Today was going to be a gorgeous day.

Harry yawned around his strawberry-flavored lollipop as he got into the glass elevator, pressing the button to the top floor with his elbow. He leaned back against the cool, transparent walls, taking in the shimmering waters and the reflective surfaces of towering skyscrapers.

He closed his eyes, basking in the sunlight that streamed through the glass. Sunlight. Harry smiled softly, eyes still closed. The Seattle sun was actually shining in December—miracles did happen every so often.

Yes, today was going to be a gorgeous day, he thought, sighing wistfully.

And Harry would be spending it at all indoors, at the mercy of his cruel, unrelenting boss and toxic superiors.

As the elevator dinged, reality seemed to shake him from his wandering daze. Wake up, his survival instincts yelled. You are now entering the beast's den.

Harry walked out of the elevator the way a prisoner walked a ship's plank: slowly, staring at the vast ocean in helpless terror, the same way he now gazed at the shimmering, expensive-looking logo of Morsmordre Inc.

He approached the glass doors to the office, swiping his card for entry as his eyes stayed glued to the eerie symbol.

The Morsmordre logo was an emerald green, writhing snake emerging from a ghastly skull. It was oddly gruesome and rather inappropriate, especially considering that it belonged to one of the world's top publishing companies. A primarily educational publishing company, where K-12 textbooks were the money-makers.

And yet, Harry couldn't imagine a logo to fit the publishing company more. Snakes. His upper lip curled in disgust. Indeed, the company's headquarters was filled with thirsty, ruthless snakes, who terrorized him every second of every minute of every hour from the moment he stepped a foot inside—

"Potter!" Parkinson said sharply, jarringly. "Where have you been?"

"Good morning, Parkinson!" Harry greeted pleasantly as he entered the office, perfectly aware that he was a couple minutes late. "The coffee line was a bit long today—"

Parkinson fixed with a stern, serious look. "Mr. Riddle's been calling for you."

Harry froze.

"Oh?" he uttered, still smiling painfully.

Fuck. Riddle usually didn't call him in for another hour regarding daily reports. He'd needed at least half an hour more to brush up the trend analysis report—

He clenched his papers even more tightly and speed-walked through the halls, knocking on the door to his boss's office. The golden plaque upon the door shimmered tauntingly, ominously.

Tom Riddle Jr.,

Executive Vice President

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What excuse would Harry possibly give now —?

"Enter," drawled a low baritone voice, smooth and put-together as ever.

Harry slammed the door open, holding out the black coffee his boss had requested. "Sorry, sir. Lines were a bi—"

"Shut up," Riddle said lowly, pleasantly, his casual cadence never changing. He might have been commenting on the weather, for all his tone implied.

But the dark, ominous glint in his stormy eyes said it all. Impending fucking doom alert, Harry's obnoxious internal monologue squealed, as those dark eyes skimmed over Harry's form like he was the most insignificant boy who lived.

Tom Riddle was leaning back in his chair, his chin resting on a fist. The sleeves of his button-up shirt had been rolled up, revealing thick upper-arms that slimmed into powerful forearms. He had loosened his tie at some point, unbuttoning the first two buttons to reveal collarbones corded with thick muscle...

Thick. Powerful. Everything about this man screamed dominance, from his broad shoulders to his ridiculous height. The sharp planes of his face were hollowed out, highlighting his high cheekbones and thin, aquiline nose. As shadows fell across his features, Riddle began to give off serial killer vibes.

Hot serial killer vibes, Harry adjusted with a sulk. He'd give Riddle that much.

And with the way Riddle continued to stare at him in a brooding silence, remaining absolutely still, those serial killer vibes were only growing more and more prominent.

Silences like these weren't exactly uncommon. Riddle was a man of few words… perhaps a man who hated wasting words on his inferiors.

But then, finally, his boss moved.

A palm was stretched in Harry's direction, and the message was quite clear.

Give.

