Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

A/N: Hey wow I'm still alive. And still writing this. I've been devoting more time to a different story (a very M-rated vampire H/D story), but I won't post that until I've finished this one. So in the meantime…another chapter.

Thirteenth to Fifth

Never Say No

"Professor."

Severus looked up from his computer, smiling when he saw the small, but less emaciated, dancer. "Harry. I'm glad to see you," he said genuinely.

Harry grinned back for a moment before the smile faded into a look of seriousness that put Severus on edge. "I'm thinking of dropping out."

For a minute Severus thought he had heard wrong. Harry Potter, dance prodigy, wanted to drop out. Harry must have sensed his professor's confusion.

"I'm serious. I'm thinking of leaving the school."

"You…" Severus closed his eyes and counted to ten to calm himself. He had no idea what brought this on, but it couldn't be anything good. Yesterday Harry had been thrilled to be back at school, and today he wanted to quit? "Did Tom put you up to this?" he growled, already getting out of his seat and stalking over to where Harry was leaning against the door frame. Slowly, he reached both hands out and put them on Harry's shoulders, gently drawing the boy inside his office before he snapped the door shut.

Harry shook his head. "No, he didn't. I promise."

"In that case, what the fuck are you thinking?" Severus asked angrily. He dropped his hands and stepped away from Harry, putting the desk in between them so teen would feel more comfortable. Even with their physical distance, he could tell that Harry was tense and hyper-alert now that it was apparent Severus was angry.

"That was not a rhetorical question, Mr. Potter," the professor drawled.

"I...I just think it would be better this way. I mean—"

"Are you planning to join Riddle? Honestly?" Severus crossed his arms and sat down, steeling his face into an expression that didn't betray his shock. Of all the things he had heard Harry say, that he was going to drop out of school had been the most surprising.

Harry shrugged and fiddled with his backpack straps. "No. Not really."

"Then why drop out? Why give up?"

A familiar fire lit in Harry's eyes and Severus felt a sliver of relief.

"It's not giving up!" Harry exclaimed. "It's…being smart."

"Apparently, 'smart,' in this case, is a very debatable concept," Severus mentioned, one eyebrow raised. "I'm afraid you'll have to continue your explanation."

Harry pursed his lips, drawing them into a thin line. "Okay. I—"

"Sit down, Harry, please," Severus interrupted, waving his hand at the chair across from the desk. He glanced to the clock. "We have half an hour until classes start, so why we don't we talk for a while."

Harry obediently sat down, letting his backpack fall to the floor with a thud. "Tom is serious about this. I just…I guess I just realized it last night."

"What inspired this realization?" Severus wondered. He was surprised Harry hadn't arrived at this conclusion before now. Tom Riddle was not known for doing things half-way; his offers were all or nothing. Of course that monster was serious about this.

Instead of giving a verbal response, Harry leaned down and pulled something out of his backpack. Severus's heart clenched when the objects were casually laid on the desk, as if they were textbooks or papers. Instead, though, lying on his desk was a handgun and a sleek black phone.

Well, Tom was serious. And strangely, Tom trusted Harry not to kill him with that very gun, so clearly Harry had passed some sort of test. The only question was if Harry passed that test intentionally or not.

Whose side was Harry on?

Severus glared at the boy. "Are you insane?" he hissed. "You could be expelled just for bringing that into the school."

Harry shrugged and swept the gun and the phone off the table. Severus was a little unnerved by how easily Harry handled the gun, thin fingers automatically brushing over the safety and expertly pressing the magazine release. The clip dropped from the gun and into the backpack, and Harry let the rest of the weapon fall a moment later. The phone was slipped into his jacket pocket.

"I know. Remember how we began this conversation?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "Watch your tone, Potter," he chided, although his voice lacked any real bite. "So Tom gave you a gun and a phone, and you decide to drop out."

Harry dropped his gaze to his lap. "I haven't decided. I…wanted to hear what you would say."

"It should be clear that I disagree with your idea. Very much so. And I will go to great lengths to make sure it doesn't happen."

The dancer looked up quickly, and Severus saw surprise in his green eyes. "You would…stop me?"

