Tomarrytine prompt from under-that-sun:
Summer job AU, where 16 year old Harry and 16 year old Tom meet at a summer job.
Tom Riddle knew that there were few certain things in life. He could believe that something was absolute, engraved in truth and then the next day it would disappear, as if it never had existed. That had been tough to accept a few years ago, but he'd grown since then. He'd matured. He understood that life was a cruel and heartless beast, and that he shouldn't rely on anyone. Nothing was constant, nothing lasted, and Tom was a stronger person now he accepted that.
Unfortunately, there were always exceptions to that rule. And the exceptions never boded well for Tom.
Stupidity, in it's endless and limitless forms, always managed to surround Tom. That never changed. The prejudice from a few of his housemates always lingered, neverminding that he'd long since established himself in the hierarchy – in other words, at the top. The one exception he was currently battling with might just possibly be the worst, however; no matter what he did, the summer holidays were always awful.
Even as a child, with the hope of magic naught but a faint whisper on the wind, he had detested the six week break at the orphanage. Oh, he could try to spend most of his time cooped down at the local library, until Mrs Cole cottoned on to his escapades and forced him to spend the rest of his time locked away in his room. The summer holidays since he had entered Hogwarts were even worse, because he knew about magic, he knew how his classmates would be spending their vacation – dotted all over the world in various grand manors and country retreats – and so it made his suffering all the worse for it.
He'd had hope that this summer would be better. Over the school year he had sent a stream of letters out to various shops, outlining his goals and attributes, and how he could become an asset to them. He'd practically exhausted the Hogwarts owls with his endless correspondence, and swore that they went out of their way to avoid him when he visited the Owlery, their fragile wings flapping and leaving a cascade of feathers as they tore out of the tower.
He had managed to arrange a job down in Diagon Alley, however, having received a respectable number of responses from the various businesses. After much deliberation, he had settled on working as an assistant in a second-hand book shop. The pay wasn't brilliant, and the prospect of his classmates seeing him in such a demeaning position was frustrating, but it was worth it.
The owner of the shop was a cackling old witch, skin long since withered down to the bone and beady eyes sunken back into their sockets. When she laughed – which she often did, at Tom, for reasons he hadn't quite guessed yet – her solitary three yellow teeth dangled from the cavern of her mouth and Tom couldn't tear himself away from the sight, watching in gross fascination as the teeth threatened to fall out as she tilted her head back and chortled.
For all her faults, however, she let Tom read the books, free of charge. Whenever the shop was empty and derelict of customers – which was quite often, to be honest – Madam Medea would let Tom hole himself away in a darkened corner of the shop, curl up on a dusty armchair and devour whatever book had taken his fancy. And there were plenty of books that Tom was interested in.
During the months at Hogwarts, he'd started to delve deeper into the Dark Arts, having easily obtained a permission slip from his teachers to enter the forbidden section in the library. He'd taken to practicing in the Chamber of Secrets, which he had only recently discovered, and even now he could still feel the dark magic creeping under his skin and crawling over his bones. Tom couldn't stop if he wanted to - it truly was an addiction.
Luckily for him, the second-hand shop was filled with large mounds and toppling stacks of dusty books across a wide range of subjects, from deeply obscure and specific magics practiced by a handful of shaman in far-off countries, to handwritten journals of long-forgotten witches and wizards which were saturated with notes and experiments. In Tom's opinion, this shop was a goldmine – and he was getting paid to be there.
One day, however, Tom's content bubble burst, as it always must do in the summer holidays. Madam Medea had wagged one old, crooked finger at him and cackled.
"Doxies! Doxies in the carpet! Doxies in the chairs!"
Madam Medea was far too stubborn to hire any help to clean up the pests for her, and instead ruthlessly banished all the infested items in the shop, including his reading armchair. When he had brought up the issue with her, the witch jabbed a gnarled finger at a door Tom hadn't noticed before, which wasn't surprising, considering that the whole shop was basked in shadows.
"There's some seats out there. Don't bring them in, they'll ruin the atmosphere of the shop," Madam Medea barked at the teenager, and Tom secretly thought that the so-called atmosphere of the shop had been ruined the day the witch had decided that sunlight was a commodity, shrieking 'Elitist!' at Tom whenever he dared open the heavy drapes to let an inkling of natural light through.
So that was how Tom came to be perched on an old and cracked plastic decking chair, heavy stack of books by his feet and squinting at the words in a blood magic tome, the sharp sunlight battering down on the scruffy courtyard. It was a small area, no wider than three metres at most, with chipped grey paving stones covering the ground and tufts of green moss erupting between the cracks. The busy clatter and shouts of Diagon Alley rang over his head, but he was otherwise largely isolated from the hustle and bustle by walls on all sides.
He had cast a charm over the shop's doorway which would alert him to any customers. It was the only way he could get away with being absent at all other times – Madam Medea didn't care too much for the success of the shop, but Tom would be pushing the limit of her apathy if he didn't attend to the customers at all.
All in all, he was managing quite well, lazily reading the ninth chapter of the book, and he was just about to learn a most fascinating blood ritual involving the carcass of a recently slain Puffskein, when a door opened.
Not his door, but the one next to it – the door to the neighbouring shop which shared this courtyard for whatever reason. Tom watched in detached silence as a messy-haired teen clumsily stumbled out of the doorway, managing to trip over an uneven paving stone but right himself just before he and his towering ice-cream clattered to the floor. The youth beamed, plonking himself cross-legged onto the ground and started licking away at the ice-cream without so much as an introduction.
Tom coughed, loudly. The boy whipped his head up, black locks flying of his face and round spectacles emerging under the bird's nest that was apparently the boy's hair.
"Oh, didn't see you there. I'm Harry," the boy said easily, a drop of strawberry ice cream dribbling down his chin. Tom's eyebrow twitched.
"Pleasure," Tom returned dryly, sneering as the boy wiped his face with one of his hands, smearing light pink ice-cream on the edge of the boy's sleeves.
"I work at Fortescue's," Harry continued, pointing to the door through which he had come, as if his bright pink apron emblazoned with the shop's name didn't give it away. "Only for the summer, though. I'm saving up for a Firebolt. Have been for a few years, actually, it really is quite expensive."
The boy scratched the back of his neck, looking somewhat sheepish, "My mum wants me to earn the money myself, and not just splurge what's in my trust vault. Something about taking responsibility or whatever. I wasn't really listening."
Tom's lips had tightened into a thin line at the mention of a trust vault, already building the image in his head of a spoilt pureblood idiot, who cared about nothing more than Quidditch. The boy was staring up at Tom from the floor, presumably waiting for him to stay something in return – probably about how it was so unfair of the boy's mother to place such restrictions on him, when the boy's head tilted and the light reflecting off his lenses disappeared, letting Tom see the vibrant green hues of the boy's eyes.
"You're Harry Potter!" Tom blurted out, before grimacing upon realising he had done so. The girls in Tom's year – Greengrass, Davis, and whatever brat was tagging along with them talked for hours on end in the common room about the boys in their school; who was the most dreamy, who was the cutest… essentially any topic so sickening that Tom would soon retreat back to his dormitory to do his homework in peace. However, he did remember them talking about Harry Potter.
"His hair is a mess, and his face is rather plain with those horrid glasses not helping anything, but those eyes. Circe, I would do anything to have those eyes staring at – "
Tom had promptly sought refuge at the library when the gossipers started wading into dangerous territory, so he never knew what exactly the girl had been about to say next. However, he could fully appreciate what his year-mates had been blathering on about, when that startling and unnatural shade of green was pointed his way, entirely focused on him.