Harry panicked, clutching the papers in his hand a little tighter. Not ready, not ready… not his best work…

"Ah, Sir—"

"Must I remind you of precisely how precarious your situation is?" Riddle drawled, impatience bleeding through, and Harry couldn't help but flinch slightly at the weighted, backhanded comment.

He didn't need another reminder of how he'd gotten this job by mere luck, another reminder of how sorely out of his league Harry was at this company.

A year ago, he'd been waiting outside the recruiter's office to interview for his dream position—Editorial Director of Science Fiction and Fantasy. While Morsmordre mainly published textbooks and other educational materials, its SF & F Department (though limited) was incredibly prestigious. It had published many of Harry's favorite works over the decades… including a certain, beloved fantasy series by J. K. Roaring.

But as soon as he'd seen the other applicants, his future superiors, Harry had known he was screwed. Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini—all these high-achieving East-Coasters from big-name schools like Oxford and Harvard had made Harry's lower-than-average GPA from a state university seem like…

Nothing.

And so, at the precise moment when the recruiter—Narcissa Malfoy— had finished skimming and dismissing Harry's resume right in front of his face, a young lady had stormed into her office.

The woman's face had been red with tears, her hair entangled even as she ran her hand through it. And with dark circles bagging underneath her eyes, she'd looked the part of a madwoman.

"I QUIT!" she had screamed. "HE'S GOING TO KILL ME AT THIS RATE!"

Harry had looked at her, wide-eyed and horrified. But Narcissa had merely stared at the woman dispassionately, as if this was a normal occurrence.

"Well, then," she'd said briskly. "Goodbye, Myrtle."

Then Narcissa had turned to Harry and added, rather hastily, "Look, Mr. Potter, you're vastly unqualified for the Editorial position you're applying for. How would you like to work as a personal assistant for our Vice President of Product Development, Tom Riddle?"

And that was how Harry, a double major in English and Political Science from the University of Washington, had ended up working for a very high-level company at a rather low-level position.

He had thought, naively, that he'd be able to slip in some pieces of his own edited work to his boss. Perhaps attempt to get the 'promotion' Narcissa hadn't been willing to give Harry the first time. But from day one, Riddle had shown zero interest in him… except for his ability to follow orders.

"Black," Riddle said quietly, his eyes skimming over Harry in curiosity.

"Excuse me?" Harry responded, confusion evident in his voice. Riddle continued to look at him quietly, in an evaluative manner, before turning away and responding,

"I like my coffee black."

Those had been Riddle's first words to him.

And that was exactly how their relationship continued to be—with Riddle biting out one-word orders like an illiterate caveman, handing out so many that Harry could barely keep his own timetable straight, let alone begin shoving his Editor's portfolio in Riddle's direction.

Pursing his lips, Harry handed in the papers he'd printed last night.

"Sir, I was unable to complete the calculations for estimated trends in Geometry textbooks—"

"Why? "

Dark eyes pierced Harry on the spot, cold and unsympathetic.

Because I'm not a mathematics or economics major, Harry wanted to scream. Because quite honestly, the things you demand of your personal assistant are a bit insane.

"Because I don't know how to," he said simply, instead.

Mr. Riddle was unappeased. "You don't know… how to?" His voice had dropped dangerously. "We have free Wi-Fi access for employees at this office and you're saying you couldn't look it up and figure it out?" His jaw ticked. "Just how incompetent are you?"

Harry flinched, snatching back the papers. "I'm sorry, Sir. I'll do it right away." Yes, Harry would re-teach himself fucking Multivariable Calculus if it meant finishing this goddamn assignment.

"Is there anything else I'll need to complete before I leave for the weekend?" Harry asked as he turned around, his hand reaching for the door knob—

"Leave?" Riddle asked, sadistic amusement evident in his tone.

Harry stilled, his hand freezing on the door knob as he closed his eyes in defeat.

No fucking way.

"Yeah. Tomorrow's Saturday, " he said, his voice smaller than ever as he turned to face his boss.

