Summary: In which Harry and Tom are both very much female, very much attracted to each other, and very much costume-wearing, weapon-toting, badass magical girls. And this is a story of how they got there.
Warnings: femslash, Alternate Universe, CRACK, Cliches Galore (try and find them all!), Magical Girls/Mahou Shoujo/Majokko, Rule63/Female!Harry&Tom, Fashionista!FamousModel!Tom, Insecure!SociallyAwkward!Student!Harry, no real enemies, implied consensual sex at the end, fighting in high heels (but Tom floats anyway, so...?), age gap relationship
Pairings: TMR/HP (Tom Riddle/Harry Potter)
Disclaimer: ...Seriously you would not want me to own Harry Potter LOL. Because then things like this happen... ./sigh
Harriett "Harry" Potter was no different than any other average person her age. She had friends, had insecurities, had loving parents, and went to school in the morning while sleeping at night.
Her life was 'normal'. Or, well, in her opinion, inadequately normal.
Touching her mirror with the balls of her fingers, Harry watched her reflection mirror her actions. She looked, and she saw, and she could not help but pick out every little flaw there. Her hair was messy, even though it was long—it was time to get new hairbands; the others were too old and flimsy now—her face was plain. Old fashioned glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, a fitting accessory with her birth name.
She was tall for her age, but it felt almost awkward, making her look even thinner than she already was. Harry grimaced. It was a bad habit, she supposed, to want what one didn't have, but when she thought about it too much she couldn't help it. Sometimes, she wanted to stand in a gaggle of girls, complaining that they were too short or their cramps hurt too much or their boyfriends just never understood—certainly, they weren't the quintessential bunch, and often she found herself throwing dirty looks at those types of people when they grew overly loud, but it wasn't the type of person they were that attracted her…
It was that they fit in. With each other. Found a place that matched their gender to slide in seamlessly, and smile and laugh, occasionally having their bad moments but also having some good. They didn't think about much, other than the trivial details.
Harry bit her lip. Maybe her worries were trivial too, but they were enough to make her feel… displaced.
Her body was an athlete's body—curves, but small curves. She had practiced gymnastics since she was little, signed up for a lesson by her mother and fell in love with it. Hand-to-hand combat was also part of her extracurricular activities—boxing, judo, karate. They had to be, with her police chief father and a godfather and an uncle who loved to wrestle with her. So there was hardly any fat to be seen, never mind notice when she had baggy clothes on… which was, to be honest, usual.
Being healthy was good. She felt good. Exercise was a part of her routine, helping her escape from whatever troubles that tended to scratch at her mind's door. But maybe, if there was a little bit more fat, just to help out in the hips or chest department—
Harry let her forehead press against the cool glass of the mirror.
Most of her friends were boys, though with the exception of Hermione; they had been together since kindergarten. It was comfortable. Ron, Neville, Dean, Seamus. She probably would've joined the soccer team with them too, if it hadn't been split into genders. And it wasn't like she didn't make an effort to have more friends—certainly, the girl's team had welcomed her, but it had been so hard to find a camaraderie with the members who were, to an extent, like her…
It was just so, so hard making new friends. She never knew what to say, how to speak. Too many thoughts would fill her head, and then she'd stutter, and blush, and they'd probably thought her too shy to approach anymore. Her peers would call her 'socially awkward'. Her parents would call her a 'late bloomer'.
Sometimes, she wondered if it would've been better had she been born a boy.
But—but it wasn't that she didn't want to be a girl! Really, she did! She wanted to wear cute clothes, maybe a pair of cute heels or boots, a girlish headband, earrings—if only they didn't get caught in her hair—
But she didn't. In fact, nothing in her closet looked remotely close to anything Harry really wanted to wear. It just wasn't practical! How do you kick in a skirt? How do you run in heels? What if you tore your dress? How do you apply makeup, without smudging it or laying it on too thick? While her baggy, gender neutral clothes were comfortable for the daily activities she often did, sometimes she wanted to give up that comfort, if only to receive a casual comment of "You look nice today." Just once. Maybe try it again if it went well.
Because she hadn't heard those words in a long time.
Harry turned around, moving towards her desk. On top there was a girl's magazine, the only one she owned—had dared to buy. In actuality, there was nothing inside it that she liked, other than a dress or two she dreamed of wearing. It was the cover that made her buy it. The person on the cover.