"Yes, I am," the boy – Harry Potter – confirmed, and looked at Tom curiously. "Don't tell me! You're….you're….oh, you're that weird kid from Slytherin! You're in my year, right?"
Tom bristled, eyes narrowing at the Gryffindor – for Tom remembered that Harry Potter was the talented Gryffindor Seeker –and he gave a sharp nod. Potter smiled, looking entirely too happy with the deathly glare Tom was sending his way.
"What are you doing out here, Tom? Soaking up some sunshine?" The boy joked, nodding at Tom's pale skin tone which was completely washed out against Potter's light tan.
"Riddle," Tom hissed, snapping his book shut and casting it to the side, "you shall refer to me as Riddle."
"Oh," Potter looked nonplussed, a small frown forming on his face before clearing. "Alright, Tom – I mean Riddle," he hastily added under Tom's sharpened glare.
Tom grunted in return before stiffly standing up, collecting his books in his arms with the intention of returning into the bookshop and demanding Madam Medea to conjure him an armchair, no matter what scornful taunt he'd receive in return. He had no inclination to spend another second in the boy's presence.
"Where're you going?" Potter asked, craning his neck upwards and squinting in the sunlight as Tom pulled the door awkwardly open, arms laden with books, and resolutely ignored the younger teen.
Tom spent the rest of the day crammed between two bookshelves on a wobbly old wooden stool, struggling to make out the small spidery writing under the light of a flickering candle flame. Madam Medea flittered around like a stubborn house-fly, making odd and senseless loops around the bookshop, hissing and cackling at Tom whenever she passed him by.
Tom struggled to ignore her, but his patience startled to crumble when she sat down at his feet and started teasing him for being scared of fairies, of all things. His leg itched to kick out, catch the old hag unaware and stop her blithering madness like some child in the midst of a tantrum, but she smiled knowingly at him, wayward black brows framing twinkling eyes.
The next day Tom returned to the courtyard.
"And then," Harry paused to shovel another forkful of mashed potato into his mouth, "he said that I'll become so fat that my broom would break beneath me. I'm not getting chubby, am I, Mum?"
Lily Potter, cast an appraising look over her only son, "No, dear," she replied, scooping another serving of peas on to her plate, "who is this again?"
Harry groaned, "I already told you. Tom Riddle – he works in the book shop next to the parlour. I see him when I go out there on my breaks – he's always got his nose pressed into one of those stuffy old books. I think he might secretly be a vampire. Or worse, a male version of Hermione."
Lily's nose wrinkled, "I thought you liked Hermione?"
"Oh, I do," Harry fiercely nodded, "but she'd always telling me and Ron to study, you know?"
"You did just have your O.W.L.s, Harry," Lily reminded him, casting a stern eye over at her son who was shrugging unashamedly.
"I suppose. Don't worry about my results, Mum. With yours and Dad's genes I can't fail – it's in my blood!"
Lily let out a sigh, "Let's hope you're right, Harry. You won't be let into Severus's N.E.W.T. class if you get below an 'Outstanding'."
Harry scowled, "Snape hates me, Mum! I wish you wouldn't talk about him like he's human or something."
Lily tutted, "Professor Snape, Harry."
"Merlin, you sound just like Hermione."
"Hermione's a very sensible girl," Lily sniffed, raising an eyebrow at Harry, "if you didn't swing that way, I would have set up a marriage contract with her parents a long time ago."
Harry leant back in his seat, fork twirling in his mash, "No you wouldn't have. You hate those things."
Lily smiled, tilting her head in recognition, "True."
Harry started mashing his peas against the prongs of his fork, smiling in satisfaction as they squelched and green juice dribbled out. A fleck of ash landed on his plate, and he looked up, startled, as a rumbling cloud of pale green ash was coughed out of their fireplace.
A tall silhouette emerged from the dust, brushing off the soot clinging to his long scarlet robes. "Must get that cleaned out…" he muttered, drawing a light brown wand from his pocket and tapping it on his robes, smiling in satisfaction when the dust cleared.
"How'd it go, Dad?" Harry called from the table, grinning as his father sat down in the seat opposite him, familiar round glasses staring back at him. James Potter wiped an empty plate with the cuff of his robes, clearing the dust off and served himself some sausages and gravy. A grin answered Harry, warm hazel eyes alighting with an excitement not yet curbed by age.
Lily sighed, recognising the mirth spreading across her husband's face.
"Just make it appropriate, please," she asked resignedly, all too used to the wild tales James would bring home with him. She much preferred her job as a researcher dealing with experimental charms – there were unexpectedly less surprises.
James abandoned serving his dinner, and leant forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"So, Padfoot and I had been assigned the same patrol again – underneath all those scars, Moody really does have a soft spot – and we'd received intel on a possible deal going down in Carkitt Market, so we went to have a look around - "
By the time James's story had finished, Lily had long since cleared away most of the table and was lying on a sofa in the lounge, reading a book, and Harry's dinner had long since grown cold.
"So, did the house-elf catch all the rubber ducks in the end?" Harry asked, leaning forward in his seat as James laughed again.
"Nope. Siri had to help the poor blighter out – after he had finished removing the fireworks from his robes, of course."
"Of course," Harry echoed, matching his father's growing smirk. James picked up his plate and dropped it into the soapy water in the sink, where a charmed brush and cloth started wiping away at it.
"So, how was your day?" He asked conversationally, loosening the tie around his neck and slinging his outer robes over a coat rack. Harry pulled a face.
"There's this boy at work – "
"I didn't know Florean had hired another assistant," James broke in, and Harry shook his head.
"No – that old lady in the book shop next door took him on. Don't know what he does there, though, seems to spend most of his time outside in the courtyard. Anyway, he's acting quite snarky even though I'm trying to be friendly. I just don't know why he's always so sour! Maybe Ron was right about Slytherins – gits, the lot of them."
"Slytherin? I can't say I'm the most objective man on that subject, Harry. Maybe the boy's just acting tough – one of those pureblood masks you hear about."
"No," Harry wrinkled his nose, "I'm pretty sure Tom Riddle isn't a pureblood."
James held up a hand, "I've heard that name… Riddle…"
"Really? Is he a dark wizard or something?" Harry questioned, looking oddly excited and James frowned.
"No – aha! A Riddle came to the Wizengamot last week claiming Slytherin's titles. We turned him away because he wasn't old enough to hold a seat yet – sound like your boy?"
Harry slowly nodded, "So he's a descendant of Salazar Slytherin? That's actually quite cool…"
James shivered, "More like bloody creepy, if you ask me. He's a parselmouth and everything – near frightened me half to death when he started hissing to prove his bloodline."
"He can speak to snakes? He never told me that," Harry grumbled, slouching down into his chair.
James chuckled, "You've known him, for what, a week? I'll tell you what though, he's not bad looking, Harry, you could do a lot worse."
Harry blushed, stabbing at his remaining peas, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," James said slyly, raising a suggestive eyebrow at Harry. The teenager groaned, his head sinking into his hands and a few unruly black curls dipping into his gravy.
"Cheer up, the summer's only just started! There'll be plenty of opportunities for you to corner the lad and - "
"Shut up Dad," Harry pleaded, his muffled voice barely heard through his hands. James grinned, twirling his wand round in his fingers.
"I could ask Tonks to give you a make-over, you know. Smarten up that Potter hair and all – say it was an essential part of Auror training."
