Title: In the Style of a Lover
Author: purplefluffycat
Characters/Pairings: Tom Riddle/Horace Slughorn
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Alternate pairing: Horace Slughorn/anyone (but another catch -- they must be engaging in sexual activity for some non-romantic reason, e.g. manipulation, deals involving sex, information gathering...)
Other Warnings: Tom is 16, orgasm denial
Word Count: ~3150
Summary/Description: Tom Riddle has heard of Horcruxes, but now he needs more information. He suspects his gullible Housemaster will once again be the man to provide it. These are extracts from the diary found in the Chamber of Secrets.

Author's Notes: Of course, I couldn't resist using dear Horace in the February anti-Valentine's theme - but here's a twist on the prompt: he appears in this fic not as the manipulator, but as the manipulated party. (Also, sorry it's slightly late!).

7th February, 1943

The position as it stands: I confirmed my suspicions and Horcruxes are definitely the way forward. Many of them; dozens, even. The idea seems beautiful. It’s so simple.

I shall not die.

The library provides only the merest glimpse, of course. ‘Magick Moste Evile’? Ha! The book must have been written by a cowardly imbecile. Even Borgin and Burkes have nothing more.

After that illuminating chat with Slughorn, I have spent today in research, but alas have found nothing other than that the old man told me. These basics are clearly insufficient: a précised account fit only for a textbook. What I need is the incantation; the protocol for actually doing it.

So, I ponder from where that might come. Anyone with deeper understanding – a handful of these teachers, perhaps – would likely know the answer or where to find it, but it would be far too risky to ask any more questions directly; Slughorn was already beginning to look uneasy during our sweet little ‘academic conversation’, just now.

- Yet, I cannot shake the feeling that my poor, gullible Housemaster might once again be just the man to help me? I just need a more subtle means; some leverage...

Of course, implicit in the anointment is the fact that he is not without merit. As teachers go, Sulghorn is clearly one of the most knowledgeable - aside from that blasted Dumbledore, that is, but the less said about him, the better. No, Slughorn has far more insight and cleverness than the bumbling exterior cares to admit. And I thoroughly intend to make use of it, regardless of his failures:

He calls himself a Slytherin, but he is sadly recalcitrant on Salazar's true cause. He invites mediocre half-bloods to his soirées - mudbloods, even! - and treats them on level terms. He follows their shameful progress into the world after Hogwarts, and absorbs the reflected glory, just as he does with students of more honourable blood. One would have assumed that a man so discerning in matters of wine, food and entertainment might think to extend the same care to the choice of company he keeps - but apparently not so.

No matter, the disappointments of the man are not of relevance to my use for him. -And so we come to the point: the delightful thing about Slughorn is that he is so easily manipulable. Just a turn of the head; a flattering remark; an eager question phrased to frame his superior grasp of the subject... and he will spill anything. [Kettleburn, the old freak, is not long for this world, so he says. The Minister will soon be lowering the age of wizarding majority to seventeen. Grindelwald is brewing a mighty cause in Prussia, and only a meddling Englishman may stop him - but gloriously, all is yet to play for.]

Well, he will spill almost anything. Slughorn knows something more about immortality - I can feel it. He discussed Horcruxes - the barest details - but them clammed up and would say no more. He must realise it is too restricted even for the Restricted Section. I know that he has studied abroad - Eastern Europe, Durmstrang, Romania - the very opportunities available to a moneyed pureblood in the nineteenth century and denied so unjustly to one with a father as disgusting as mine. They study the Dark Arts openly in those countries. Salazar would be proud.

- And this misguided, fumbling Housemaster of mine has rejected those teachings in order to be equananimous and fat and comfortable here, inviting mudbloods to tea. Well! If he will not do the right thing with the information he has, then I jolly well shall.

But first, I need to extract it from him.