Tom Riddle—her complete opposite.
Tom was a model, had the natural looks to be one. Rumor had it that someone saw her on the street, asked her to do a photo shoot right then and there, and Tom had simply posed—no questions asked, no prior clothes or make up arranged—she was just that fashionable. That perfect.
Harry didn't know whether she believed it or not. If she had never seen Tom—impossible, really; the woman was on so many magazines, so many posters, commercials, advertising products—then probably not, but watching her interviews, seeing her work, she doubted.
Tom was her idol. Everyone talked about Tom, pointing out all of her good points every time. When people talked about Harry, they spoke of all her… not so good points.
Example. Harry was tall, wasn't she? Tom was taller, and curvier. Definitely curvier. Harry wore glasses, an aged pair she never bothered to replace, while Tom's eyesight was a perfect twenty-twenty. Harry was a girl—never a lady—Tom was a woman. Harry chose to be called a boy's name—but Harriett is so old-fashioned!—, while Tom chose hers because "Tommy is childish."
Tom never faltered in front of a crowd. In fact, when she spoke, people listened. No one tried to talk over her, since no one ever dared. She was charismatic, even when she didn't smile. And her smiles didn't have to be big, or toothy, or flirtatious, to make a statement—whenever Tom smiled, it was small. Usually, she smirked. And the public loved it. Harry loved it, because Harry didn't think her own smile was that pretty at all. Of course, it wasn't like she could pull off smirking; she didn't even know how to make such an expression, but it was nice to know that you didn't have to smile all the time… at least, not if you were Tom.
And Tom chose to be single. She didn't date because none of the men that threw themselves at her feet were worth her time. Harry didn't have a boyfriend because no one had ever asked, and she was too scared to talk—never mind ask—to any boy outside her small circle of friends.
What else… Ah! Tom's sense of fashion wasn't necessarily girly either, but instead of Harry's no-gender-identified closet, it was classy. There was a clear feminine touch to them, despite not being flowers and lace or bright pink. They were sexy, without showing too much or sending a loose message. It was a modern look, a woman's turn at professionalism in a job industry that often over-sexualized or over-idealized the female gender if one wasn't careful. She was cautious, while being confident. Tom owned her body, made sure the public knew it; didn't shame herself while making a statement that if she decided to be sexy, it was for herself, and she certainly wasn't going to be ashamed of it afterward.
Tom was what Harry wanted to be—that confidence, so bright and untouchable, was Harry's ideal. Because she didn't have it, couldn't imagine being so assured in one's own actions or way of dress… how to act like everyone else's opinion didn't matter enough to change anything at all. Tom was the action, not the reaction.
…It was pointless, really, thinking of something that could never be. Harry shook her head, sighing as locks of her black hair fell in front of her face. She hated bobby pins with a passion, but sometimes the idea of using them didn't seem so bad anymore. Either way, it was time to get new hair ties. The few she had left looked like they would snap the second she tried to use them.
The sound of her mother calling her name brought Harry out of her thoughts. It was time to go to school.
Harry had no fucking idea how she got into this mess. One second she was running home late from practice, the streets already lit with their nighttime lamps, then she was being attacked by some monster—and then—and then—
A warm feeling. A flash of light. Fire, the word had come to her in a sudden realization.
And then an old man wearing purple robes—wait, were those unicorns?—and an odd night cap appeared out of what Harry swore was nowhere, smiling like it was perfectly acceptable to be wearing those clothes while walking around at night when no one else was on the streets, and then asked her if she wanted a lemon drop. Or two.
Of course, her answer was no—James Potter had always made it a point to tell her not to accept things from strangers—but the old man just nodded and kept smiling. He was completely unaffected by the pile of ash lying on the sidewalk where… where the monster had been. Bewildered, Harry remained silent, and they stood there like that for at least a minute more. The old man popped a yellow candy into his mouth.
"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the man introduced himself politely. "May I inquire to yours?"
This was a bad idea, but Harry was too shocked and confused to control her reflexes. "I'm Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."
Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed, it is a pleasure Ms. Potter. I must say, I was worried I wouldn't get to you in time, but you seemed to manage well on your own there." His gaze flickered to the pile of ash.