Harry lifted his head out his hands and glared at his father.
"Tonks would hate us if you dared. Anyway, I thought you said that the Potter hair was a girl-magnet."
James ruffled Harry's hair and the boy tried to squirm away.
"Too right it is. But these Slytherin folk – well, they're a little stuck up, aren't they? Can't have you looking like some ragamuffin when you ask the boy out on a date, can we?"
Harry rose from his seat, picking up his plate and dumping it in the sink.
"I'm not asking Tom Riddle out on a date," he muttered, uncaring if his father heard. He was more so speaking to himself than anyone else. Riddle was attractive – he'd give him that. Those soft brunette curls and sharp blue eyes had captured his imagination more than he would like in recent days, as much as he hated to admit it, but he couldn't date someone who had the personality of a wet cardboard box.
"Sure thing, kiddo," James winked conspiratorially before disappearing into the living room.
Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes and knocking his glasses off kilter on his nose. He should probably start his Transfiguration essay tonight, while the lessons were still somewhat fresh in his mind. He wouldn't know if he had gotten the grades to do Transfiguration at N.E.W.T. level until a few weeks before school started back up again, but he doubted he scored low enough to not qualify for the classes. Potions, on the other hand, was a different story and Harry wouldn't start any essays for that subject until after he received his results.
Harry trudged up the stairs to his room, plonking down on the seat by his desk and unravelled a roll of parchment. A black-feathered quill was absently dipped in a pot of ink, before the nib came to a rest at the top of the sheet, a black blotch spotting the sheet. Harry scrawled the title half-heartedly, 'The differences between the Animagus Transformation and Human Transfiguration' before coming to a halt, resting his quill on the desk.
His brow furrowed in thought, as he scrutinised his shelves for his transfiguration textbooks. He pulled out the most recent one, leafing through the pages but finding no notes on Human Transfiguration – which was to be expected, as it was a N.E.W.T. level topic. Well, that gap in his knowledge could be easily remedied tomorrow.
Tom startled as his wand suddenly started vibrating, a melodic ringing slowly increasing in volume emanating from the stick. For a second, he had no idea what was happening and stared at his wand, clueless, before it hit him. He had a customer.
He rose from the decking chair, the overcast day having made of an easier, albeit colder read shielded from the direct sunlight, and re-entered the shop. He was instantly assaulted by a miasma of dust clouds and blinked, adjusting his eyes to the sudden darkness and picking up a lantern to navigate the shop with.
This is such a fire hazard, he thought, wondering if Madam Medea had finally cracked. But then again, it was more likely that her brain had been put through the blender years ago. Footsteps to his left told him the direction the customer was in, and he carefully wound his way around the piles of books that hadn't accumulated on the shelves, cursing the old witch as he knocked his knee against a jutting-out charms manual.
"Hello? Anyone there?" A younger voice than he had expected called out from a few shelves down and Tom scowled, hoping to Morgana that it wouldn't be one of his classmates.
No, it was even worse.
"You," Tom stated bluntly upon seeing the bespectacled boy perusing through some of the books, the lantern faintly illuminating the youth with weak yellow light.
"Yep, me," Harry Potter replied, sending what was supposed to be a disarming grin at Tom, which he promptly brushed off.
"What do you want?" Tom asked through gritted teeth, the niceties Madam Medea had tried to install in him forgone. Potter frowned, face scrunched up in thought.
"Well…this is a bookshop, right?"
"Yes," Tom replied, fist clenching white and nails digging into the palm of his hand. Save him from Gryffindors…
A teasing grin stretched obnoxiously across Potter's face. "Then I want a book."
"What sort of book?" Tom asked stiffly. He knew Potter's game – he was always trying to talk to Tom, chat about meaningless things and distract him his books. It was infuriating – all he wanted to do was read in peace and then Potter had to come along and ruin it with his unwanted chatter. Why was he so fixated on talking to Tom? Couldn't he take a hint?
Potter prodded some of the worn spines lining the shelves, "I'm looking for a book on Human Transfiguration, for summer homework, you know, but these all seem rather…explicit."
Tom eyed the titles Potter was pointing at, reciting one out loud, "The use of Transfiguration in Battle Magic," Tom smirked, a knowing glint in his eye. "Yes…they can be rather vivid."
"Uh huh," Potter affirmed, wide green eyes pleading with Tom, "So… what should I get?"
Tom gestured the boy to follow him, turning on his heels and striding down the aisles. Potter struggled to catch up with him, and Tom with no small amount of glee heard lots of cursing as Potter tried to navigate the shop, struggling without the light from Tom's lantern close by. Tom stopped by a row of shelves near the back of the shop, in a section he had quickly dismissed due to its more basic and commonplace material. He silently drew out a dog-eared Transfiguration textbook that had gone out of date over a decade ago, but its commentary on Human Transfiguration was still relevant.
"Umm, thanks," Potter muttered when Tom handed the book over to him, flicking through a few of the pages.
"Follow me," Tom ordered, setting off with a brisk towards the front of the shop where the till was. Potter followed obediently, and Tom found he liked the idea of the younger teen following his instructions – put the Gryffindor down a peg or two. As Tom rang Potter's purchase up, he saw that the boy was staring at him rather intently, making him more self-conscious than he would like.
"Do I have something on my face?" he snapped, blue eyes flicking upwards to pierce the Gryffindor with a warning glare. Potter just shrugged, apparently unaffected and continued staring unapologetically at his face.
"No. I was just admiring it."
Tom almost choked on air. "What…admiring it?"
"Yeah. You've got good dimensions – cheekbones in all the right places."
"There are wrong places to have cheekbones?" Tom asked, incredulous.
Potter hummed, "You'd be surprised."
Tom didn't really have anything to say to that.
"Say, do you want me to bring you some ice cream? You must get awfully hungry."
"Do I look like an ice cream sort of person?" Tom muttered, slipping the book into a paper bag and thrusting into the other boy's hands.
Potter smiled knowingly, as if he was letting Tom on to some classified secret. "Everyone likes ice cream. It's a fact."
"Do you get pleasure out of abusing the definitions of words?" Tom sneered, holding his hand out.
Harry fished a galleon out of his apron pocket and placed it delicately in Tom's hand, his fingertips brushing over the palm. Tom watched him with narrowed eyes.
"Well, I've never met anyone who doesn't like ice cream - "
"You work in an ice cream parlour!" Tom burst out, hand slamming down on the counter and galleon rolling onto the floor. Harry looked at him oddly, not in the least bit concerned.
"Fine, then. It's not a fact, but an alternative fact."
"You can't just make things up, Potter," Tom argued, resisting the urge to tear his hair out. "It's just not true. End of."
"Spoilsport."
"Liar." Salazar, was Tom seriously resorting to childish insults?
"Philistine."
"I'm surprised you know that word, but unsurprised that you can't even use it correctly," Tom retorted, watching as the other boy shook his head.
"No…I know I'm correct. You're ignorant, Tom," Potter poked at Tom's chest, "you need to be more open-minded."
"If being more open-minded means that I have to believe in such fallacies, then I'll pass."
Tom didn't even care that Potter had used his forename, and he didn't care that Potter had prodded him so rudely. He just wanted to…shake the boy senseless, knock some sense into his silly little head. Ever since he's started practicing the Dark Arts, he'd found that violent thoughts came increasingly quicker to his mind - not that he cared, he was far too controlled to let them affect him.
