teach students –”

“So you taught yourself, or did you have help?”

“I – Ah, I taught myself. Nobody else knows; it’s a secret.”

The boy was lying. He could see it at the front of the boy’s mind – a jumbled image of three other boys, and a dog, a stag, and a – wolf? Interesting. However, the determined look on Peter’s face, the way he was biting his lip and his hands were twisted into fists, indicated that any further information would not be as easily obtained. He could of course hex the boy, cast Legilimens, and pry the truth from his mind. Tom considered it for a moment, then shrugged and let it rest. It was something to keep in mind – these four young animagi – but Tom now found himself distracted with other thoughts. His mind focused on other pursuits than discovering exactly how this boy had managed to succeed at becoming an animagus in not even half the time that it had taken Tom.

“Nobody knows, hmm? So you’re unregistered.”

Peter realised his mistake, and his eyes darted around the room, desperately looking for a way out, looking to escape.

“You do know there are hefty fines for not registering, don’t you? The Ministry might even send you to Azkaban for a while if they thought you had misused your skill. And you must admit: the potential mischief an animagus-rat could get up to is considerable.”

It was miraculous how the boy managed to pale even further. So predictable. Of course Peter had used his new talent. Tom wondered exactly what kind of mischief Peter and his friends had got up to: spying in the girls’ dormitories no doubt, perhaps a prank or two. Nothing too imaginative, nothing like the possibilities and opportunities Tom could think of.

“Please, please, don’t tell, sir, please,” the boy began to sniffle. “I’ll – I’ll do –” But he went no further than that, did not go on to offer anything in return for Tom’s silence. Tom’s approval grew. A Gryffindor, a cowardly one at that, but not a complete fool. There was guile in this one, even if it was repressed and only surfaced when it was too late.

“Don’t worry, Peter,” he said, moving closer again so that his leg pressed against the boy’s thigh. “I won’t tell,” his voice dropped to a whisper as he brought his mouth to Peter’s ear. “I’m unregistered myself.”

The boy’s relief was short-lived, as he realised that an unregistered animagus most likely would have some nefarious reason for it. He squeaked, and would have jumped off the couch if Tom wasn’t in the way, keeping him trapped.

Tom began to nuzzle the boy’s ear, purposefully rested one hand on his leg, and slowly slid it upwards. Peter gripped his hand tightly, fingers digging into Tom’s wrist as he tried to stop it from creeping further, but he was not strong enough. Tom moved back a little to see the boy’s face, and a pleased smile played on his lips as his hand encountered a growing bulge in Peter’s robes. Peter’s face was flushed and his eyes wide open in terror, his breathing was rapid and shallow, but the fear apparently only fuelled the boy’s arousal. Perfect.

“P- please,” he stuttered, pressing back into the couch in an attempt to escape Tom’s hand firmly rubbing at his erection through the cloth of his robe.

“It’s all right, Peter.” Tom brought his face back to the boy’s neck and licked a trail up his throat, tasting the salty tang of fear in his sweat. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, “trust me.” Even Tom could not say that without a slight chuckle.

He shifted, slung his left leg over Peter’s and pressed his erection against the boy’s thigh. He covered him with his own body, trapping him against the couch. Their chests were pressed together, heart to heart; Tom mouthed the boy’s jugular, enjoying the panicked pounding of Peter’s heart. The boy was muttering and shaking, and his hands were tangled around Tom’s hand that steadily rubbed against his prick. His fear was intoxicating and for the moment, Tom was content to just rub against him.

Then, suddenly, Peter disappeared and Tom fell forward. Something soft brushed past the back of his hand; Tom pushed himself up to see the little brown rat streak across the floor toward the still open door. In the space of a thought, his eyes lit up and he grinned, even as his features changed and he sprang from the couch in his animagus form. One, two, three, four bounds and he overtook the rat, barring its escape. The rat’s little paws skittered for purchase on the smooth wooden floor and it changed direction, heading for the bookcases along the far wall.