"Ah… Uh… I guess…"
"You must be wondering what that thing was, and what happened to it." A statement, not a question.
That's an understatement! "…Uh, yeah, I mean, yes, I am."
Dumbledore nodded slowly. His close-mouthed smile was kind. "You're a Witch, Harry."
"What?!" Harry blurted out. She blinked rapidly, and then looked at her hands. It was times like these—not that they happened often, or at all!—that she wished she had a mirror to check what her face looked like. Not her expression, but just if… if anything changed. Certainly her skin wasn't green, even though the lighting was inefficient to really tell, and her face was no worse than this morning… right? No boils, no long nose, no—
The old man chuckled. "Not that kind of witch, my dear. Capital W; Witch."
"Uh," Harry stumbled over her words, "I don't… Uh, well, know… what's the difference?"
"Witches," Dumbledore began, "with a capital W, are females like yourself with magical power to be used to protect the world against the Muggles."
"…I'm really, really sorry, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Understandable," nodded Dumbledore. "If you would like, I can explain more to you, but I'm afraid this location isn't the best. If you could follow me…?"
This is a terrible, terrible idea, Harry panicked as the old man beckoned her to follow. Numerous amounts of "Don't follow strangers!", "Don't take anything from them either!", "Kidnappers don't have to have white vans!" filled her head. How could they not? Her father was the police chief! Her first answer was to politely decline the old man's request, and then turn around and run like the hounds of hell were biting at her heels. Anything to get home, where it was safe, and nice, and her mother was probably waiting with dinner, and—and—
But… something was going on here. Something weird. Something—she paused, looking at the ash on the street, remembering the monster, her attacker, the thing made of shadows and darkness, thick sludge and no eyes but sharp, pointy teeth—
Something unnatural. And according to this man, and her experience just a moment ago, she had the power to fight it.
…Were others attacked, like she? What if they didn't have that power, this weird fire thing, to kill it? Were they… did they…
How many victims fell to that… thing before it attacked her and she killed it?
"Let me call my mother," said Harry after a moment, "She'll be worried."
Dumbledore nodded again. "I understand."
The phone call was short. Harry said she was staying over at a friend's house, which her mother was agreeable to, and then quickly texted said friend to tell him of her lie. Neville was confused, but quickly sent back an 'okay, be safe' when he sensed behind the words that there was a measure of seriousness to it.
Harry looked up, bit her lip, and walked forward. "I'm ready."
The office Dumbledore brought her to was a strange place, Harry mused. It was almost… magical. There were little knick-knacks all over, some odd, others somewhat recognizable. There was a drinking bird on his crowded desk, one that oddly enough reminded her of a phoenix. Maybe it was the bright orange and red feathers.
Against the walls, bookshelves filled to the very brim with books of all sizes and conditions stood tall but not tall enough to reach the high ceiling. Every nook and cranny seemed to be stuffed with books! Somewhere off to the side there was a tall body mirror with a weird inscription too small to read from afar, and against the very back wall in front of Harry were lines of portraits, each with a different person in the small frame.
Harry sat docile in a cushy seat in front of Dumbledore's desk, sipping tea as she tried to regain her wits. It was, admittedly, very good tea. Almost as delicious as her mother's.
And then someone burst through the doors behind them and Harry turned so fast it made her dizzy to see who it was.
"Dumbledore! You better have a damn good reason for calling me in on my day off!"
There, in all her rightful glory and much to Harry's disbelief, stood Tom Riddle. Harry felt her jaw drop, but could not find it in her to close it. Tom Riddle! Tom Riddle was standing in front of her! Who were these people, to have connections to someone like her? In fact, why was she here in the first place…?
"We have a new Witch in town, Tom!" Dumbledore replied happily without any regard to the furious expression of the woman in front of him. "Isn't this wonderful? It's been so long since a Witch has awakened in Hogsmeade!"
Tom glanced over at her and only then did Harry's jaw snap shut. The look she was giving her was… as if… as if Harry was scum not fit to be on the bottom of her fashionable heels.
"And what," sneered the model, her gaze turning back to Dumbledore, "has that got to do with me?"
"Why, you're going to train her, of course!"
"And why is that, old man?!"
Harry wasn't sure who to be impressed with—Tom Riddle because she was Tom Riddle or Dumbledore because he was doing an amazing job ignoring her fury.