Nevertheless, Potter must have seen something in his eyes, because the boy picked up the galleon from the floor and placed it back on the counter, before flattening his hair nervously.
"Well…I've got to go, now. My break ends soon," Potter paused, a mischievous glint returning to bright eyes. "See you later!"
Potter somehow managed to find the exit to the shop, and Tom was still standing by the counter in silence as he heard the boy bump into everything, wincing when he knew that Madam Medea would expect him to clear it all up. And clear it up he did, for Potter had somehow managed to topple over a full stack of some muggle colour-scheme book that kept being donated to the shop, and sorting all of that out had been a nightmare. Who knew that there so many shades of grey?
When he finally trudged his tired body back to the courtyard, collapsing onto a decking chair and bringing his unfinished book back up to his chest, he didn't even bother snapping when he saw Potter holding two cones of ice cream.
Potter handed him a cone in silence, and Tom cautiously licked at the ice cream, surprised when he found that the flavour wasn't bad. Mint choc chip, refreshing and not disgustingly sweet.
He didn't bother thanking Potter, but instead they both just sat in silence, both appreciating their individual treats. It could almost be called nice if Tom didn't know any better.
Harry wasn't quite sure how it happened, but meeting up with Tom soon became an everyday event. Well, perhaps 'meeting up' was not the best way to word it, because Tom always did that cute little scowl when he saw Harry and muttered about Doxies. He didn't run off, however, and Harry welcomed that as a good sign – eventually the Slytherin would soften and start talking to Harry like a decent human being.
That said, based on the boy's choice of books – and Harry hadn't been spying, it was an accident – it didn't seem likely that there was a cuddly teen underneath that sour exterior. Nevertheless, Harry knew that he'd won the first move; while Tom did not explicitly say anything, Harry knew that the teenager looked forward to his daily mint choc chip ice cream. In fact, Harry was preparing it right now.
"Another ice cream for that friend of yours?" Florean asked, carefully sorting through a box of glacé cherries.
Harry found himself grinning, a scooped another dollop of ice cream into a plastic tub, for Tom had revealed that he wasn't too fond of the wafer cone.
"Yep, he should be out in the courtyard right about now."
Florean grunted, skilfully topping an ice cream tower with the cherry, handing it over the counter to a young witch. "You sweet on him or something then?"
An odd smile blossomed onto Harry's face, and a pink flush rose unbidden to his cheeks. "Maybe."
"Maybe? You don't know?" Florean tilted his head to look at Harry, who had stilled, ice cream scoop still in hand a pale green droplets of mint choc chip ice cream splattering onto the floor.
Harry shook himself, and plunged his scoop into a bowl of water to clean it. "He's… he's not like anyone I've liked before. Quite frankly, he's pretty boring – not adventurous, brave, or into Quidditch at all!"
Harry exclaimed the last part as if it were some sort of scandal, and Florean nodded gravely, trying to stifle his laughter.
"Well, we can't have that, can we? Better cut your losses and be done with it."
Harry groaned, setting the partially-filled tub down on the counter. "I don't know what to feel, Florean. Everything about him is so – so weird! What if I start to like him and I find out he doesn't like owls? Hedwig would be devastated."
"Hedwig," Florean reminded gently, "doesn't know who this boy is. And I doubt the boy would hold such a peculiar opinion on owls, Harry. It would be an odd thing to dislike."
"Exactly," Harry agreed, "but Tom is odd. All he does it read or complain or scowl. What sort of life is that?"
"You seem to like something about his life," Florean murmured, absently preparing his next ice cream. Harry nodded, distractedly, his mind elsewhere.
"I – I don't know… he's usually so broody, but sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking, when he's reading one of those horrid books, he smiles and his eyes light up and I…," Harry was looking into the distance, eyes unfocused, "I know it sounds sappy but, I…"
Harry trailed off, not quite brave enough to finish his sentence. Florean was observing him with unusual sharpness, ice cream forgotten.
"Not everyone can be a bundle of sunshine, like you Harry. The boy may be working through some issues."
"Yeah," Harry muttered, "like a serious deprivation of ice cream from his childhood."
Florean's face lost its wrinkles and the man smiled, pushing Harry lightly. "Too right! Off you go then, give that boy his ice cream!"
Harry laughed lightly, grabbing the tub as he jogged out the shop. "Thanks Florean!"
Warm sunlight hugged his skin as he entered the courtyard, a light breeze running through his hair, sending it into further disarray. He adjusted his glasses, pushing them back up to the bridge his nose, and hesitantly walked over to the boy on the decking chair. He was predictably hunched over a heavy tome, leather cover dusty and fingers running over pages made of thick parchment, scrutinising the looping words with fierce intensity.
Harry didn't know why he was feeling so nervous, but he squashed that wriggly feeling down and sat on a spare decking chair besides Tom, and handed the boy his ice cream. Tom, as always, didn't thank him, not that Harry would have expected him to. He wasn't quite sure why he was still bringing Tom ice creams, but it gave the illusion of mutual interaction and so he didn't stop.
"Are you just going to watch me eat?" Tom asked, setting the ice cream down and keeping his eyes fixed on the book. Harry shrugged, relaxing, and moved to sit in a cross-legged position.
"Probably, yeah," he answered unashamedly. This seemed to irk the other boy as his eyebrows were drawn together and his lips were pressed in a thin line.
"I could curse you."
Harry grinned, edging closer in his seat to the teenager. "Can't use magic outside of school, Tom. Have to be seventeen for that."
Something flashed in Tom's eyes. "I'll wait, then, until we're at Hogwarts. You'll be frolicking about with those idiotic friends of yours, and when you least expect it you'll be hanging from the rafters."
"That sounds rather violent."
Tom smiled, his face twisted in a grotesque parody of humour. "Scared, Potter?"
Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm shaking in my boots. Terrified. Whatever will I do?"
Tom hunched forwards, a light smirk playing on his lips as he appraised Harry. "You should be terrified, Potter. You chatter on, bring me ice cream and act the fool. You don't know who I am. You don't know what I can do."
"Uh huh," Harry nodded, unimpressed. "I'm sure you're a big, bad Slytherin, Tom." He patted Tom's shoulders in faux comfort. "Don't worry, everyone is frightened of you."
Tom glared at Harry, crisp blue eyes piercing at him under thick eyelashes. Harry's heart fluttered in his chest, his tongue feeling numb in his mouth.
"Don't you have anything better to do? Surely you would rather hand out ice cream to slobbering brats than waste time out here, where you aren't wanted."
"Not really," Harry replied, tucking his hair behind his ears. "It's more fun talking to you."
Harry thought Tom snorted, but doubted that the Slytherin would be so inelegant.
Harry leant back on his chair, which was angled in a way that meant he was practically lying down and basked in the waning sunlight. It was almost evening, and his shift was nearly finished but he knew that Florean wouldn't mind him staying out here for a bit. There weren't many customers at this time of day.
Harry thought back on Florean's words, frowning slightly. Was Tom secretly struggling with something? Was the reason for his moodiness evidence of something sinister? Harry realised, quite foolishly, that for all the breaks he had spent with the other teen in the courtyard, he really didn't know that much about the other boy.
"Say, Tom," Harry started, unsure of how to word it, "is everything alright with you?"
At Tom's sharp look, he elaborated. "What I mean is, do you need any help? Like, is everything okay at home or…"
"Potter, whatever you think you're trying to do, stop."
