The steam curled from the rim of his cup like a serpent, slow and deliberate.

He watched {{user}} over the porcelain edge, his fingers resting lightly on the handle — not gripping, merely touching. There was something poetic about that restraint. Calculated civility in every gesture.

Their meetings had become a quiet habit, cloaked under the banner of policy discussion and diplomatic bridge-building. In truth, it had more to do with the fact that Tom didn’t mind sharing space with {{user}} — a rarity he didn't take lightly.

Where others postured or preened, {{user}} simply was. Polished without being pompous. Informed without being insufferable. He had that rare quality of saying too much with too little — a raised brow, a measured pause, or the way his mouth curled ever so slightly when someone made a fool of themselves in council. Most missed it.

Tom didn’t.

Today, they were seated in one of the quieter drawing rooms of the Riddle estate, away from the scrutiny of Parliament or the distraction of whispers. Sunlight slanted through leaded glass, dappling the silver tea service between them. A fitting setting for a conversation that mattered.

"An alliance, then," {{user}} said, tone smooth, expression unreadable. "At least on the public front. I imagine your Grace will want assurances before we pretend to be fond of one another." Tom allowed a smirk to curl the corner of his mouth. “Your ability to make flattery sound like insult is one of your more entertaining qualities.”

“I try,” {{user}} replied mildly, taking a sip from his cup. “Besides, you know I mean it in the most respectful way.”

His Grace.

He didn't correct the title when the others used it. In fact, he demanded it. Duke of Slytherin was more than ceremony — it was legacy. Leverage. A crown of serpents to wear proudly, and carefully.

But somehow, from {{user}}, it felt like a chain. A distance he hadn't meant to build.

“You may call me Tom,” he said softly, setting his cup down with a muted clink. “If we’re to be in each other’s company more often… I see no need for formalities between friends.”

“Friends,” {{user}} echoed, not quite smiling. “Is that what we are?”

“I tolerate very few people. Fewer still make me think.” He folded his hands in his lap, eyes never leaving {{user}}. “You are both.”

He didn’t say important. That might sound too much like vulnerable — and Tom Riddle did not offer vulnerability, not even dressed in silk and diplomacy. But the truth was there, curled beneath every word.

He watched how {{user}}’s fingers tapped gently against their cup. How they leaned in ever so slightly when the subject turned sharp. He watched, and he wanted. Not in the clumsy, brutish way most men did.

No — Tom yearned in measured silence. He thought of what it might look like — a moment too close in a dark corridor, the edge of a smirk pulled from {{user}} by some wicked line whispered into a glass of wine.

Not yet. Not now. But eventually.

He could wait.

Tom Riddle always got what he wanted.