"Well, why not?" His answer surprised both Harry and Tom. The latter, struck speechless, did not reply.
"Uh, can I at least get an explanation of what's going on…?" Harry asked, thinking there was no time like the present at this point. If this went on, they might as well have decided a billion things before she figured out what a Muggle or Witch was.
"You didn't explain it to her yet, and you called me in?" snarled Tom. "You know what, no, I'm not dealing with this. I'm going home, where I should be to complete my day off."
Right before the woman managed to walk out the door, Dumbledore spoke up. "She defeated a level five, Tom. A level five, in one blow, right before my very eyes. And I'll tell you, even though I know I'm growing old in my age, and my eyes might not be what they used to be—"he peered over the rim of his glasses as if he were reprimanding a child,"—I know this is what I saw."
Wordlessly, Tom turned around and gracefully settled herself into the seat beside Harry. Dumbledore nodded in approval.
"Right. Now, Harry—would you like to ask your questions first or shall I attempt to explain?"
Startled, Harry mumbled, "Uh, if we could… questions first? I guess…"
"Go ahead then, my dear girl. Nothing to be afraid of."
Harry bit her lip. "What was that… thing? It… it attacked me… from nowhere, and—"
"A Muggle," Tom cut her off, "that was a Muggle. A mid-class one, at that."
Dumbledore explained further. "Muggles are creatures like you saw, Ms. Potter. They are… supernatural, put simply. They are mostly black, inky, shadowy things, but they take many different forms from that general shape, depending on the level of their strength and intelligence. That is how we rank them. Muggles can only be destroyed by Witches, but they are a danger to all of us—to all people, humans."
"…How are they made?" Harry asked in a quiet voice. She remembered the size of that thing, how it loomed over her, threatening to swallow her whole—
Dumbledore smiled sadly. "They are made from people. Humans. Like your parents, like your neighbors, like your classmates. They are made from strangers who you have never met, even your closest friends. It is the fear and doubt in our hearts that create them, and misery attracts them like bees to honey…"
Harry froze. Then—all that time—whenever I doubted myself—or thought—
"A human's nature," Tom spoke up, "It is part of our nature, unfortunately. Fear and doubt and sorrow are weaknesses that are ingrained into our makeup. It's hardly anyone's fault that they're made—just a pain on part of us Witches, since we have to clean it up."
Dumbledore nodded. "That's right, Ms. Potter. No one should take the blame. Muggles balance the world, I suppose you could say. Their creation is a part of nature, simply one that is unknown to most. With their creation Witches are born; some awaken, some do not. Either way, we fight to control the population of Muggles, to protect. Our goal is not to eradicate their source, but rather keep the source safe. Their creation cannot be stopped unless there are no humans, so what we can do is try and get rid of as many as we can."
"…Because someone has to do it, right?" Harry whispered. "Someone has to do it… to keep the balance between Muggles and people."
"Brat catches on quick," remarked Tom.
"Any other questions? I'm afraid we cannot move too far away from dreary subjects such as this, as it is the crux of your confusion… but our goal is to help you understand, Ms. Potter, before we get into anything more."
"Uh…" she scrambled to organize her thoughts, "what exactly are Witches? And well… what was that fire that I saw?"
"Ah, yes. The essential question," Dumbledore noted as he pushed his glasses up. "Witches, my dear girl, are females, much like yourself and Tom here, born with the innate power to combat Muggles. There are artificial means that people like myself use to destroy the Muggles, but you are born with it. It must be awakened to use, however, which is why Witches are actually very few. Our organization seeks to organize the population of awoken Witches, and assist them in their fight, through weapons and lessons and partnerships, or the like—"
"What was the fire like?" interrupted Tom. Her piercing stare was on Harry.
Nervous, the younger girl shifted uneasily, hands fidgeting as she answered. "Uh, bright. And warm. I don't know why I call it fire, exactly—it was more of a… of a spark. Like a very short burst. I'm not sure what color it was… it just—"
"Was," Tom finished. Upon the hesitant nod of a reply, Tom turned away and returned to her silence.
"That is what we call your 'core'," said Dumbledore. "Witches use staves, or staffs, as their weapons, but what gives their weapons power is their 'core'. In other words, that is the essence of your power. Each is different, for every Witch. Ollivander could tell you more of that, if you like."