Harry shook his head, sitting up on the seat and became more certain that something was wrong. "No, I want you to know that I'm here if you need help or anything, you could talk to me about what's troubling you and I'll - "
"You'll what, Potter?" Tom interrupted, sneering at the Gryffindor, "Console me? Be my therapist? Don't be ridiculous – there is nothing wrong with me."
"Oh," Harry deflated, courage ebbing away, "I was just trying to help."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Tom dismissed, waving his hand in the air as if to bat Harry away.
Well, that was rubbish, Harry thought, sullenly looking down at the paving stones. He watched as an ant scuttled across, and found the sudden urge to squash it, but quickly reeled back from that thought. Florean must have been wrong, there wasn't anything off about Tom's life…he was just a prat in general. Tom Riddle didn't need an excuse to be surly, it was just in his nature to be so.
Why was Harry getting hung up over the Slytherin? His father had been right – they were pompous, stuck-up and hostile. He should have listened to Ron. Merlin, what would Ron say if he found out about this?
Not that anything had actually happened. Harry was anguishing over nothing.
Tom was the exact opposite of Harry. In every way. Well, apart from the fact that they were both devastatingly handsome. Okay, maybe Tom was a little more handsome than Harry, but not by much.
The courtyard was now flooded with a golden light as the sun creeped closer to the horizon, and the aureate hues shone in Tom's brunette hair, producing a rich honey colour. Harry sighed, resigned to admire from afar.
Well, from a few feet away but certainly from a great emotional distance. Harry was starting to feel awkward, uncomfortable with being in such close proximity to a boy who was so steadfast in ignoring him. Someone he just so happened to like.
Merlin, he was behaving like some little girl fawning over their first crush. Harry had been in plenty of relationships before, but he always ended up disinterested in the person he was dating after a while. Hermione and Ginny teased him endlessly for it, telling him that he just hadn't found 'The One'. He didn't believe in that nonsense, though, and thought it sounded ridiculous.
But that didn't explain why he was more… fluttery around Tom than he had been with the others in the past. Maybe it was because he knew there was no hope for reciprocation? Because he knew nothing would come out of it?
Tom turned to face him, and Harry thought that his heart would burst when the light caught Tom's eyes just right, letting them glow beautifully against the teen's pale skin. Harry hoped that Tom couldn't hear his racing heartbeat, but it was pounding so loudly that even Florean must hear it.
"I'd appreciate it if you left."
Harry smiled weakly, mind still racing with confused thoughts and dawning horror. Tom kept his eyes fixed on Harry as left the courtyard, and Harry still imagined that those eyes were looking at him when he said his goodbyes to Florean and collected his stuff. Merlin, he had fallen for Tom and he hadn't even realised it. He was such an idiot.
It was almost peculiar how Potter showed up at the exact time Tom didn't want him to. Which, to be perfectly honest, was most of the time. After the incident in the bookshop a few days ago, the teenager had been acting oddly around him – well, odder than usual. It would have concerned Tom, but Tom didn't feel the need to bother with the other boy's mental health, so he didn't bring it up. He was already working under the assumption that Potter had been hit on the head by a bludger as a child, and this marginal change in behaviour was probably just another symptom of that.
Potter was just weird. He was staring at him more than usual – which Tom had long since gotten used to, for he always knew when someone was looking at him – and he was mumbling more often. Mumbling. What was it with Potter feeling the need to mumble all the time? If he wanted to be heard, then he should speak up. If not, then he should stay quiet – not settle for some in-between where no one could understand him. Salazar, the boy was driving Tom crazy with his barely audible words.
And now Potter was mumbling. Again.
"Potter, if you have something you wish to say, then say it."
Potter stopped mumbling under his breath – thank Merlin – and stared bemusedly at Tom with wide doe eyes. Idiot.
"Huh?" Potter asked, and Tom wanted to hex him. Badly. His left hand was itching towards his pocket, burning with the desire to draw his wand and wipe that confused look off the boy's face.
"Kneazle got your tongue? You're mumbling, Potter. It's irritating."
Realisation dawned on the Potter's face, a curious pink tinge rising to the boy's cheeks. "Sorry."
Tom shook his head in disbelief, and returned to his book. He tried to concentrate on the benefits in using fresh blood for runes versus old blood, but the words were blurring together on the page and Tom found that he had to re-read the same paragraph thrice before it started to stick. Morgana, Potter was irritating him even in silence.
"What were you muttering about?" Tom looked up from his book, fixing the Gryffindor with a keen stare. Potter looked around, bewildered, as if there was someone else he could have been asking.
"Me?"
"Yes, you," Tom bit out, already regretting asking. His curiosity had got the better the of him.
"Umm… I don't remember?"
"That sounds like a question, Potter. Think again."
"Well…" Potter hesitated, gazing sheepishly at his shoes. Tom fought the urge to grab the boy by the chin and draw his face up to look him in the eyes.
Then, the boy brightened and smiled triumphantly at Tom. "I was thinking about new ice cream flavours! You know, mix things up a little."
Why did Tom get the feeling that Potter was lying? Oh, right, because Potter was a terrible liar.
"Mix things up?" he echoed, daring Potter to elaborate further, all interest in his book lost. Making others squirm brought him much more gratification.
"Yeah, like maybe bacon flavoured ice cream. With little chunks of bacon on top," Potter said in an annoyingly un-squirmy way.
"That sounds disgusting."
"Don't knock it 'till you've tried it."
"I won't be trying it, Potter," Tom hissed, eyes narrowing as the other boy shrugged.
"Who knows? Hey – you could be my guinea pig for my new flavours! You already get free ice cream, this way you can earn your keep!"
Tom's expression darkened. "Don't you dare."
Potter shook his head, inner mirth laughing at Tom. "Nah, I think it's a good idea."
That little -
"I'm only joking, Tom! Don't get worked up about it."
Don't get worked up? That mint choc chip ice cream was the best part of Tom's day, and Potter was threatening to replace it with some monstrous creation of his – how could he not get 'worked up'?
"It's okay, Tom – don't get mad. I haven't bonded with my scoop enough to start formulating my own ice creams yet."
What?
"It's still annoyed with me for some reason. I've tried talking to it but - "
"Hold on, Potter, are you talking about your ice cream scoop?" Tom asked, already adding 'delusional' to his list of Potter's disorders, slotting it in right between 'clumsy' and 'ditzy'.
Potter hummed, "Yeah. It's like a magic wand, you know? You have to bond with it, and then it works like magic."
Potter seemed ridiculously pleased with his pun and Tom was torn between throwing a book at him or strangling him. Either would work, if only Potter would stop.
"I had to choose mine from a huge pile. It was like being back at Ollivander's! Florean said that the scoop needed to call to me, and I tried so many. Eventually I found this one," Potter paused, pulling out a shiny metal scoop from his apron's pocket and held it in the air like a trophy. "I'm having problems with it, though. I don't think it likes me much."
Tom settled for chucking a book at him.
The next time Harry saw Tom the other boy expressed his disappointment that the book had left no bruise on Harry's face.
"You didn't throw it hard enough to bruise, Tom." Harry replied, flashing Tom a toothy grin. Tom scowled, and Harry laughed at the sight.
"Anyone ever tell you that you looked like a miffed kitten when you do that?"
Tom narrowed his eyes at Harry. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do," Harry rebuked, shaking his head. He dragged over a spare decking chair, the plastic squeaking over the stone and pulled it to a stop by Tom. He sat down, sighing, flexing his fingers which were sore from writing out the parlour's inventory.
"Tom?"
"Yes, Potter?"