A man such as Slughorn is discrete in such matters, but I am pretty sure that he favours males to females in matters carnal. This can only be to my advantage. It would be false modesty to deny that I am good-looking: height, build and symmetry have all been kind to me, and my smile is captivatingly charismatic. There is nothing that loosens the tongue like the throes of passion. It should be easy to reel him in.



*****

11th February, 1943

Investigations have revealed that Slughorn is indeed a wizard who prefers wizards, and rumours I have picked up from students with older siblings suggest that he prefers them young. Excellent.

Now then, to initiate the plan.



*****

14th February, 1943

I went in to the forest this afternoon, in search of a half-breed. Only a small one, mind - that oaf, Hagrid had said he was talking with a foal just the other day. A full-size one would have taken the injury too far, that is for sure.

I called its name - 'Bane', apparently. Oh, so apt - and took with me the arrow that the idiot had said it had lost: 'Poor little thing, 'e was. Bein' bullied by the others 'cause 'e 'asn't learnt to shoot straight...'. My heart bleeds.

It did not take long to attract the unsavoury creature and engage it in simple conversation. I feigned interest at first, and it responded, too young as yet to have learned the wariness of its kind. From there, it was easy to turn the exchange sour: Why, precisely, young beast, have you not honed the skills of your people? By the time you are grown, humans will have demolished this forest. Then where will you roam? What a ridiculous colour for a coat..."

Amusingly, it was the last of those remarks that did it. I was circling the beast, and came to a halt just behind its rear legs. The reaction was perfect: it kicked me, just where I had aimed it - a purplish bruise forming within minutes low over my right hip and across my stomach.

I was winded, but it was nothing serious. In fact, it was exactly what was needed.

During the course of the afternoon, I enhanced the mark with a few charms I devised last week. It worked very well, and makes me ponder: could one create such a mark de novo, without the initial injury? I like the dark colours lurking there, beneath the skin; they speak of courage and diligence. Ultimately, of power. For if one can master pain and damage of the flesh, surely one can also master death?

I took care to look sickly during dinner - eating little, but positioned at the head of the Slytherin table such that the staff could see the pained look with which I pushed away my plate. Then, after curfew, to the Housemasters' suite in the dungeons.

He appeared wearing a nightcap and those ridiculous heliotrope pyjamas, at first suspicious of the knock and taken aback when it was me.

"Sir, I'm..." I feigned timidity, "I'm very sorry to trouble you at such an anti-social hour." I arranged my features into contrition - mixed with admiration. The old fool falls for it every time.

He recovered quickly, and bade me come in. Keeping the very same earnest expression, I pressed my lips and wrung my hands, saying that I had a confession to make - and that I daren't go to the hospital wing about it for fear of punishment, but I was really quite worried, and being such a kind and fair soul - not to mention a prodigiously-talented wizard - I thought that he could perhaps provide the succour I needed... Really, I'm moved just recalling the very verisimilitude of the scene. Ha.

- Hook, line and sinker, of course. When it transpired that my transgression had been to merely wander a little too far into the Forest, bonhomie and brushing-under-the-carpet surged forth from his rheumy eyes, along with much nudging and winking about 'keeping it to ourselves' and 'one must apply rules flexibly with the right people, what'. Precisely the atmosphere I was trying to evoke, naturally.

And then, when it was further revealed that I had been injured - well! The concern was writ large. Within a moment I was being invited to recline on the couch and show him the affliction.

I took my time over this part. I perched on the daybed gingerly and parted my robes, revealing a hint of chest and stomach. I watched him carefully from under my lashes, fluttering in mock-modesty. Then, with an artful flinch of pain I laid supine, unbuttoning slowly. My trousers were resting low on my hips, leaving little to the imagination. The darkened mar across my side served only to emphasise the beauty of my form - slim, firm and lightly muscled, I was surely any old queen's fantasy.

So there I was, at his mercy in the dark, whispering night, smiling trustingly and benignly with admiration in my eyes. How could he not but fall for it?