Harry nodded, understanding some but not all of the explanation. "Am I… will I… be expected to fight too?"
It was silent before she got a reply.
"That… is a matter wholly onto you," said the old man with a sigh. "We cannot force you to fight—we can prepare you for it, train you for it, give you a partner or a group to fight alongside with… but we cannot force you. Witches are few, and I will tell you that there are few who have awoken that refuse to fight… but you are given a choice."
"Don't underestimate us simply because we don't have numbers," Tom said sharply. "If you don't want to fight, we don't need an unwilling Witch. I've been in charge of Hogsmeade for a long time, and I don't need help."
Dumbledore began to explain upon seeing Harry's clueless expression. "Usually, wherever the Witch lives becomes her territory for her… patrol, I suppose you could say. Tom is insistently independent. While most Witches work together with another Witch or even a group, she does not—refuses to, in fact," he chuckled, "So the Witches born here are usually on standby. They take over whenever Tom has a day off, or are sent to a neighboring territory to help."
"Which is also why there are plenty of Witches that will train you, other than me, should you decide to fight," cut in Tom as she glared at Dumbledore.
"Nonsense! I do believe you'll be a wonderful teacher!"
"No means no, old man."
"There's a time and place for everything! Now is the time to broaden your horizons, Tom!"
"Once upon a time I wanted to be a teacher," she replied flatly, "that time is over."
"But you haven't even tried! Best to revisit the matter and test it for yourself, hm? You could be losing a wonderful opportunity!"
"Or be gaining deadweight—"
"Pish posh, Tom! With a little training, Ms. Potter will be one of the best! I can see her potential already. Now, if her teacher was the best, then she'd get there a tad faster…"
"Slow and steady wins the race," Tom bit back. "The best of the best are better suited on duty, not training—"
"It'll be a training experience for you both!" Dumbledore cheered as he clapped his hands once to emphasize. "You get to learn how to work with someone, and Ms. Potter—"
"No means no you old fool!"
"I'd like to fight." The argument abruptly cut off. They both turned to Harry.
"Ms. Potter, Witches do get hurt, you know," Dumbledore warned in a grave tone. "They get injured, sometimes, and even… well, there is another reason why Witches are few in number…"
"I understand, but—"she bit her lip, trying to find the right words,"—I have a mother, and a father, and a godfather, and an uncle who lives with me. My mother is very respected in her field, and my father has a respected job. My life… There are people out there worse off than me, I guess I'm trying to say. And I don't think I've ever tried doing something for someone else—not a specific group of people, but just… well… people. And it's a scary thought, to do something like fight monsters… but in the end, I think about my mother and my father and my dearest godfather and uncle, and maybe even a little sibling if my parents go through with the idea, and if anything happens to them I don't think I could ever—"
Silence. They let her finish.
"I don't think I could ever live with myself, is all," Harry mumbled. "If people are given a choice, other people say they should take the right choice. Well, both choices are probably right in some way, aren't they? Depends on how you look at it. And in this case, I don't want to choose what's morally right, because if I end up hurt or worse my parents will be devastated, and I don't think I could bear with that either, but—"
Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. "Say what you need to say, my dear," he coaxed.
"I want to fight because I want to be able to protect them," Harry finished firmly. "I want to protect the few who will be devastated that I'm hurt. Those who care, and those who I care about… It's not about making the right choice. It's about making the decision to do whatever I can to help everyone. And that's why I'm choosing to fight."
There was a pause in time, to let her words sink in, before Tom rose from her chair. "Well old man, looks like you have yourself another Witch," she said. "And if you're so insistent on having me train her, fine. I'll do it. But—"
The old man stopped himself before he could jump out of his seat and cheer. Tom glared at him.
"—But," she repeated, "I will only teach her the basics. After that, she's on her own, and if she ends up dying out there—"Tom slammed her hands on the wood of the desk, rattling the small objects there as she leaned over,"—Don't. Blame. It. On. Me."
"Of course Tom," Dumbledore waved as if he wasn't affected at all by the display, "now, won't you take Ms. Potter to Ollivander? She'll need a weapon. I trust you two can arrange things between yourselves, yes? Off you go!"