"Do you want to grab dinner with me sometime?"
Tom span round to look at him, eyebrows shooting up. "Say that again."
Harry fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable. "I asked if you ever wanted to have dinner. With me."
"Are you asking me out, Potter?" Tom asked, torn between laughing and balking at the idea.
Harry hesitated. "Not really… I mean, my parents have invited you over so - "
"How do your parents know about me?" Tom interrupted, and Harry smiled weakly.
"We have a close relationship! I just talk a lot at dinner time and you've come up once or twice…"
Tom rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "I'll never understand you, Potter."
Harry nodded, readily confirming Tom's statement. "That's the way it should be! It would be no fun if you knew everything about me, Tom."
He tilted his head, eyeing Tom speculatively. "You haven't answered my question."
"What, if I'll join you and your parents for dinner? No thanks."
Harry frowned. "It'll be rude to refuse, Tom. If you don't go, I'll - I'll…"
"You'll what?" Tom sneered, "Leave me alone?"
Harry shook his head, mischief lighting up his eyes. "No - I won't bring you any more ice cream."
"You wouldn't," Tom warned, growing serious. Harry smiled, laughter pulling the ends of his lips upwards.
"Oh, I would," he teased, slinging an arm around Tom's shoulders and leaning against the other boy. He raised his mouth to the boy's ear and whispered. "Then you'll have to start paying for your ice cream."
Tom shrugged him off, glaring. "Stop flirting with me, Potter."
Harry gaped. "F-flirting?! I don't flirt."
Tom raised an eyebrow, and he pulled at Harry's wrists, bringing them into his lap and watched as Harry's cheeks grew redder. "Yes, you do."
"No, no – that's just me being friendly. You wouldn't know anything about that, though, seeing as you don't have friends."
"Right." Tom let go of Harry's wrists, standing up briskly and headed back into the shop. Harry scrambled to his feet, pushing in front of Tom and barring him from the shop's doorway.
"I didn't mean it like that! I'm sorry, Tom, you just need to understand - "
"I don't need to understand anything. You meant what you said."
Harry was quiet, eyes drooping to look down at Tom's chest and his shoes scuffed anxiously across the stone slabs. "I've never seen you be friendly to anyone, Tom. Can you honestly say that you have friends? A friend? Someone you can confide in, someone who makes you laugh? Smile? Someone who you don't mind spending time with?"
When Harry finally looked back up at Tom, his face was blank and motionless, a complete void. "I'm perfectly fine, Potter," he said, his voice monotonous and robotic.
"What?"
Steely blue eyes looked down at Harry, hard and unyielding. "Isn't that what you wanted? To know if something was 'wrong'?" Tom laughed bitterly, shoving past Harry. "You have your answer. Now leave me alone."
Harry stood alone in the doorway, watching as Tom's back disappeared into the shop. If nothing else, he was more determined to help Tom. Hermione would put it up to his 'saving people' complex, but all Harry could think of was the dark expression wrought across Tom's face as he stormed away.
On Sunday night, Tom joined the Potters for dinner. He hadn't wanted to, it hadn't been his choice, but somehow he was here. He blamed Harry for asking him and himself for stupidly accepting.
It wasn't his fault, really, Harry had been holding his ice cream hostage and refused to hand it over until he acquiesced. It was blackmail - extortion. Tom should have lasted longer. In the end, he allowed Harry to drag him to Florean's fireplace at the end of his shift and throw floo powder in, bringing them both to Godric's Hollow. He would have fought harder to refuse if he knew how torturous the evening was going to be.
The Potters had been decent, accepting Harry's quick explanation and welcoming him into their home. He did catch both of them looking at each other knowingly when they didn't think he'd notice, but he tried not let it bother him. He was only here to guarantee a continued supply of ice cream, after all.
The problem began when Tom became hyperaware of Harry's leg. It couldn't be a mistake that it was brushing so innocuously against his own, underneath the table and out of sight. He wanted to move away, jolt his leg back and be done with it, but he couldn't move. It was like he was paralysed, his leg pressed so firmly against Harry's, two magnets locked against each other.
He wondered if Harry noticed, if he was doing this on purpose. Tom wouldn't put it past him, Harry had no concept of personal space. No, the boy was staring dumbly ahead, chatting with his parents about inane things.
"Pass the salt, Harry," James Potter asked from the other side of the table, and Harry leaned slightly to hand it over. As he shifted, tingles raced under Tom's skin where Harry had moved, lingering and burning. Tom clenched his fist, the sparks stirring up the magic lulling in his core, calling out to it. Tom ignored the itching sensation, banishing it to the back of his mind.
"So, Tom, what exactly is your relationship with Harry?" Mrs Potter asked, smiling widely. Next to him, Harry huffed and scowled at his mother, while Mr Potter laughed and raised his eyebrows at Tom. What did she mean by that? There wasn't anything happening between him and Harry. He wouldn't even call themselves friends.
Unbidden, Harry's words from yesterday came to mind.
'Someone you can confide in, someone who makes you laugh? Smile? Someone who you don't mind spending time with?'
Well, he had shared some information with Harry – but not a lot, surely. Harry did make him laugh, smile even, but that was because Tom was mostly laughing at him. It wasn't the same thing, right? And as for wanting to spend time with Harry….
Harry's leg brushed up against Tom's and he swallowed, his leg tingling.
Okay, maybe they were friends…
"We're acquaintances, ma'am," Tom replied politely, not liking the suggestive looks passing between the two adults. He didn't even bother trying to decipher them.
Harry stared at Tom, surprise evident on his face. He probably didn't expect Tom to give their 'relationship' a label beyond 'enemies' or some other dramatic term. Harry was just too emotional for his own good – Tom hadn't met anyone else quite like him. Hell, he didn't deem anyone to be a friend.
"Sure," Mr Potter teased, elbowing his wife, and Tom noticed Harry blushing. Why was he always blushing these days? It was getting tiresome.
Unless Harry really had been flirting with Tom the other day…
No. That was a horror that he wouldn't bear thinking about.
Lily Potter smiled at him. "Harry tells me you read a lot of books, Tom. What are you interested in?"
Tom threw a withering glare at Harry, who rolled his eyes, before addressing Mrs Potter.
"Mainly books that cover the curriculum in more detail," he lied, the words coming easily to him. "I find that once you understand the magical theory behind certain spells, they are able to come to you more naturally. Similarly, extrapolating on and developing the spells to suit one's purpose then comes into play."
Lily nodded earnestly, "That is my line of work, has Harry told you? I experiment with different charms and calculate their unique radiations, thus enabling them to be plotted on the magical spectrum so we can make conjectures about how they will react to different - "
"While I'm sure Tom is interested in you research, Lils, I'm afraid you'll have to discuss it later," James interrupted gently, nodding towards Harry. "Our son's almost fallen asleep."
"I'm not sleeping," Harry grumbled, raising his head out of his hands. "It was - err - really interesting , Mum."
"Truly, it was. Perhaps we can continue our conversation at another time?" Tom inquired politely, but had no plans to do so. While Lily's branch of research was fascinating, it was not something he would be able to reproduce. Determining the spectrometry of spells required incredibly delicate and expensive magical instruments, which wasn't something Tom could easily get his hands. Perhaps in the future he would.
"That would be lovely, Tom," Lily replied, and turned to Harry. "Your friend is so polite, Harry. You should learn from him."
Harry nodded, glaring sidelong at Tom. "Yeah, so polite."
