Warnings: magical Hogwarts AU, liberal butchering of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, quoting poetry, sap, fluff, Tom-centric, Tom is a good guy, Harry is a good guy, Dumbledore doesn't make an appearance so he doesn't matter, Voldemort doesn't exist
Pairing: established TMR/HP (Tom Marvolo Riddle/Harry Potter)
Summary: Because sometimes, Harry knows he has to play the Romeo in his relationship with Tom, even if his boyfriend makes a terribly stubborn Juliet. That Tom doesn't have a balcony… well. He'll make do somehow.
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling is amazing for not only making the Harry Potter universe for us, but also giving Slytherins windows despite the fact that their dormitory is underwater. Obviously, I apologize for butchering William Shakespeare's balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet, but I swear everyone has to have a go at it, so... Yeah I'm butchering poetry. I'm fully aware.
Tom rolls onto his other side for the nth time this night. He wants sleep, needs it because he knows he hasn't been getting enough, but the persnickety state eludes him despite all attempts to catch it. It isn't his bed, which is perfectly comfortable and rather large—he is a sixth year Slytherin, after all, and the space down in the dungeons allows for such private rooms to the upper years—nor his state, for he was fatigued during the day and feels it even more acutely with little to do.
It's his mind, actually. It runs and runs, and Tom himself finds he can hardly keep up with it. Not in the state that he's in.
That afternoon he'd had a bit of a… quarrel with his boyfriend of two years, Harry Potter. It'd been something about his study habits with exams so near, and something about having to eat food and how he wasn't really doing it, but Tom hardly remembers their exact argument.
He doesn't like fighting with Harry. Not like that.
Tom generally keeps to himself. He's "friends" with everyone, and no one all at the same time. He is polite, helpful when asked, and has perfect manners and a level head in all situations. At least, that's what everyone sees, and is exactly why he's been Prefect since fifth year. No matter how much the Headmaster distrusted him.
But Harry… Harry wasn't like that.
They're in two different houses, two warring houses. His boyfriend is a Gryffindor, and a proud one. Harry's seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and he does a fantastic job at it. Red is one of his favorite colors, despite knowing green looks better on him. Tom usually takes advantage of the fact to wrangle his boyfriend into something more… Slytherin on the occasion that he can.
Which is few and far. No one knows that they're dating, after all.
Hell, no one even knew when they'd been friends. Or that they'd spoken more than twenty words to each other. Both of them prefer it this way for the privacy it gives, but sometimes Harry is tired of lying to his friends and Tom is furiously jealous of all the girls free to pander and flirt about his boyfriend. And then those pent up emotions find their release in any petty matter, which explodes into a full-blown argument that nearly comes to blows—which, in all honesty, they normally enjoy in a mock duel, but there's a difference between that and this—but thankfully doesn't.
It's only the risk of getting caught that stops them.
Tom rolls over again, and this time he succumbs to the urge and curls up into a ball, one of Harry's favorite positions but never his own. He doesn't like fighting because he can hardly remember what they fight about, so he can't even properly apologize if he is wrong—Tom doesn't think he is, but having Harry around has proved he can't always be right.
And it's frustrating, because he wants his boyfriend here with him and he can't be, because he's a Gryffindor and they're fighting so it's not like Harry will sneak in with his Invisibility Cloak anytime soon. They hadn't had a proper conversation in a week, never mind a kiss, and finally when they do find the time for each other—Tom, Tom finds the time because Harry doesn't care too much for obsessive studying—they end up yelling and screaming their heads off.
Tom feels sick just thinking about it, sick and angry and he needs to blow something up because that's the only way he knows how to calm down.
Honestly, it really sucks to have his boyfriend be his best friend at the same time. When they fight, he feels so alone, and to top it all off he knows Harry couldn't possibly feel the same way, since he has friends and everyone in Gryffindor likes him, hell he's friends with people out of his house too, and it just really, really sucks to have to stay away.
But Tom does because he's prideful, because he's scared, because he can be a coward when it matters most, and because he doesn't think he'd ever be able to recover should Harry reject him. So usually, their fights boil down to Harry coming to him, and then what happens afterward fully depends on the situation. Sometimes Harry apologizes, sometimes Tom does, and sometimes they both agree to disagree and are all the more closer for it, but the waiting time is always the most terrible part of it all.
And it's not going to end anytime soon, since they just fought today.
Sometimes, Tom hates himself.
He wants to hug and cuddle with his boyfriend, wants to talk with him, wants to make him blush and stutter, wants to make up for lost time because even if he does it, he doesn't like reviewing things he already knows about, and honestly he much prefers Harry's company to standard textbooks. He…
He's just never told his boyfriend that.