Predictably, Tom spun around and stormed out of the office. She threw a nasty look behind her shoulder as she left, the expression all the more vicious upon her beautiful face.
Harry looked helplessly over at Dumbledore. Are things really going to be okay…?
"Not to worry, my dear girl! Tom is actually rather friendly once you get to know her!"
Even more predictably, Harry didn't believe him a single bit.
"So, what's your name, child?" Tom asked as she strode down the hallway.
"H-Harry. Potter. Uh, and I'm seventeen—"
"—And not a child, right?"
"Y-yeah…"
Tom smirked. "You're still a child."
Harry bristled at that, but kept her mouth shut.
"I'm Tom, but you seem to already know that," the model continued. "Looks like I'll be stuck with you for awhile. You have any prior skills?"
Skills… that could mean a lot of things. Harry tried to think of it in relation to what she would be doing soon enough. "I've taken gymnastics since I was little. Uh… I started learning judo five years ago, and the past year I've been starting to practice karate…" She was startled when Tom glanced at her in approval.
"Hm. So your decision wasn't just a silly illusion of playing hero."
"Err… I guess not?"
"Anything else?"
Harry mulled it over in her head. "I don't think so," she answered cautiously.
Tom nodded. "Good enough then. Just so you know, I awoke when I was sixteen. I wanted to be a history teacher. All I was good at was surviving."
She said nothing more as they entered another room, but to Harry that was enough. It was, strangely, Tom's own way of reassuring her. That she'd live. Perhaps manage to do even more than just live. And the idea that her idol, Tom Riddle, had just told her that…
Well, a bit of hope never hurt anyone. Harry hid her smile behind her hand out of habit. Maybe Dumbledore was right.
"Hello Ms. Riddle! I do believe you have someone for me, yes?"
An aging man behind a wooden counter hardly glanced up as they entered the room, fixated on his work. He was widdling away at a piece of wood, using a small knife with great finesse and control as he focused on the minor details. He only looked up when there was no reply.
"Ms. Potter, yes?" The man peered at her with a knowing smile.
"That's me," Harry said, her voice sounding too loud for her own ears. "If… If I may ask, who are you?"
The man chuckled. "I am the weaponsmith of the organization. Making staves and staffs for Witches, custom to fit their core—yes, much work is done in this small room of mine! My name is Ollivander, and despite my looks, yes, I'm older than Albus up there."
Older than…? Harry blinked.
Tom sighed. "Let's get on with it, won't you? This is supposed to be my day off, and at this rate I won't be getting any extra sleep at all."
"Very well. Come this way, Ms. Potter."
He led them both to another room filled with planks and thick rods of wood. It smelt of pine, and some other musky scents that made Harry think of a forest. She watched as he laced his fingers together and stretched his hands high above his head—an audible crack could be heard—before breathing a deep sigh. The man was tougher than his age showed, having to lift many heavy weights as well as do detail work for his job.
"She took down a level five," Tom said out of the blue.
Apparently this meant something to Ollivander, who muttered a, "You don't say?" with a troubled expression. Then, he smiled. "Ms. Potter, I do believe I know the perfect wood to fit that core of yours—phoenix feather and holly, another strange combination!"
It took awhile to get used to it—being a Witch. At first the lack of a goodnight's sleep got to her, but Harry persevered. During the day she went to school, as per normal, met with her friends, spoke to them; all in all nothing felt changed. But at night, she snuck out and met with Tom for lessons. And that was when things… weren't so normal, for lack of a better description.
It was during her first lesson that she watched Tom transform for the first time.
"Each Witch," Tom had begun to instruct, "has their own unique dress. We identify ourselves by the witch hat always upon our head. It does not matter what size, what color, or what design it is in—all Witches have a witch hat. Your battle gear as a whole is dependent entirely on you. You think it up, you get it. The creation process is rarely ever redone, so might as well consider whatever you think up permanent. Afterward you won't have to take the time to call them up—they'll simply appear when you need them. You'll be dressed for battle in a blink of an eye."
Harry nodded to show her understanding. "So, uh, is it like… armor?"
Tom snorted. "Its official name in the books is, in fact, battle armor… but the name itself is practically a hyperbole. For example…"
And then, in a flash of light, Harry's idol was dressed in different clothing with a pale wooden stave in her hands. Of course, Tom was all the right degrees fashionable. Harry didn't expect any less—the woman was always dressed just right, even in casual wear. Or, perhaps, it was just the aura that she possessed that made it seem so…?