"As much as I could, yes. I would. I think this school is your connection to everything good in your life now, and I won't have you throw it away because you got a deadly toy."

Harry seemed to consider this. "Oh."

"So you have a gun. Why drop out? I'm afraid I don't understand the connection," Severus mentioned.

The teen in front of him squirmed uncomfortably. "I don't think I'm leaving Tom any time soon." He must have caught Severus's dark look because he quickly clarified. "No! Not by choice. I just don't think I'll be able to leave. And I'd rather drop out here than be expelled because I'm missing classes, or I show up too injured to dance properly, or—"

"Are you injured now?" Severus said, sitting up straight and peering intently at Harry, searching for any sign of pain.

"Nothing new, no. But working so close to Tom is bound to rough me up a little. How many times can I lie about how I got injured?"

"How about this: don't get injured," the chemistry professor suggested.

Harry rolled his eyes. "That's not a very practical solution to the problem."

"Why not? You may not realize it, but you are in a position to bargain. Tom trusts you enough to give you a gun, so I assume he has provided you with other important information, information that could potentially be used against him." Harry considered. Though technically Snape was right, with the police in Tom's pocket the information wouldn't do much good, really. "Just make it clear that you expect to be physically able to attend dance classes. Trust me, he'll agree."

"How do you know?"

Snape threw the dancer a disbelieving look. "Harry, I know the man we're talking about. Very well, actually."

"Right. Okay. I'll…I'll bring it up, tonight."

"You will not be coming to the apartment, then?"

Harry shook his head with a frown. "No. I'm sorry."

"If you wish to spend nights at my apartment, you are always welcome," Severus said seriously. "Always. No matter what."

Harry smiled, his eyes suspiciously watery. Severus's words sounded like what he imagined a father's words would be. "Yeah. Thanks," he choked out, blinking and looking at his lap to hide his tearing eyes.

Severus was a little more perceptive than Harry gave him credit for, but he stayed quiet for a moment to let the boy collect himself. "Was there anything else, Harry? How was last night?"

"It was fine. Tom just gave me some papers of financial information—we have some meeting tomorrow—and we had dinner. I visited some friends in the district."

"Anything interesting happen?"

"Yeah, but just stupid friend stuff. Being a known Death Eater doesn't go over well in my usual circle," Harry muttered.

Severus's look was sharp. "But you are uninjured."

"Yeah," Harry said, waving it off. "Just some hard words to hear. But it'll be fine."

"All right."

"Thanks, Professor. I kinda want to track down Draco before class starts," Harry mentioned, his gaze finally flicking upward to look at his professor.

"Of course," Severus replied, already going back to the work on his desk.

…

Harry took a bracing breath and threw the double doors to Tom's room open without knocking. "Let's talk," he said sharply, glad his voice didn't betray him. Tom looked up nonchalantly from where he was reading in bed.

"Come, join me," the older man said smoothly, giving Harry a quick once over. "Those clothes look very good on you."

Harry pursed his lips and walked up to the bed, close enough that his knees were brushing the ornate mahogany frame.

Tom raised an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a smirk so pronounced it should have been sleazy, but like everything Tom did, he managed to make it look elegant. Harry felt a flash of anger burn through him, but he didn't truly understand why. "Really, Harry, on the bed. Now."

"It's like you're incapable of having professional conversations with me," Harry muttered, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. Tom's eyebrow twitched again and Harry realized that this was a battle he was not going to win, so he climbed onto the bed, folding his legs under him a small distance away from his boss.

"I assure you," Tom purred, tossing his book onto the nightstand and leaning back against the pillows, his dark eyes still roaming over Harry, "I am quite capable of being professional. But with you, why would I want to be? What a waste," he finished, and Harry couldn't control the shiver that dropped from his neck all the way down his spine. He felt like a caged animal.

"You could be my father," Harry stated flatly, although he couldn't bring himself to look Tom in the eye.

The man laughed quietly. "Is this what you came to discuss?" he asked, and Harry was glad for the reminder.

"No. I want to talk about school."

"Ah. Of course."

"I want a guarantee that I won't be too injured to dance. I can't get away with many more absences in my dance classes this year; I used up most of them with Vernon as is. I don't want to be expelled," he said firmly.