Tom's almost found a restless sleep, but all mighty Founders above don't even grant him that. There's a tap sound nearby, and his wand is in his hand before he even wonders where it came from.
Tom's eyes are wide open now, his body tense and ready to send a deadly curse at whomever's disturbed his almost-sleep, but nothing happens for a whole minute. So he tries to relax.
Tap.
Tap tap.
Tom is silent in the dark. His ears twitch, trying to find the source of the sound, or at least the direction of it, but he can't say he knows. The wooden yew wand is still strong in his tightened grip, and he feels it pulse in reassurance at the agitation in his magic. It's not a sure sign, but at least Tom knows whatever's nearby isn't aiming for his life.
Tap.
Merlin be damned, now he's just irritated! Couldn't whatever it is let him rest? There were still subjects to go over tomorrow, and he'd probably be crammed in the library despite it being a Hogsmeade weekend—something he should've spent with Harry, sneaking away into the outer parts of town, but it's not like that'll happen now—which just makes it worse, and now there's some blasted noise coming from Salazar knew where?!
Tap.
Tom leaps from his bed and wrenches away the curtains covering his window. He knows where he sound is coming from, and he was going to blast the stupid water sprites through the glass if they were really—
…Oh.
Tom blinks. He hadn't expected to see his boyfriend in front of him, in nothing but a pair of swim trunks despite the frigid temperatures of the Lake this time of year, looking incredibly apologetic with his stupid green eyes and messy hair.
The sight almost made Tom forget he was angry. Almost. He remembers after a beat, and then pulls the curtains closed again determined to ignore his stupid aching heart and the pounding in his ears and what his brain is—stupidly—telling him. Needless to say it doesn't really work, even when he climbs back into bed.
Tap.
Just ignore it.
Tap.
He'll go away.
Tap.
Doesn't he know what time it is?
Tap.
He's—he's still cross with him!
Tap. Tap tap.
…Stupid, ridiculous Harry Potter! Tom gets back up and pulls the curtains apart again, only to see his boyfriend's pleading eyes and his two hands pressed up against the glass. It's a dreadfully tempting sight, what with his bare chest and the fact that he chanced the Lake instead of using his Invisibility Cloak to get to Tom, but…
Sorry, Harry writes using his finger. Some of the letters are facing the wrong way as he tries to write mirrored, but Tom can make it out through the condensation on the glass. He watches as Harry writes, Are you okay?
Tom doesn't even deign that a proper answer. He levels a glare at his boyfriend that he knows will be understood as, "I was trying to sleep. It's three in the morning. What do you think?"
Tom—Harry's finger starts to write, but he can't take it anymore. The Slytherin slides the curtains closed again, because it's just not fair. Harry's not supposed to do romantic things like dive into the freezing waters with nothing but a bubble-head charm and a heating spell. The later probably isn't even effective in the Lake, as the artificial warmth wouldn't be enough at this time of year. Only the toughest of creatures remained unaffected in the Black Lake's late autumn months.
Tom waits. He doesn't hear any tapping anymore, but he still stands there like a fool with his window covered and his cheeks warmer than they should be.
He's probably the only person who thinks this is romantic anyway, and it's hardly even that—just Harry being a stupid Gryffindor who doesn't think any of his plans through and that's why they never work especially not on Tom and—
He resolutely waits a whole five minutes. There's a tiny clock that ticks down in his head, just counting away the time, and Tom puts way more focus on it than he should if only to clear his thoughts from anything else. When the five minutes pass, he's decidedly calmer, but his heart's pounding is still a rapid pace in his chest, and Tom's determined to keep his face hard and stone cold because he's supposed to be incredibly cross right now.
He pulls the curtains aside slowly, expecting his window's view to be nothing but a wide expanse of water.
Instead, he sees words, and a sheepish Harry.
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? is written in Harry's slanted, messy script, carefully mirrored other than the first 'B' and 'h' so Tom can read it in relative ease.
Tom can't believe the nerve of his boyfriend. Seriously, muggle literature?
…Aside from the fact that Tom has a secret stash in his trunk that they may or may not have read together cuddled up on his bed—
Harry's smile turns impish, and with a wave of his hand, the words disappear—wandless magic, that cheeky little shit, Tom thinks reluctantly fond—and he begins to write again with a crease in his forehead to show how concentrated he was on getting all the letters to face the right way.
He speaks yet he says nothing: what of that?