Tom gave the door a little push to make sure it closed, and then sauntered over to the bookcases, watching the rat dart into the narrow open space beneath them. He found himself purring as he crouched down in front of the cabinet under which the rat had sought refuge, pressed against the wall as far away from Tom as it could get. Tom’s tail swished from side to side and he reached beneath the bookcase with one paw, claws extended, swatting at the small bundle of brown fur. The cabinet wasn’t deep enough for the rat; he managed to scratch Peter, causing the rat to squeak in pain and run from its hiding place, darting between Tom’s legs. And once more the chase commenced.

Tom chased the rat around the room, scaring it from its hideouts, until he began to tire of this game. Then he started herding his prey toward one of the other doors off the living room. The rat shot through the door opening, was slowed by the thick rug on the floor, but scampered through it and disappeared under the bed. Tom changed back to his human form, a smirk on his lips, and stepped into his bedroom, carefully closing the door behind him. He leaned back and licked his lips as the smirk grew into a smug grin.

For a while, it was perfectly silent, and then the silky sound of scales sliding against each other and one particularly horrified squeak. In an admirable burst of speed, the rat shot from beneath the bed, but Tom was waiting for it and pinned its tail beneath his boot. He knelt down on the floor next to the rat and caged it in his open hand while a six-foot long green snake slithered out of her hiding place and moved around Tom’s legs and hand, her forked tongue flickering out and tasting the air around the rat.

The rat was panting, Tom could feel the blood dripping from four shallow furrows on its side against his skin, and it huddled terrified under the palm of Tom’s hand, trying to keep as far away as possible from the snake’s hungry attention.

“There, there,” Tom said, and he gently stroked the rat between its tiny ears. “Enough playing around, Peter. Time to change back.”

For a moment, it seemed the boy might be too terrified to comply, and Tom was already reaching for his wand to force the animagus to revert, but then the rat disappeared and in its place lay the boy. His eyes were screwed shut and his skin was covered in sweat; his breathing was shallow and there were tear tracks on his face. Peter lay on his back, Tom kneeling between his parted legs.

“Please, don’t hurt me, oh Merlin, please, don’t kill me, don’t hurt me, please, Merlin please,” Peter whispered desperately, like some kind of prayer.

Tom smiled and pressed his knee against the boy’s groin, pleased to find that despite Peter’s terror he was still erect. Or, perhaps, because of the fear, the adrenaline. He rested his forearms to either side of Peter’s head and nuzzled his ear again, licking the shell and then pressing his lips to the boy’s eyes, tasting the tears. His pet snake Cassandra moved around them, circled both of them and her body brushed against their limbs briefly, making the boy jump. However, he made no move to escape this time, eyes still screwed shut as if he could wish himself away, could make it all unreal by not seeing.

“Look at me, Peter,” Tom pulled back and waited until the boy obeyed. “Look at me.”

Peter’s pupils were dilated, only the barest sliver of light-brown separating black from white, and his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. Tom smiled – a more reassuring smile this time – and pushed a sweat-slick strand of mousey brown hair from the boy’s face.

“I think it’s time we moved this off the floor to the bed, don’t you?”

Tom dipped his hips and rubbed his cock against the boy’s leg again for good measure. The boy’s breath hitched in his throat, but he did not resist when Tom stood up, gripping his hands and pulling him to his feet as well. A side step and a slight push, and Peter stumbled backwards, falling onto the bed. Cassandra hissed in anger that she had nearly been stepped on, causing the boy to scoot up the bed, his legs pulled away from the edge as quick as he could, until he was huddled against the headboard. Tom smirked and hissed something reassuring to the snake, then dropped to one knee again and started to undo the fastening of his boots. Peter paled even further – a slightly greenish hue to his pallor – and Tom fancied he could hear the boy’s pounding heart from all the way over there.

“You- You’re a p-p-parselmouth?”