I felt his gaze roaming across my body - yes, that's it, old man, I thought. A thick, pink tongue darted out from the corner of his mouth, and a stubby hand hovered a few inches from my torso - go on, touch. Unravel yourself. I moaned lightly and flexed upward into his palm. As his fingers alighted on my warm smooth skin, the old man caught his breath and lingered there. Yes! You know you want to. I can be all yours...

The moment hung in the balance. His eyes dilated, and a tiny bead of perspiration formed between his bushy eyebrows. I looked up longingly, the very picture of a curious innocent wishing for his deflowering to be kind.

And then Slughorn snatched his hand away, as if he had been burnt. "Nasty bruise there, young man. But we'll fix you up no time. Let me just go and get a potion from my store-cupboard." He lumbered next door, and the moment was gone.

I was duly dispatched with a healant and a hearty clap on the back into the dark corridor.

Blast the man; it was so close! Clearly time for another plan.



*****

4th April, 1943

Having bided my time for a few months, the analysis is obvious: despite his shadier proclivities, Slughorn is afflicted with a conscience.

My first attempt clearly hit the wrong triggers - when a professor likes to fuck students, he tries to pretend that they are equal parties in the endeavour; a veil of consensuality hushes those irritating moral doubts. My presentation was tantalising, of course - but seemed too vulnerable.

Now then, to showcase the side of me he has rightly seen all along: the blossoming young adult, fully in charge of his own destiny. Oh, if only the old fool knew.



*****

6th April, 1943

I didn't approach Slughorn in the middle of the night this time; we needed a situation that was cool, natural and grown-up - not clandestine and frightening for him. It was the end of the Slug Club meeting and, as ever, I was the last one to leave. It has become something of a tradition on Thursday evenings - the others make their way out and, just as I move to collect my hat, I'm struck by another marvellously clever thought that I just have to share, and get invited back to the sofa for a glass of the good stuff and a further chat. We've built up quite a rapport - not all of it vacuous, even. The man has decent intellect; if only he had a spine to go with it.

So, this evening unfolded just as predicted. We discussed wand lore for a while - quite interesting, to be frank. And then, when it seemed again time for me to leave, I shook his hand, held on to it for a moment longer than usual, and said my piece: "Sir, I shan't mince my words about this, as we are both grown men." I paused for an artful shrug; insouciance was the key. "The thing is, I find you very attractive."

I eyeballed him, a confident smile on my lips as the words hung in the air. Slughorn boggled rather, his face a mixture of ecstasy and disbelief.

It was clear that I had to seal the deal, so I moved forward, and cupped his bewhiskered cheek in my palm, in the style of a lover. He was paralysed and oh, so willing, and it was childs' play to bring our mouths together. That did it, then; he is mine.

The rest of the evening passed as one might expect: a fair deal of fumbling, oral to completion on his part, and several vows of discretion and secrecy. That is fine by me; I'm in no rush. The longer I take to make him truly soft and pliable, the greater my reward will be in due course.



*****

1st July, 1943

Now that Slughorn and I have been intimate for nearly three months, I'm feeling increasingly able to push him where I want him.

I like to make him beg for it.

There he is, huffing and sweating, skin flushed pink and huge belly all aquiver upon the sheets, and I... casually withdraw. "Oh, please..." he cries, eyes squeezed shut as his cock leaks plaintively. "Please let me..."

I smile and pretend to be indecisive. He bucks into the air and squirms a little more.

Then, I introduce little tests into our game. I'll let him come if he tells me a complex incantation, translates some runes, or finds the solution to an arithmancy test. Obediently, he racks his brains and comes up with the right answer - never questioning that he should have to - and sweet relief is painted across his chubby cheeks when I reward him with another touch. He likes the submission and is exhilarated by it being at the hands of someone so young. All perfect training, of course.

...It has all been building up to what happened this evening.