"I understand."

"And? I'm here, I'm obviously not leaving any time soon, but you promised I could attend school and I can only do that if I don't get the shit beaten out of me every other week."

"Agreed."

"So fucking say something," Harry snapped, frustration driving him to look up into Tom's dark eyes. They were narrowed in consideration.

Tom sighed and sat upright, leaning towards Harry. "You're smart, kid. You know I can't guarantee anything. But I can promise you that I won't send you out alone, and I won't send you where I know you're walking into some shit. How's that?"

Harry considered. Realistically, it was probably the best that Tom could do. Being a member of a gang wasn't exactly safe work.

"What exactly do you want me to do, except follow you around?" he wondered.

Tom shrugged with one shoulder. "That'll come later. Right now, you're my shadow. You just follow me around. Learn what you can, observe, put two and two together. Like I said: you're smart. You'll figure it out. Now," he clapped his hands suddenly and Harry flinched back reflexively, making Tom pause and then drop his hands. "We have some work to do with that new toy of yours."

"The gun?"

"Your gun, yes," he replied, swinging his legs off the bed and holding his hand out to Harry, who ignored it and got off the bed himself. "Let's go to the shooting range, huh? Have a little fun."

"I have homework," Harry muttered, even as he followed Tom out the door.

"You need to lighten up every once in a while. Besides, it's Saturday. You have all day tomorrow to do homework," the gang leader pointed out, throwing a wink at the dancer. "Get your coat. And change. We're going out after."

"We are, are we?" the teen grumbled, but he dutifully walked back down the hall to his room, where Tom let him enter alone. He didn't take long to change, stripping his dance clothes off and tugging a pair of jeans on along with a black button-up shirt. Then his warm winter coat and a scarf to wrap around his neck. A brief glance in the mirror revealed a boy so put together Harry had trouble believing it was really him.

How quickly life changes, he realized with a pang, trying not to think of his old friends that he had all but left behind in Thirteenth. Or think about Snape, who he was just starting to get along with but could only see during school. Or Draco, who he hardly spent any time with anymore. Now his life seemed to revolve around Tom: stunning, mysterious, dangerous, Tom.

Harry glared at his reflection before tucking the gun into the back of his pants and leaving his room, shutting the door with a snap and rejoining Tom, who had since donned his own coat. "I'm ready," he said, but he felt anything but.

…

The gun was heavy and warm in his hands, the sights lined up and the target in focus twenty-five feet in front of him. Three shots and the paper to the left of the center was puckered with three neat spots, all within a three centimeter circle.

Large hands slid over his lower back and gripped his waist, pulling him backwards just enough until he was off-balance and couldn't correct. Harry clicked the safety on and lowered his arms, awkwardly stumbling back into Tom's chest. The older man tugged the ear protectors off both their heads and tossed them on the bench nearby.

"Decent shooting for your first time," Tom muttered, looking over Harry's shoulder to the target.

Harry shrugged. "It's not my first time," he corrected, and Tom hummed in soft acknowledgement.

"Are your arms tired?" the man wondered.

"A little."

"Then keep going," he ordered, moving his hands from Harry's waist to his shoulders, and pushing the dancer forward until he was balanced again, although his hands remained in place.

After donning his ear protectors Harry raised the weapon and started firing, adjusting his stance and grip as Tom instructed. After several more rounds, Tom's hands fell away from his shoulders, sliding down his back and running over his ribs to push down over his abdominals. Harry jerked, his next shot not even landing on the page.

"Seriously, Tom," Harry bit out, trying to step away from the man's wandering hands. They turned to iron on his hips, refusing to let him move.

"Sorry, pet, you're just so cute," Tom drawled.

Harry rolled his eyes and looked down to the gun in his hand. It had two bullets left. How easy it would be to kill Tom here and now. Harry almost laughed at the thought: he was no killer and he knew it. He could and would fight someone, he enjoyed it to some extent, but he wasn't a killer. He tried once, but he wasn't Tom.

"Call me 'Pet' again, Tom," Harry warned.

Tom's lips moved to brush the shell of his ear.

"Pet," he whispered, his voice lilting in amusement.