Tom showed his teeth in an amused grin and nodded, stood up, toeing both boots off as his hands began to unfasten the buttons of his robes. “Yesss.” He delighted in adding the extra hiss to his answer, and breathed in deeply the bittersweet scent of the boy’s fear. He watched the thoughts flitting across Peter’s mind with satisfaction, the realisation that whoever Tom was, he was most definitely a dark wizard; that there was no escape, that he was helpless and defenceless and without a hope of stopping Tom from doing to him whatever he wanted. And with that realisation, resignation to his fate. The fear did not abate, but the fight drained from the boy, and Tom’s smile grew broader. Oh, this one was a catch indeed. He pushed his robe from his shoulders, let it pool around his bare feet as he lazily unfastened the trousers he wore beneath.

“Why- Why me? I’m not pretty or handsome, I –”

The boy’s words trailed off and his eyes seemed inexorably drawn to Tom’s erect cock, pointing upward from its nest of dark curls. The colour returned to his cheeks as he blushed a light pink, and he quickly looked back up to meet Tom’s eyes. Tom smirked and rested one knee on the bed, then slowly crawled toward the cowering boy.

“Oh, I don’t know, Peter. You have a charm of your own. It is not every day I stumble across a seventeen-year-old animagus. Accio Lubricant!” A clear jar flew from the bedside table into Tom’s hand, and Peter’s eyes widened in amazement at the wandless magic and apprehension at the clear indication of what was going to happen. Tom dropped the jar on the mattress beside him and closed his hands around Peter’s ankles, then yanked him downward so that he was kneeling between the boy’s thighs. He leaned over the boy again, arms resting beside his head, and whispered in Peter’s ear, “Denude.”

The boy squeaked and jumped, making his suddenly exposed prick and balls press against Tom’s leg, as all his clothes disappeared. They materialized a few feet to the left of the bed, where they hung in the air for a moment and then dropped to the ground. Irate hissing sounded from his pet, making Tom laugh and answer her, which in turn served to frighten the boy some more.

Tom slid his legs down, letting the boy’s prick drag across his skin, as he lowered himself on top of him, straddling the boy’s right leg so that their cocks pressed against each other’s hip. The boy moaned and met his thrust, eyes falling shut.

“Have you ever done this before?” he whispered as he ran his hands down Peter’s arms, encircled his wrists and then dragged them in a semi-circle up above the boy’s head.

“N-noo,” Peter moaned in reply, eyes shut.

“Good.”

Tom gyrated his hips, thrust against Peter’s soft and sweat-slippery flesh. He pressed his nose into the juncture of the boy’s neck and shoulder, inhaled the heady mixture of fear and arousal; he pressed wet kisses from the boy’s throat across his shoulder, sucking and biting at the pale flesh until red welts appeared. He buried his face in the boy’s armpit, tugging at the soft hair with his teeth until Peter was squirming in discomfort.

Gathering both Peter’s wrists in one hand, Tom reached for the jar of lubricant. His mouth travelled to the boy’s ribs, biting and marking him as he slipped his right knee under the boy’s leg. He urged Peter onto his side and then pushed him onto his front. Peter froze, but did not try to escape; Tom pressed a kiss against the nape of his neck in approval. He did not need to see the boy’s face to know that his eyes were screwed shut again. When he released the boy’s wrists, Peter left them stretched above his head and did not move. Tom blew on the wet mark left from his kiss and chuckled at the way it made Peter twitch.

“Good boy,” he whispered in Peter’s ear as he dragged his leaking cock up and down the small of the boy’s back. “Don’t move.”

Peter did as he was told, and remained stretched out on his belly when Tom retreated and sat back on his heels to just look at his prey for a moment. The sound of him uncapping the jar of lubricant made Peter flinch, but he did not move. Tom dipped his fingers into the cool cream and scooped out a generous amount; he did not wait to warm it before smoothing it on his hard and aching prick. The contrast in temperature made the small hairs on his stomach and thighs stand on end and his balls ache. He closed his eyes for a moment, simply enjoying the teasing strokes of his hand on his erection.

“Spread your legs.”

Peter whimpered, but hesitantly obeyed, parting his legs even as his buttocks clenched.

Tom knelt between the boy’s thighs and urged Peter onto his knees with one hand while the other continued to stroke his cock.

“Wider.”