We started with the usual foreplay: him disrobing me like a child in a sweet-shop, getting to touch and taste all those firm planes and inviting hollows that he was so afraid to enjoy before. Then I kissed him as if I meant it, and pulled him to his bedroom in the guise of one who has captured the object of his lust. Indeed, flattery does work every time.

He worked in earnest at pleasuring me - and, I admit, he isn't bad. That old mouth must have had a fair few cocks in it over the years, and what might be lacking in agility can, to a certain extent, be made up with technique. The orgasm was pleasant, and he suckled it down.

Then, of course, came the part that - ironically - we had both been waiting for. I started to stroke his cock gently, reverently muttering sweet nothings about his size and virility. He loves my voice almost as much as my touch.

Soon, he was squirming and breathing hard, whispering for more. I took him into my mouth and swallowed deep, but then pulled away to leave his member bobbing in the chilly air. Time for the first test: "What are the twelve uses for Dragon's blood?"

He gave a pitiful cry, but flushed with greater arousal at the challenge. In a quivering voice, the scholarship came tumbling out.

"Very good," I said, and rewarded him by climbing astride his fat body. He sighed at the contact and reached out for me tenderly. "So, what would you like most, today?"

I like to give him a choice: it all adds to that sense of trust and collaborative spirit. Sometimes he likes it up the arse - long and slow, writhing for hours on my fingers, then my cock. He finds it difficult to come like that, but adores the torture of the ride. Poor lamb.

Today, though, it was pretty clear that he wanted something more direct. So, with great inarticulate noises of approval as my backdrop, I prepared myself, and impaled my body on his fat cock. It wasn't unpleasant, but, of course, my mind was on other things.

I started to move, and he bucked upward into the rhythm; the big, powerful gyrations of a walrus on heat. His gaze seemed star-crossed; he must have been getting quite close.

Then, at the critical moment: "Tell me, Horace," I whispered - he loves it when I use his first name -"How do you make a Horcrux?"

"Aaaahhh..." No answer while he was fucking me, so I moved away. His face was wreathed in panic at the loss, then he remembered the question. "You kill someone - Dark magic, no mercy killing, you know that - and then..." I tweaked his nipple to keep him keen. "Aaaaagh..."

"Yes, I do know that." I kept the impatience from my voice. "And then?"

"And then, you..." Slughorn thrust into the open air, so I forced down his hips, keeping him obedient. "Aaaagh ...Then you take an object that you have already pre-spelled to receive..."

"An object?" I was alert to every syllable. "Any object?"

"Well technically yes. But it will work better if it's something special; something symbolic. Something that the caster actually wants to keep a piece of their soul inside." It came out all of a tumble.

My mind reeled with the possibilities: something precious; something historic; something that belonged to Salazar, even. "And then?" I blew cold air on the head of his cock, and he winced.

"The incantation. Has to be within ten minutes of the murder, mind."

Oh, yes. Now we were getting somewhere. I hovered above him once more, just touching my lubricated entrance to his tip, but out of reach of his thrusts. “Which is?” It nearly drove him mad.

"Gallecinia Horcrucious! Now please Tom, pleeeease..." Satisfied, I let him be the same, sinking down deeply onto his cock, and tightening myself around him as much as I could. Of course, that was marvellous for the old man. He came so hard his eyes were nearly lost in his head, and I faintly wondered if I were to be saddled with the inconvenience of explaining a cardiac arrest in the Housemaster's private quarters to the rest of the staff.

No such problem though. When he had recovered, Slughorn was grateful for my initiative with the cleaning charms on his antique bedspread, and insisted on hugging me tight, like some sort of idiot puppy dog.

Really, the innocence of the man was almost touching.

"I tell you, young man, that is quite a trick you have there!" he wheezed. "I've heard of 'talking dirty' before, but... making a chap speak about such things in the middle of... Well! You're a whole new kind of delicious filthiness, aren't you, just? -Thank goodness it's all just pretend!"

I smiled charmingly and endured his embrace. "Of course, sir. Thank goodness, indeed."