The rest of the meal continued in a similar vein, and Tom felt his muscles aching after he had been forced to smile endlessly. Harry owed him. Big time.
The Potters had sent Tom and Harry off while they cleared the plates, and they stood awkwardly outside the door.
"So… do you want to come up to my room, or…" Harry trailed off, unsure.
Tom was quick to reply. "I think we'd best just leave it here, Potter. Don't you think?"
Harry nodded, slightly regretful. "Yeah, whatever."
Tom headed to the fireplace, taking a pinch of floo powder. He would have to floo back to Florean's, and then make his way back to the orphanage from there. He flicked the powder in, stepping into the green flames.
Harry watched him, and Tom hesitated.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
And then he was whisked away.
Tom was reading his book when it started. It was just another study on some foreign magic that could be considered dark by the Ministry, and so far there had nothing of use. Nevertheless, he endured ahead, determined to leech every piece of information he could from the yellowed pages. Harry was on his break, lounging on a spare deck chair and trying to sunbathe, which was pointless as the sun was currently hidden by a covering of cloud.
He'd just finished his chapter when he stilled, his face rapidly losing colour and paling to an ashen white.
Harry was as alert as ever - he'd probably been keeping an eye on Tom, for he was quick to respond.
"Are you alright, Tom?" Harry asked, but Tom struggled to hear him. Blood was thumping past his ears, his chest tightening, and a familiar itch scratching inside his bones.
"I'm fine," he hissed, and screwed his eyes shut, feeling his irises burn and a taste of copper flood his mouth. He breathed in deeply, the cold air rattling in his lungs and scraping against his throat.
Someone was shaking him, holding his arm. Tom's eyelids fluttered, bloodstained eyes laid bare to the world and naked against the air, for all the good it did Tom - his vision was blurring, spinning, sharp colours merging into blobs. His hands were clawed, trembling, magic bursting at his fingertips and sparking. Circe, he couldn't break - not here, not now.
A strong arm enveloped him, and he was pulled against someone's chest, their skin deliciously cold and an oasis to Tom's burning fever. Tom clutched at his lifeline, his heart rate slowing down from his hummingbird pace and the shapes dancing across his vision started to sharpen and come into focus.
Where was he? Tom felt exhausted, his head throbbing and his arms weak, falling helplessly.
He must have had another episode, though this one had been the worst of them all so far. Tom was stronger than this - better than this. He could last them out. Everything would be fine when he was back at Hogwarts.
Nonsensical things were being muttered by his ear, and Tom strained to make sense of them, but it was like the person was speaking under water.
" - Tom, can you hear me? Merlin, should I floo - "
Tom shook his head, burrowing into the chest he was lying across.
"Don' call an'one," he slurred, the words stumbling out of his mouth. He frowned, his lips felt strange and tingly.
"Tom! Are you okay?"
"Who's there?" Tom asked, trying to reorder his thoughts. He knew that voice - it was familiar…
"Harry," the person said shortly. "Tom - do you need me to get someone? Are you okay?"
Tom shook his head, lifting himself up to face Harry. "Don't get anyone. I'm fine."
He wasn't - a stinging ache was forming at the back of his eyes and sweat was running down his brow. However, Tom wasn't going to tell Harry that. Harry, who was staring down at him in horror, green eyes wide with worry.
"No - you're not! You were shaking, Tom, practically convulsing - and your skin was so hot to touch and your eyes," Harry paused, shaking his head in disbelief. "They were red, Tom. Bright red."
Tom winced. "It's no concern for you, Potter…"
"It is!" Harry exclaimed, hands clutching Tom's arms so tightly that he was sure they'd leave bruises. "I'm not an idiot, Tom. My dad's an auror - I know what this means!"
Tom tried to stand up, but his knees felt weak and he collapsed back onto Harry, hating that he was so helpless. "You don't know anything."
"You have an addiction, Tom," Harry swallowed, grimacing as if the words pained him. "A Dark Arts addiction. You were practicing at Hogwarts, weren't you? You're going through withdrawal now."
Tom shook his head fiercely. "No - you don't know what you're talking about Harry…"
Harry barked out a laugh, though Tom could find nothing humorous about the situation. Salazar, Harry's father was an auror. What if Harry told him? What if the Ministry decided to arrest Tom?
"Don't take me for a fool. I may not be a genius like you, but I do know some things, Tom Riddle. Defence against the Dark Arts is my strongest subject."
Harry spat out the last part, a bitter sense of pride staining the words. Tom belatedly remembered that he was competing for top spot in that class against some unknown Gryffindor; well, he supposed, now he knew who.
Tom sluggishly raised a hand, letting it fall onto Harry's chest, finger jabbing the boy. "You can't tell anyone," he tried to threaten, but his voice was weak and croaky.
Harry nodded slowly, as if he was explaining something to a toddler. "Of course I'm not telling anyone, you idiot. Dumbledore would expel you from Hogwarts in a heartbeat."
Tom raised his head to meet Harry's eyes, uncaring that he was probably drooling across the boy's t-shirt. "Aren't Gryffindors supposed to love that old fool?"
Harry winced, averting his eyes from Tom. "The hat wanted me in Slytherin."
"Oh," Tom said eloquently, knowing that the information was interesting but his head was feeling fuzzy and he didn't really want to think right now. Harry muttered something, and then shoved Tom onto the adjacent decking chair.
"Hey!" he yelled, trying to glare at Harry.
Harry rolled his eyes. "You'll get over it."
The teen stood up, stooping down to pick up Tom's book which must have fallen to the floor amidst the drama. He turned it over, reading the cover.
"Figures," he muttered, dropping the book back onto the floor with disdain. "You're an idiot, you know that Tom? Bet you thought you were too powerful to bother with a cleansing ritual."
"What?" Tom asked, trying to wrap his heads around the words. What was a cleansing ritual?
"You don't know, do you?" Harry laughed incredulously, and Tom scowled.
"It purifies your body after using dark magic. Prevents nasty withdrawal symptoms," Harry drawled, jabbing a finger over to Tom who was currently curled up in a ball.
"How'd you know so much?"
An odd smile fleeted across Harry's face. "It's a passing interest."
Tom didn't know quite what to think of that.
"Anyway, I would recommend that we do the ritual now, but we can't do magic outside of school." Harry bit his lip, thinking. "You'll just have to last until Hogwarts. You can do it there - I'll give you some books."
"You're being weirdly okay with this," Tom stated, rolling onto his back. Harry hummed, nodding absently.
"Just be glad I like you so much. Otherwise I would have dropped off at Mungo's."
"What?"
"Nothing," Harry retorted, his lips lifting in a small smile. "Where do you live?"
"I'm not telling you that," Tom snapped adamantly, though his tongue was dry in his mouth and the raspy tone to his words didn't make them quite as threatening as he would have hoped.
"Well, you're not sleeping out here. I'll pick you up at the end of my shift and drop you off," Harry stated, turning to go back inside the parlour. "Oh - try not to die before then."
Tom craned his head to watch as Harry disappeared, before collapsing back down. He was so confused.
"This is where you live?" Harry wrinkled his nose, inspecting Tom's room. It was small and practically empty, the wallpaper peeling and the floorboards scuffed and dirty. A scraggly wicker chair stood in the corner, the twine sticking out and the wood tarnished.
"Obviously," Tom muttered, sinking down on his mattress. He was feeling better from earlier, but his muscles still ached and he had trouble standing up. Luckily the taxi driver had just thought that he was drunk.
Harry nodded distractedly, circling the room and scrutinising the furniture.