Peter’s knees were pulled up beneath him, against his chest, and spread as far apart as possible, exposing the puckered opening between his cheeks. The tip of his prick brushed against the sheets, his cock half obscured by his balls. His thighs quivered, and his hands were fists, the sheets bunched up in them.

Tom let go of his slick and slippery cock and dragged the tip of his greased index finger down the boy’s crack, let it catch on the boy’s hole and then pressed against his perineum, before turning his hand around and cupping the boy’s balls in his palm and pressing them against his cock. He scratched a line down the underside of Peter’s cock with the tip of his finger. He grinned at the boy’s pathetic mewling and allowed him to push back into his hand for a moment, before letting go and resting one hand on Peter’s hip, keeping him still.

He circled the boy’s hole with the tip of his slick finger briefly, the pressed and popped just the tip of his finger inside. Peter twitched, but made no noise, and Tom rubbed at the muscle of the boy’s entrance with finger and thumb, coating it with lubricant. Finally, he removed his finger and used his free hand to guide the blunt head of his cock to rest against the boy’s hole.

“Relax.” A whispered command that he knew Peter could not obey, and then he was pressing forward, pushing against the tight ring of muscle. His fingers dug into the boy’s hip, leaving crescent shaped cuts from his fingernails. “Relax,” he ground out through gritted teeth, and his right hand grasped Peter’s other hip as well as he increased the pressure of the tip of his erection against the boy’s entrance.

A sharp cry of pain and his cock-head popped past the resistance and into the boy’s body. Tom gasped – so tight! – and he watched Peter’s shoulders shake, listened to Peter’s sobs as he concentrated on calming his breathing. The boy’s arse was so tight Tom could hardly feel his cock-head, squeezed so firmly.

After a moment, when Peter’s sobs had subsided slightly and Tom felt he was in control of himself again and not likely to start rutting wildly like some mindless beast, he released the boy’s hips and slid his hands up Peter’s sides. He leaned forward until he could nuzzle the boy’s neck again. Shifting slightly, Tom moved to adjust the angle of his cock in the boy – making him whimper again – and pushed the hair away from Peter’s ear. “Relax,” he whispered more gently in his ear as he started to steadily and very slowly push into him.

The boy’s arse was a vice around his cock, tight and resisting him, a veritable furnace, but he pressed forward, forced his way in, forced Peter to accommodate his length and width. He moved forward slowly, carefully, and rubbed at the muscle where it was stretched around his cock with the tip of his fingers, dragging his nails over the sensitive skin where they were joined. Finally, he was pressed against the boy’s buttocks and could go no deeper. Tom closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, every breath making him heady with the boy’s pain and fear, the pounding of Peter’s heart thrumming around his erection.

“Relax,” he whispered, and pulled out slightly, then pushed back in. Slow, shallow, short thrusts, until the tension in Peter’s back lessened and his sobs became less pronounced. Then deeper thrusts, pulling out halfway; Peter choked, and Tom waited until he adjusted to this penetration before progressing the force and depth of his thrusts, until only the tip of his cock was still inside the boy’s body and he violently slammed back into him. Hands on the boy’s hips again, adding to the bruises already there as he sheathed himself with increasing force and speed. And after a while Peter started pushing back into those thrusts, pressing upward and attempting to spread his legs even further, trying to push forward, trying to rub the erection that had returned against the bed but hindered by Tom’s hands on his hips that ensured he remained unsatisfied and undistracted from Tom’s forceful fucking.

Tom cursed beneath his breath, in parseltongue and ancient languages, hexes and charms and curses that filled the air around them, prickling against their skin. Then orgasm was upon him and he pressed himself to Peter’s back, pushed himself as deep inside the boy as he could, shaking and hips caught in jagged thrusts as he pumped his release into the velvet vice. He collapsed on top of the boy, then pulled them both onto their sides as he tangled his legs around Peter’s, keeping himself buried in his arse.

The boy’s arms fell down to his side, then moved to his needy prick. A string of pearly pre-come was leaking onto his belly and the sheets. Tom quickly caught Peter’s wrists again, pressed them to the bed in front of his chest.

“Wait.”