Riddle smiled liplessly, displaying his sharp canines. "Whether or not you get the weekend off depends on the quality of your work." His eyes flashed. "At this point, only perfection will save you from dire consequences."

So in other words, Harry was fucked.

But Riddle wasn't finished with him. He tilted his head sideways in contemplation, his eyes narrowing on Harry's mouth. "And some manners would do you good as well."

Harry's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as Riddle… continued to stare at his mouth?

No, Harry realized with amusement, at the offending object in his mouth. He sucked on breakfast lollipops so often he forgot they were in his mouth; he'd merely forgotten to remove it before meeting Riddle.

Harry smirked, removing the lollipop in his mouth at a leisurely enough pace that Riddle's jaw pulsed once more. Ah, the small pleasures in life.

"Better?" Harry asked, the slightest tinge of sarcasm present in his otherwise deferential tone.

Instead of replying, Riddle pounced.

"Sucking on lollipops in front of your superiors. Is this what they teach you at American schools? " Riddle sneered, suddenly losing his cool exterior to violent rage. His boss's rage was unpredictable — striking at the slightest tickle of a feather.

Oh, had Harry mentioned?

Tom Riddle was British.

Harry folded his arms, defiant and defensive all at once. He wasn't about to admit that lollipops were more of a him-thing, really.

He also wasn't about to admit that the American public schooling system was a lot less strict about certain things, like eating in class. From his experiences, anyways.

"Well… among other things. Like chewing gum." Harry grinned, briefly thinking back to the way his middle school peers had traded gum sticks under desks like they were marijuana. "We do have a famous gum wall in Seattle, if you're ever interested—"

Riddle cut him off with a snort. "Thank you. Please return with the documents completed."

Harry saluted him back, smirking to himself as the door swung shut behind him.

Unlike Riddle's previous assistants, who'd lasted less than a month… well, there was a reason Harry had lasted a whole year. He was practically a Riddle-expert by this point — he could handle him in just about any mood, calming his unpredictable bouts of rage into derisive amusement with a well-phrased remark.

Harry sighed as he reached his cubicle, switching on his laptop as he prepared his workspace.

... ... ...

Home.

Harry slumped onto the sofa, dropping his backpack unceremoniously on the floor. He pulled out his laptop with one hand, balancing his pad thai take-out against the cushions and the side of his leg.

Finally, Harry thought. A feeling of contentment flooded him as he drummed his fingers against his piece-of-trash Toshiba, waiting for it to log him in. Because by day, he worked as a lowly assistant to the controlling, egotistical Tom Riddle.

But by night? Harry lived, breathed, and wrote fanfiction.

He navigated to his Archive of Our Own account, automatically checking for comments and kudos on his latest works. Harry was a pretty respected author on the Ao3 website, and the rush of comments that greeted him when he logged back always made him feel so incredibly happy. Like he actually had a purpose in life, other than being a mess-up of a personal assistant.

Harry frequently dabbled in various popular fandoms, like Teen Lions and Marvel. But first and foremost, his top fandom would always be James Evans — J. K. Roaring's legendary, seven-book series about a young wizard who went to Hogwarts and fought Marvolo Gaunt, an evil wizard who plotted to eradicate muggleborns and achieve world domination.

And of course, Harry's OTP (one true pairing) would always be… James/Marvolo.

He'd long since gotten over any feelings of guilt over how messed up the pairing was. Harry revelled in the forbidden, taboo nature of his favorite pairing. The possibilities he could take it in were endless.

He'd gone from writing James/Marvolo fanfiction within the James Evans Wizarding World… to writing the pairing with Alternate Universe tropes: No Magic, Coffee Shop AU, etc.

For instance, Harry was currently writing an Office AU for his OTP… in which James was the poor, overworked assistant and Marvolo was his wicked boss.

He bit his lip in amusement, twiddling the fork in his hand. It probably was hitting a bit too close to home… Harry had been drawing on many of his personal office experiences, lately, to craft every experience as authentically as possible.