"What, is it not up to your standards?" Tom sneered, and was surprised when Harry nodded. Not because he thought that his room would meet anyone's standards, but because he didn't think Harry would be so blunt about it.
"It's a hovel, Tom."
"Yes, well, it's not like I have anywhere else to go," Tom said bitterly, and Harry frowned.
"I suppose."
They were silent for a few seconds, Harry awkwardly standing in the middle of the room as Tom continued staring at the ceiling, paying no attention to Harry.
"I guess I'll be off then."
Tom hummed, startling when a weight sank down next to him.
"What - "
Soft lips pressed against his, stirring something in his stomach, before they left, leaving behind a sense of loss.
"See you around, Tom."
The door clicked shut and Tom raised his fingers to his lips, pressing against them, trying to imagine the warmth that had just been there. Had Harry just kissed him? Why would he do that?
He groaned, turning onto his side. He was too tired to deal with this - he'd think about it in the morning.
He was in the courtyard once again, but for the first time he had no book. He needed to talk to Harry - needed to ask him why, why had he kissed Tom?
He didn't understand - Harry hadn't shown any interest in him before!
Well, he might have done. It wasn't like Tom would know.
Nevertheless, it was completely unexpected and Tom was at a loss. Maybe it was a key step in a dark ritual? That was certainly plausible. That, Tom could understand.
Why else would Harry have kissed him? Was it just a weird way of saying goodbye?
Tom's head was hurting. He was too confused - Harry needed to come out of the parlour right now and explain this to him.
Tom didn't want to think about how he felt about the kiss. He wasn't ashamed in admitting that he'd never been kissed before, although some of his classmates had certainly tried. Tom hadn't let them get too close to him.
He'd thought it disgusting, repugnant - why would two people want to suck at each other's face? It made no sense….
And yet, Tom didn't feel repulsed by Harry's kiss. He knew that he should do, but he didn't. It had actually been sort of… nice, now he thought back on it.
Urghh. He didn't want to think about this. This was more confusing and complex than Paracelsus's law on equal spiritual exchange - which he still didn't fully understand.
Where was Harry when he needed him? The boy was probably stuffing his face with ice cream, getting chocolate sauce all over his -
Don't think about Harry's lips. Don't think about Harry's lips. Don't think about -
Harry strolled out into the courtyard, pink apron hanging loose around his neck and a tub of ice cream in his hand. Tom's eyes followed the teen as he sat down on a decking chair, holding the ice cream out for Tom to take with an easy smile.
Tom ignored the ice cream, still staring at Harry.
"What?" Harry fidgeted. "Do I have something on my face?"
Tom smiled, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. "No. You just have really pretty eyes."
WHY DID HE SAY THAT?
Tom grew flustered, backtracking quickly. "I mean, no - well, I suppose your eyes are nice but I didn't mean to say that out loud - "
"It's okay, Tom," Harry interrupted, setting the ice cream down on the floor. "I suppose I must have left you pretty confused, huh?"
Tom nodded slowly, turning imploring eyes to Harry. "I don't understand. Why did you do that?"
Harry laughed. "Sweet Merlin, Tom, you're like a little kid."
Tom scowled. "No, I am not."
"Tom, I kissed you because I like you. And I hoped that would like me in return."
Harry took a deep breath, sighing wistfully. "I'm sorry if I upset you - I should have asked first. I've just decided to start taking risks, you know? I don't want any regrets in life."
Tom stared at Harry, noticing the way his hair wavered in the breeze, the sunlight glinting off his glasses.
"So… not kissing me would be one of your regrets?"
Harry nodded, sending a shy smile towards Tom. "Yeah."
Tom looked away, not knowing what to say. For the first time he hated how inexperienced he was in this whole mess.
"What about my… addiction? Doesn't that put you off?"
"No, Tom. I knew you were...dark. I just didn't realise that you'd be stupid about it."
Tom glared at Harry. "Easy for you to say."
"Yeah. Easy. Because I don't mess around with magics that I shouldn't be."
Tom was quiet for a minute, thinking over Harry's words. "I admit… that I had been a bit careless in my approach to the Dark Arts."
Harry snorted, and muttered something that sounded incredibly close to 'you think?'. Tom continued, ignoring Harry.
"I appreciate your efforts in helping me yesterday. Even if I could have done without the comments."
"Well, thanks Tom. I guess."
Tom looked down at his feet. Maybe they should forget that it had ever happened?
"Look, Tom, I promise to help you through the rest of the summer. Dark Arts withdrawal is tough, my dad's told me loads of horror stories. While you did a very stupid thing, no one should have to suffer through that alone. I just want you to know that I'll be here if you need me."
Tom was shocked by his words. "Why? Is this because you… like me?"
Harry shook his head. "No. Well, maybe yeah. It doesn't really matter. We can forget it ever happened, Tom."
Tom shook his head before he could think about it. "No - don't."
Harry stilled, peeking curiously at Tom through his glasses. "Tom?"
"I didn't mind it. The kiss, I mean. I was just a little surprised."
A little surprised would be an understatement.
"Really?" Harry gaped, having never expected to hear that sentence from Tom.
"Yes," Tom affirmed, surprised at his own sureness. He stood up, and moved to stand in front of Harry, looking down at the teen. "Kiss me again."
Harry stood up quickly, eyes flitting nervously around and he swallowed. "Tom? Did you -"
Whatever Harry had been about to say next was forgotten, as Tom grew impatient and locked his lips against Harry's. Harry froze, but pressed back against Tom and grasped at the front of his shirt, dragging him closer.
Tom looped an arm around Harry's back and pressing the boy tighter against him, a hand cradling the back of his head and tangling in his hair as his forehead rested against Harry's, blue eyes locked onto green.
Salazar, Harry's eyes were so green.
It was nothing like last night - there was nothing gentle about this. It was desperate, confused, Harry taking control against Tom's inexperienced movements, tugging on his lower lip. Tom felt a warmth grow, but nothing like the fever-high temperatures of an episode - it was warm, glowing, and content.
Then Harry stumbled backwards, tripping over the chair and falling down on it, Tom going down with him. He straddled Harry's hips, leaning over the other boy and let instinct take control, leaving a trail of kisses along Harry's jaw line. He felt something hot against his neck, Harry responding with the same manner, and shivered.
How could he have not wanted this?
Tom drew back, heavy breaths leaving his chest and took in the sight of Harry lying below him, face pink and glasses lying askew, hair sprawled around him like an inky halo.
"Harry," he whispered, not knowing what else to say.
Harry laughed - he always laughed - and smirked. "Tom."
"What is this?"
Harry sat up, knocking his forehead against Tom's. "It's whatever you want it to be Tom. No labels needed."
Tom nodded seriously. "Okay. But just to be clear - "
"Tom, don't think for a change. Just enjoy it," Harry chastised, grabbing Tom's shirt collar and leaning in for another kiss.
Tom didn't mind. In fact, he thought that this summer holiday might just be the best yet.
A/N Hope that wasn't too weird. I still struggle with their dynamics, but if it doesn't feel right then attribute it to AU.
Hell, I'm really tired so apologies if there were any spelling mistakes. For the last week I've just been preparing for a surgery I have tomorrow so this story probably isn't as good as I wanted it to be.
Happy Valentine's day to under-that-sun, who I have written this tomarrytine for. It's only a few minutes after midnight where I am, so it still counts? Hope it wasn't too awful.
~Rho
(p.s. I'm on tumblr at rhodium-rose)