"Are you serious," Tom hisses under his breath to himself, but by the way Harry's eyes brighten with mischief it's almost like he hears it. The Slytherin makes sure to glare in a sort of "piss off" way, but all Harry does is wave his hand again and start writing.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat his eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
This time, Tom slams his hand against the window with little fear that it'll break, the action instead serving to catch Harry's attention. Tom is very careful when he glares right into those green eyes and enounces, slowly to be understood, "Stop."
Harry bites his lip. Tom is determined not to waver in that direction, and is only brought out of his mean expression when his boyfriend shakes his head rapidly in the water.
"No?" he spits out incredulously, "Are you serious right now Harry, what the hell do you mean by no—"His words come out with greater speed than Harry's amateur lip reading can decipher. Instead of asking Tom to repeat that, Harry simply begins to write again.
Thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
"You are not allowed to quote Shakespeare to me!" Tom growls again despite the fact Harry can't hear him at all. He slams his hand against the glass again, but all Harry does is wait until Tom has finished reading before waving his hand and continue writing again.
No matter how much Tom hisses and snarls, Harry does not stop. In fact, all Tom can do is stand there, and watch how Harry's brow furrows, how it relaxes, how he brightens when he remembers something, or some plan has come up in his mind, for Tom still doesn't know where the Gryffindor is taking this. Harry's gentle smile tells him this is past flattery.
'Tis but thy nature that is my enemy, he writes, and this time there are no mistakes in his mirrored script. Apparently, Harry's gotten the hang of it.
Thou art thyself, though not with thy Pride.
What's Pride? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man.
Curiously, Harry drew a line between this line and the next. Tom, bemused, quieted and watched with baited breath for what his boyfriend would do next.
Tis but the excess that is labeled Pride!
A man's true fault here doth the blame lie,
But blame it I cannot in truth, for love
Is what I fear am blinded by. O had
My love been less for thee my blame would blind,
But as it not have yet,
All I possess is my heart's heavy weight.
It takes several erases to get all of it down on the window, Harry checking Tom's expression just to see whether or not he was finished reading, but by the end of it Tom feels even worse. And it isn't even because—
Tom flicks his wand, and writes in his spindly script the mirrored words of, "You butchered Shakespeare for me?" in the air.
Harry's smile is full of relief. Everyone has to do it once, he writes quickly on the window before erasing it all and starting from the top again.
My eyes have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of thy will's utterance, yet I know the sight:
Art thou no longer cross and still my beloved?
Tom entertains the thought of closing the window again. He'd thought Harry was done—but apparently not!—and his cheeks are a tad too warm to be comfortable. This isn't poetic at all, in fact Harry is terrible for doing this, terrible for butchering Shakespeare—perhaps even terrible for having the memory capacity to do this when he should be studying for exams—and it could very well be the subject of their next fight if Tom keeps to his resolve and remains indignant, but it's three in the morning and it's becoming rather hard to stay angry at his boyfriend.
Tom doesn't know why, but his wand is still in his hand and he's flicked it before he can stop himself. "Neither, fair saint, if either thee please you."
It encourages a bubbly laugh out of Harry. Tom vaguely makes out his boyfriend muttering something along the lines of "I can't believe you did that" before he's frantically scribbling at his window again.
What man art thou that thus still holds a grudge?
"How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?" Tom shoots back. Harry does little more than grin.
With love's light fins did I swim down these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy ire is no let to me.
They aren't Harry's words, Tom knows that. It's Shakespeare, and they're hardly Romeo and Juliet, so he doesn't exactly know what Harry is thinking, but it's hard to slow the pounding in his chest when he reads the last line. It's not how Harry would say it, but that Harry had written it nonetheless is—
Tom doesn't feel so alone anymore.
"If I do meet thee, I will murder thee," Tom writes without the vehemence that appears in the words.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of thine curses: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against thy enmity.
Impatiently, Tom stops with the Shakespeare quotes and instead writes, "I'm angry with you now."
Harry pouts. He waves his hand, and the words vanish. I don't think so, he scribbles, you look rather sweet to me. Your cheeks are red, by the way.
It's a reflex when Tom slaps his hand to his cheeks—they are warm, and undoubtedly red—before attempting a scowl and utterly failing at it when Harry once again dons his dopey lovesick smile… which is disgusting, by the way, even though it makes him want to do things seeing Harry's upper torso is also bare, and his pale skin is framed perfectly for Tom's private viewing—
Harry shivers. All of his indecent thoughts are gone as Tom notes this and frowns. "It's four in the morning," he writes with the flick of a wrist, "go back to your dorms. You'll catch a cold if you stay in the water any longer."