But if the interactions between the main pair were influenced by real life events and a certain someone… well, who was going to know?

With a sly, guiltless smile, Harry opened up a fresh Google Drive document and began writing the next chapter… when he was interrupted.

Buzz. Buzz.

It was his Jarvolo discord.

HotDiggoryDog: Holy fucking shit can't believe Lord_Voldemort_ ended it like that.

Harry grinned, knowing exactly what Diggory was referring to.

His favorite Ao3 author of all time, Lord_Voldemort_, had recently published the final chapter of Haunted. And everyone was going nuts.

GingerGorl: WTF. He actually killed off James AND Marvolo in the end. Nobody fucking won.

LavenderBrown: What the… I can't wrap my MIND around this…

Harry chuckled softly, shifting his position on the sofa so that he was lying on his stomach, head supported by his elbows.

He remained quiet, happy to sit and watch the reactions of his friends. For his part, he couldn't say he was exactly surprised. Having read every single one of Lord_Voldemort_'s works thrice over, Harry had a decent grasp on the way the author's mind worked by now. Killing off main characters was no issue for Voldemort.

There was no way of sugar-coating it—Harry was obsessed with Voldemort's writing. He couldn't help it. His favorite author wrote horror so naturally, so beautifully and heart-clenchingly realistic.

Voldemort never strayed far from the genres of horror and psychological thriller. His stories were usually gen as well—focusing on Marvolo's upbringing in the orphanage. Powerful coming-of-age works about how Gaunt grew up to become the villain he was in canon.

Voldemort wrote so impeccably that Harry tended to sympathize with Marvolo by the end of each fic. And every time he fell for Voldemort's characters, his respect for the author grew more and more—

Well, enough fanboying.

Harry plugged into his music and re-opened his blank sheet. Chapter 8, he titled it.

Put your head on my shoulder…

With Paul Anka crooning pure romance into his ears, Harry let the words flow from his fingers… typing faster than he could collect his own thoughts…

Whisper in my ear… baby…

... ... ...

Harry yawned once more, rubbing his tired eyes as he finished typing the last sentence of his report.

He leaned back in his swiveling chair, rolling his shoulders. He craned his neck in the direction of his neighboring cubicles, frowning at the emptiness that greeted him.

Everyone… Hermione, Pansy, Blaise… had already left for weekend. But had Mr. Riddle allowed his own poor assistant, Harry Potter, to leave?

Nope, Harry thought viciously. Because Riddle was the Devil in disguise, a man who held grudges longer than his own life and found a sadistic pleasure in torturing Harry in every way possible... which included making him stay in on Saturdays.

One saucy come-back, a hint of sarcasm… and Riddle had Harry paying for it.

Harry sighed as he began printing his report, logging into his email to kill time.

That was why, during lunch break, Harry was scrolling through his email, bored out of his mind, when he got a notification. And not just any notification—one from Ao3, regarding his most-favorite-of-all-time author in the world.

Lord_Voldemort_ had published… a new fanfiction? Harry clicked furiously at his keyboard, navigating to the work.

His jaw dropped as he read the tags. No horror or psychological torture in sight—it had been replaced by tags like fluff. And romance. And the main shipping was James/Marvolo.

Romance. Voldemort was writing romance. Harry didn't know whether to cry or faint. Because this author was Harry's favorite horror writer of all time—but from the way he wrote fanfiction to the way he replied to comments, he didn't seem to have a romantic, sympathetic bone in his body.

Then again, this was Lord_Voldemort_ . Anything by him was bound to be good.

Glancing sideways at the cubicles around him one last time, Harry drummed his fingers and stuck his usual breakfast lollipop back in his mouth. Reading at office was never a good idea. But when it came to Voldemort, he could never resist.

He clicked on the first chapter, thrumming with anticipation.

This was going to be an experience.

... ... ...

Harry leaned forward in his seat, a secret smile slowly whispering across his mouth.