Harry just about broke the man's foot.

…

This time, Harry was prepared to wake up in Tom's bed. He wasn't even particularly shocked that he wasn't wearing any clothes save his boxers. Sunday morning sunlight came through the windows, making Tom's bedroom and office appear deceptively innocent. The only thing out of place were the twin handguns resting quietly on the desk. Harry rolled over, wondering how many guns Tom kept near him at all times.

Quite a few, he would guess, going by the gun that was poking out from beneath Tom's pillow and the one that Harry knew he kept in the drawer by his nightstand. He assumed the ones on the desk were the guns he and Tom wore out of the gun range and into the club last night.

Tom was splayed out in front of him, the white comforter thrown away to reveal Tom's toned and pale chest. His dark chest hair didn't do much to disguise the scars that wrapped around his abdominals and rib cage. The scar just above Tom's heart was surprisingly big, Harry thought. He'd never gotten the chance to see the old wound—he was too busy running for his life—but he imaged a bullet wouldn't have left that much external damage. His hand moved forward automatically, reaching out so his fingers could tentatively trace the scar and the tattoo that did its best to cover it.

He nearly screamed when Tom's warm hand grabbed his own before his fingers even touched the man's chest. Harry looked at his face; Tom's eyes weren't even open.

"Jesus, Tom, I wasn't going to do anything," Harry exclaimed, yanking his hand back.

Tom laughed, stretching his arms above his head and finally opening his eyes to look over at the teen in his bed. He wiggled his fingers at Harry. "Sorry. Reflex. It's a lovely little scar, isn't it?" he asked lightly. Harry wasn't sure what kind of territory he was on, and he immediately regretted his original interest.

"You know why I didn't have you killed? Why I didn't kill you myself?" Tom asked softly.

Harry rolled over on his stomach and propped himself up on his elbows. "No."

Tom paused, one hand now tracing the scar on his chest. "At first I told myself it was because the risk was too high. You were pretty well known in Thirteenth—still are, I suppose. You had routines…I had you followed, of course. Soup kitchen on most weekday nights: you never missed two nights in a row. You hung around that hole of a church on the weekends, hoping to nick some warm clothes, no doubt. And of course, that redhead family loved you like their own. If you disappeared someone would have caused a fuss."

"So you were put off by the possibility of a 'fuss'?" Harry asked doubtfully.

Tom chuckled. "Not really, no."

Tom moved too fast for Harry to react. One second he was patiently listening to Tom's story, and another he was face up on the bed, Tom on top of him, and a gun pressed in between his eyes. He blinked. The barrel of the gun moved slowly down his nose and over his lips, trailing down to settle on his neck. "No. The real reason I didn't kill you is because I never in a million years did I think you would have the balls to pull that trigger. The wrong end of your gun wasn't the only barrel I've stared down; men I thought to be many times your worth couldn't bring themselves to do it. And you, an eleven-year-old kid, did."

"If I didn't shoot you, you would have killed me," Harry said with a shrug. "And I was super high."

That got a smile out of Tom. "Even so, you took a damn good shot at the most powerful gang lord in the city. I can respect that for what it is. And at the time, I respected that for what it would become," he whispered, leaning closer and moving the gun down to press into the skin just above Harry's pounding heart.

There was a look in Tom's eyes that Harry couldn't place. It was wild and deadly, the kind of expression that promised great things or terrible things, nothing in between. Not for the first time, Harry wondered if he was going to die. But instead of shooting him in the heart, Tom leaned forward and kissed him so hard the breath rushed out of his lungs.

The kiss was intense but quick: Tom's lips were pressed against his and then there was space between them again. Harry dragged in a breath and Tom followed the rise and fall of the dancer's chest with hungry eyes.

"This is so wrong," Harry whispered, shaking his head.

Tom could be his father. A young father, but still. Perhaps more importantly, Tom was a career criminal who belonged behind bars.

The man grinned and leaned closer once more. "Do you want me to stop?" he whispered.

Harry dragged his gaze up to meet Tom's. He opened his mouth to say 'yes.'

"No."

The dancer knew Tom wouldn't have stopped anyway.

Love you all!

-Wykkyd