The boy moaned but obeyed, face averted.

Tom smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breathing calm. His cock was softening and starting to slip from the boy’s arse; he could feel his come trickling out as well. The smell of sex was heavy in the air, and their bodies were slick with sweat. When he looked at Peter’s face, it was streaked with tear tracks, eyes puffy and swollen, and there was blood on the boy’s lips. He watched him wince as he pulled all the way out – suppressed his own wince at his cock’s sensitivity – and then released his wrists.

“You are not to touch yourself, understand, Peter?”

The boy opened his eyes and nodded warily.

“Good.”

Tom turned his attention to the boy’s arse, and started arranging Peter’s limbs. The boy was lying on his right side; Tom made him move his left leg forward over his right, then up so that his arse and genitals were both exposed for Tom’s pleasure, Tom’s mercy. This time Peter kept his eyes open and watched him. Tom inspected the boy’s hole, ran his fingers around the inflamed and sore muscle, checking for blood or tears, but finding neither, although the boy whimpered and twitched at his touch. He glanced up at Peter with a wicked grin on his face and popped two fingers into the loosened pucker, moving them in and out – a suggestive mimicking of the action of his cock only a few minutes ago – and then started feeling around for the boy’s prostate. He chuckled at Peter’s gasp and the way his eyelids fluttered closed, the way he moaned and started pushing back onto Tom’s fingers as he had onto Tom’s cock.

Tom let Peter fuck himself on his fingers for a moment, just watching him, then switched hands and reached around with semen and lubricant sticky fingers to fondle the boy’s neglected cock. He ran the tip of index and middle finger up along the boy’s length, delicately scraping it with the edge of his nails, before closing his hand around the boy’s erection and teasing the slit with the tip of his finger. His own cock brushed against the boy’s thigh, making Peter jump slightly ever time. Peter was caught between moving back onto Tom’s fingers and pushing forward into the loose grip of his hand; his own hands were fisted in the sheets once more and his mouth had fallen open.

“More,” he gasped and Tom grinned, turning his right hand and pulling his fingers out enough to press his thumb in beside them; as he thrust them back into the boy’s arse the tip of his ring finger and pinkie brushed against the back of Peter’s balls. He twisted his fingers around, stroked against Peter’s prostate from the inside and pressed his two free fingers against the boy’s perineum.

“Yes,” Peter was panting again, and although he keened in discomfort when Tom forced a fourth finger inside him and there was a pained expression on his face, he did not protest, and his erection remained firm and eager in Tom’s other hand. Tom pulled cruelly at the boy’s cock, alternated with gentle strokes, and even leaned forward to lick some of the clear fluid from the tip. Peter watched him, and began to beg for release. There was no room for fear in his eyes, only need, and with a deft twist of his wrist, Tom brought him to orgasm, catching most of the boy’s come in the palm of his hand.

He pulled his fingers from the boy’s arse and looked up only to discover that Peter had passed out. Tom smirked and dipped the fingers of his right hand in the palm of his left that held the boy’s come, mixing both their release and the lubricant. He then started drawing runes on Peter’s body, just above his buttocks, down along his spine, around his navel and over his heart. The runes glowed briefly, working their magic, and then they were nothing more than sticky patterns on pale skin. Obliviate was such a crude and messy spell. Where was the satisfaction in having taken the boy’s innocence if he would not remember it? This spell would ensure Peter would never even think to speak of what had happened this afternoon, or of the dark wizard who spoke parseltongue.

When he was done, he wiped his fingers on Peter’s side and settled down beside him. He pushed the sweaty strands of short hair from the boy’s face and contemplated what he would do next. A rat-animagus could do many things for Lord Voldemort, but there was little point in trying to win the boy to his cause just yet. He was still in school, and if this was a Pettigrew from that Muggle bookstore, it was unlikely he would be sympathetic to Voldemort’s goals. Not that that was necessary: the key to Peter’s loyalty was fear, and Tom could easily achieve that.