Lord_Voldemort_ was writing an Office AU. Just like Harry.

The plot was already amazing, and the main character was as masculine and powerful as Voldemort always seemed to write him. He was a successful Vice President, at a publishing company.

Harry couldn't help but snigger at the irony. God, this seemed weirdly similar to his own current fanfiction. Except that, of course, Voldemort was writing from Marvolo's perspective…

Most Jarvolo authors—Harry included—tended to write from James's perspective. Simply because it made more sense: James was the protagonist in canon, his voice was familiar and almost comforting.

But Voldemort always wrote from Marvolo's perspective… perhaps because his writing style and author's voice was more suited for Marvolo. Perfect for it, in fact.

And a fluffy, romance fanfiction would be no exception that rule, it seemed.

Harry's eyes widened as he reached the part where James was being introduced.

… Green eyes sparkled madly behind spectacles as the man sucked the pink, baseball-shaped lollipop out of his mouth. "Yes, Gaunt?" the man intoned, rudely and impatiently, unaware of the shamelessly appealing picture he'd been painting a moment earlier.

"Sir," Marvolo corrected, and the green-eyed man had the audacity to smirk.

"No need to call me 'Sir,' Gaunt."

Harry's mouth fell open, choking and releasing the lollipop in his mouth.

Wh-what?

His breath left him in one go as Harry leaned back in his chair, mouth gaping in an undoubtedly unattractive fashion. His mind swirled as he processed the very first interaction between the main pairing… Voldemort's very first, non-platonic written interaction.

Damn. Voldemort really made James seem like a prat in this one.

Harry sat back up, twiddling a pen in his hand.

How… original.

Intrigued beyond measure, Harry leaned forward and continued reading the fanfiction. And by god, how could he have ever doubted Voldemort's ability to write romance? Well… perhaps not romance… but sexual tension, hot and steamy and stomach-twistingly good, seemed to waft off of his work desktop in heady waves.

Voldemort was a fucking god.

His words dripped lust, making Harry's mouth water and his head dizzier than ever. Every glance between characters felt like a burning gaze upon himself… every touch between the pairing grazed him as well.

How could a writer have such a way with words? To be able to chill Harry to the bone in one fic, and make him shudder with warm gooeyness in another?

One thing was certain. If this was how Voldemort continued to write, future chapters of this would not be safe for work.

Harry continued to read anyway. He remained unaware as people filed back in after the lunch break had ended. He was so absorbed in the gorgeous, magnetic interactions of his OTP, breath hitching at every second moment until…

He reached the cliffhanger at the end.

Harry suppressed a groan, still fixated on the last words of the protagonist.

Of course, there was a cliffhanger. Voldemort never failed to leave horrible cliffhangers on purpose.

"How else will I keep you ensnared?" he'd once stated at the end of an update, one of his few interactions with his fans.

Harry immediately began scrolling through the comments. Not that Voldemort ever replied. In fact, he rarely addressed any of the comments at the beginnings of each chapter, always preferring to "leave his readers in mystery."

He shook his head fondly—Harry had never been able to resist responding to comments on his own fics, no matter how many he got these days.

Still. None of these habits seemed to detract from Voldemort's fame and success on Ao3. Let alone Roaring's — Voldemort's own following was incredible. His most avid readers and fans called him, "My Lord" out of some mutual-founded respect. And somehow, they all seemed to know each other… intimately…

Harry's eyes stuttered on an interesting chain of comments.

Ferret-Face: Still can't believe you're writing romance! Still wondering if there were any… real-life influences on this decision? xD

Bellabitch: How dare you suggest such a thing! Our Lord is way too hot and unattainable.

Ummmm: uh hot? How do you know?

Luscious_M: If you must know, newbie, Lord_Voldemort has a private, exclusive discord for his most loyal fans.

Harry stopped reading. He may have even stopped breathing.

A discord?

An exclusive discord? Where Voldemort showed his face and spoke to fans?