For some reason, Harry shakes his head. Tom scowls. His boyfriend can be stubborn at the worst times. "Harry," he writes, emphasizing it with a jab of his wand.
Dost thou love me? The Gryffindor scribbles the words with a shaky hand.
"Harry, this is not the time—"
Dost thou love me? he writes again.
"Are you seriously—"
Dost thou love me?
It continues on for a while longer, Tom trying to write a reply and Harry repeating the question time and time again on Tom's window. It quickly fills up the glass, and when Harry is at the last available space, he writes instead, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.
Tom swallows. "If you insist, I'll frown and be perverse an say thee nay."
I know thou wilt say 'Ay,' Harry scribbles frantically after erasing the repetition.
In truth, my fair beloved, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
The Slytherin pauses. Harry is… Harry is rather determined, Tom sums up with a wry smile. It isn't that they'd never told each other, in their own hushed voices, an "I love you." Hardly that—they've said it their fair amount of times each, but each and every time, they were cautious. They never urged the other to confess it, to have such words spill from the lips.
Each time was voluntary.
And now Harry insists in this strange, horribly embarrassing manner and Tom finds himself hard pressed to form a reply, for all his own words that swirl in his mind and heart. Perhaps the only way to reply is, in fact, to further make use of Shakespeare's words. He sends his apologies up, along with curses made with the liberal usage of Merlin's, Circe's, and Salazar Slytherin's names.
Although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say 'It lightens.'
Tom sees Harry frown at his rebuke, and though his chest tightens, the words remain floating in the air. Upon acknowledging his boyfriend's stubborn stance, Harry sighs—the bubbles are what make it visible—and begins his own reply, entirely reluctant to leave.
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
…Regardless to say, Tom is not amused by his boyfriend's stubborn nature either. "What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?" he writes with a haughty sniff.
The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
His reply was quick and sharp. "I gave thee mine before thou didst request it."
Harry's scribble is just as fast, and if possible, even messier than it was before. Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
And Tom throws away Shakespeare in that moment, for he would never take back what he'd said in the past. Even if Harry didn't know the extent of his influence on Tom, the Slytherin was acutely aware. No matter how many fights they'd gone through, no matter how many fights they're going to go through, nothing could erase Harry's significance to him. He'd be a fool to forget.
"I would never withdraw my vow to you," he writes carefully, words accentuated by the sparks of his magic at his emotion, "even if it were to give it to you again. That moment you'd not have it would be a moment too long. And I dare not write it in repetition as a substitute, for what the quill and wand cannot express, the voice does, and if there is no voice, I'm afraid the essence of the first vow will reach you devoid of any vow in the first place."
Without a word or a scribble, Harry presses his hand against the glass of his window. Tom mirrors his action, and for a second feels the warmth of his hand through the barrier. Logically he knows this isn't possible, as the building is enchanted to stave off the chill of the Lakes, but looking at Harry now he fervently wishes.
"Go to sleep," he mouths.
"Are we okay?" Harry mouths back.
Tom's ensuing smile is full of mirth. "Only if you never do this again."
"Deal."
The next morning, despite their relationship being back on track, Harry and Tom don't go to Hogsmeade. Instead, Harry makes a trip to the Hospital Wing, gets some potions for his terrible cold, and then, under the safety of his Invisibility Cloak, sneaks into the Slytherin Common Room and down into Tom's room to snuggle with his boyfriend.
"Achoo!" Harry sniffs, only to curl further into Tom's warmth after he's blown his nose for the nth time. An empty bowl is on the nightstand, its contents originally soup but all gone courtesy of Tom feeding him.
"You're ridiculous, Harry Potter."
And, despite the insulting manner of Tom's comment, it's still followed by a hushed, "I love you" and a peppering of kisses when Harry blushes and stutters at the confession that he'd, a few hours ago, insisted on but hadn't gotten.
Tom argues that it was just "simply delayed."
Harry's just pleased that his boyfriend has gone back to taking—arguably too much—care of him.
I am, admittedly, at fault for jumping on the "Tom is the overprotective dom" in the TMR/HP ship. I also admit to fully supporting the "Harry needs a partner who can take care of him, poor bby has been through so much" idea.
But, well, as long as I'm covering all my bases with a widespread amount of AUs for this pairing, why not throw this into the mess too. Besides, Hary gets taken care of at the end so everything is still A-OK with my sensibilities ;)
...Yeah I just wanted to write a oneshot. So, uh, you guys can have this.
Sincerely,
R.R.