Tom fingered one of the bruises that had appeared on the boy’s collarbone, and then summoned his wand from the floor to his hand. Best to keep him in reserve, keep him in mind and bring him into the fold when the time was ripe. He touched the tip of his wand to one bruise, then another, whispering the spell to obscure them. Peter frowned and mumbled something, gradually waking up. Tom smirked and continued to go about concealing the evidence of what he had done. When he cast a final cleaning spell, removing sweat and semen and lubricant from both of them, Peter’s eyes were open again and watching him anxiously.

“It is late, and time for you to leave, Peter,” Tom said, and he glanced up at the skylight and the orange glow of dusk filtering through. “Your parents are no doubt wondering where you are.” He stepped off the bed and picked his robe up from the floor, slipping it over his head without bothering to put anything on underneath it.

Peter moved awkwardly to the edge of the bed and hesitated, looking around for any sign of the snake. Tom slipped barefoot into his boots and watched in amusement as the boy carefully put one foot down and then quickly reached for his clothes.

“Cassandra won’t hurt you,” he said. “Will you?” he added in a parseltongue hiss, and the snake’s reply from beneath the bed made Peter stumble to the far wall, clutching clothes and shoes to his naked body. Tom chuckled and sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning down to the right a bit to stroke Cassandra’s head as she slithered out from her hiding place and coiled around his legs.

With shaky and hurried movements, Peter dressed, looking everywhere but at the dark wizard who had just taken his virginity. His movements were slightly stilted; no doubt from the soreness in his arse, and Tom made no effort to conceal the smug smirk that curled his lips. When Peter was done, his eyes darted around the room and he made an aborted step to the closed bedroom door, wanting to get as far away as quickly as he could, but aware that he was still in Tom’s power. He flinched, but managed not to back away when Tom stood up and walked toward him, stopping only inches away.

Tom ran his hand through the boy’s messy hair, leaned in close to inhale that intoxicating smell of fear again, then rested a fatherly hand on his shoulder, pushing him in the direction of the door.

“Let’s get you home now. Do you have everything, your wand?”

He led the boy through the apartment to the front door, and Peter nodded. His hands twisted in his robes, and Tom could see the outline of his wand in the fabric. At the door Tom grabbed his cloak from the coat hanger and threw it around his shoulders, then urged Peter down the stairs in front of him. He could see him fighting the urge to run. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Peter looked around, and Tom could see him realising that he had no idea where they were. He smirked and closed his hand around one of Peter’s arms. He led them through the empty street and then left into an alley, left, right again, left, straight on, left, right, weaving the spell that would make sure the boy would not be able to find his way back to Tom’s door again unaided, and others could not use him to do so.

Night had fallen and when they stepped into Diagon Alley; it was filled with many wizards and witches concealed in dark cloaks, moving silently like shadows.

Peter stopped and bravely looked up at Tom, peering to see his face in the shadow of his cape.

“Th-thank you, but I c-can find my way home from here.”

Unseen to him Tom grinned in approval; oh yes, this fearful Gryffindor had guile. Unfortunate for him that it would not help him against Lord Voldemort.

“I’m sure you can. However, I would not feel right if I did not make sure you arrived home... safely. Even the streets of Diagon can be dangerous at night; there are evil wizards about, who would only too happily take advantage of a talented and interesting boy like yourself,” he laughed softly in amusement, and then pushed Peter to start walking again.

His suspicions were confirmed when he was led to the small Muggle bookshop in Baize Alley. The lights were still on in the storefront, and Tom sneered at the collection of Muggle books and memorabilia displayed in the window.

“Can I go now?” Peter asked, bringing Tom’s mind back to the present and he released his hold on the boy’s arm.

“So eager to leave my presence?” The boy paled, but Tom found he had tired of this cat-and-mouse game. For now. “Very well; a good night to you, Peter.”

“Good night, sir,” the boy mumbled and then hesitantly stepped out of Tom’s reach, trying not to run up the steps into the store and the illusion of safety.

“It has been a pleasure, little rat,” Tom murmured as the bell on the door tinkled when the boy dashed inside. “You, I will not forget.” Nor, he was sure, would this little rat ever forget him.

End.