Harry's mind raced, his heart palpitating in excitement. He had to get on there. By any means possible—

"What are you reading? " a low, sharp voice spoke from behind him, and Harry's heart jumped out of his chest, knowing precisely who was behind him.

He switched the Ao3 tab to his email and swiveled around. But it was no use. Riddle had already seen exactly what Harry had been up to, during work hours, when he was supposed to be printing, proofreading…

Harry cursed internally, teeth gritting. Why had Riddle chosen now, of all times, to 'check up' on him?

Riddle towered above him, his handsome face contorted in an expression of pure incredulity.

"Was that…"

Harry's eyes widened.

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it, he chanted in his mind, pleading.

"... fanfiction?"

The office fell to a dead silence.

The heads that had remained in the mostly-barren office on Saturday swiveled in Harry's direction. Whispers and mutters floated through the air, gossip traveling faster than the speed of light.

Harry buried his head in his hands, face burning. A million thoughts and emotions fleeting through him.

Fuck shit no crap no fuc—

"No," Harry lied unconvincingly, his voice broken and dead and monotone. Because this was literally his worst nightmare coming to life.

He looked up at Riddle, only to find the man, predictably, staring at him in silence... stone-faced, emotionless.

"No!" Harry said again, sharply, almost vehemently, and then he tried to laugh it off awkwardly. But nothing was working, nothing was making this situation go away because nothingever seemed to go his way—

He gestured wildly to his screen. "That was just… a little manuscript, personal writing project I've been working on…" Harry trailed off, face burning hotter than ever. He'd never been a good liar.

Please, let me die already.

But of course, the situation had to get worse. Riddle was now staring intently at the Internet tab Harry had just switched from, his eyes narrowing as he read the tab's title...

Riddle's expression shifted completely.

It was one Harry had never seen on his face before. His eyebrows shot up, his dark eyes were wider than ever—burning with curiosity. His jaw had dropped slightly, his lips glistening as if he'd just licked them.

And then the most curious thing of all happened.

Riddle blushed.

A distinct redness flooded the high cheekbones of Mr. Riddle, the epitome of manliness and dominance, and Harry couldn't stop staring in wonder, wondering how such a phenomenon had possibly happened —

"Then why is that browser tab titled, 'Lord Voldemort' ?" Riddle asked, his face cleared of any redness within mere seconds—so fast, Harry could have sworn he'd imagined it.

As for the man's voice, it was thicker than usual.

As if... Riddle was mortified.

But why? Harry wondered, momentarily distracted from his own plight. Because this situation was already horrifyingly surreal enough without his boss turning into some blushing mai—

"Answer me," Riddle commanded in a colder, firmer voice, his face once again wiped of all emotion and, oh yes, he was back to being the unemotional, unforgiving, Greek-sculpted devil of Harry's nightmares and daily existence—

Answer me.

Why is that browser tab titled, 'Lord Voldemort'?

Because he's my favorite author on Ao3—

Because I was just reading his recent work, 'Green-Eyed Monster' — which I strongly recommend by the way —

Harry couldn't say any of these. He'd already put his foot in his mouth and stated that it was his manuscript, his personal writing project, in the first place.

So instead, he opted to lean back in his chair and lie out of his ass.

"Well, that's my pen name. On the website where I write." Harry shrugged and nodded his head, as if those actions alone confirmed the authenticity of his words.

In an instant, the atmosphere seemed to change.

Riddle's eyebrows furrowed, his mouth twisting indecipherably. His eyes narrowed and darkened in a heady mixture of amusement and fury. And although Harry couldn't understandwhy it had taken Riddle so long to get mad at him, he didn't understand why his supposed 'pen name' was what really drove his boss off the deep end, as opposed to the fact that Harry had been blatantly slacking off…

"Is that so… Lord Voldemort ?" Riddle asked, his tone dark and dangerous and tinged with heavy sarcasm.

Harry felt a very ominous tug in his stomach.