Tom's 'battle armor' looked actually… more like a business suit. A business suit no one would ever wear to a meeting, but certainly something someone would walk down the runway in. She wore a pinstripe vest over a red silken blouse, the sleeves loose and ending in a Victorian style finish. At her neck was a black cravat. Her shorts matched the fabric of her vest, ending just above mid thigh. There was a slip of skin there just before it met with her black stockings, which continued down her long legs until they met with her heeled buckled combat boots just below her knees.
On her head was a tall, wide, black pointy witch hat, and where the band would usually be at the base was instead a metallic ouroboros.
And Harry now understood what Tom meant—because her outfit just wasn't practical to be fighting in, but the way she held herself screamed, "I don't need to be practical to whoop your ass!"
And, of course, there was no way anyone would call what she was wearing armor.
"Has… anyone ever tried to… you know, think up actual armor?"
Tom gave her a flat look. "Armor is ridiculously hard to move around in, and Witches need the mobility. Of course, there is the thinner, light weight armor you're probably referring to. Some have chosen to do so, but that's rather difficult. Your battle gear is what you desire to wear, subconsciously, as that's usually what you'll be most comfortable in. As you can imagine, Witches being all females, the practicality of actual armor is sacrificed in the mind."
Harry hid a laugh behind her hand at the woman's expression.
"And, there is the matter of, surprise surprise, magic. Our power. Whatever our battle gear is, it feels like a second skin—you don't notice it at all. Even if there are frills and lace, you hardly pay a thought to them in battle, and they magically don't get in the way either. Because our battle gear is made through willpower, magic, it's automatically mended the next time we call upon it. Now if only that was the same matter for our normal clothes…" Tom sighed. "Alright. Your turn."
"Wa—wait, what? Huh?"
"Make your battle gear. It shouldn't take too long."
Harry furrowed her eyebrows. "But… but… how?"
"Didn't I just say?" snapped Tom. "Think. Will it into creation. You have the power now. It's not limitless, but it's there. Use it."
The explanation didn't help at all. Harry frowned, but didn't try to voice her confusion. It was, in the end, up to her, and if so many other girls—Witches—could do it, why couldn't she? So she tried to force herself to think.
But… think about what? Clothes? Things I'd like to wear? Where is the line between wanting battle gear and just a normal, everyday outfit? Am I… putting too much thought into it? Am I just supposed to think give me clothes and expect it to appear…?
What's the difference?!
As her eyes were closed, all Harry could do was hear Tom sigh again. "You're putting too much thought to it," the woman relented, her tone less irritated and more resigned, "it's not what do I want to wear, or how do I want to look like, it's what I look like. It's how I'm dressed. Your power is you, and what you are is entirely a conception in your mind. That perfect you, that desired you… it's all there. Simply grasp it."
And Harry did.
She only realized that something had happened upon hearing Tom's muffled laughter. Quickly, she opened her eyes, glancing down at herself and realizing she must look rather foolish. From what she could make out through the light of the stars and moon, she was wearing a black long sleeve buttoned up blouse and blazer accentuated with green, her tie a similar shade to match the color scheme. The checkered skirt she was wearing shared the same shade of deep emerald, and beneath that was a pair of black tights that covered all the skin of her legs and disappeared into her boots at mid-calf.
This… is what I wanted to wear? Ah! Wait! I must look ridiculous in this—no wonder Tom is laughing—
But then the woman completely disproved her thoughts when she pointed at Harry's head. "Your hat," she huffed in laughter, "That's… the smallest one I've ever seen!"
The teenager blinked before reaching up and trying to feel what Tom was laughing at. It was, in fact, hardly a hat; from what Harry could feel, the small witch hat was attached to a barrette clipped firmly onto her hair, with—she checked the color—green and black ribbon attached to it. But… well… compared to Tom's…
It was small.
The woman continued to laugh. Harry felt her cheeks heat up despite the night's cold air.
"Pfft, it's so cute! Ha! Honestly, no wonder you don't wear clothes like that all the time! Strangers would be trying to pat you on the head, even despite your height!"
"Uh… well… Thanks? I… I think…" Harry turned her head in an attempt to hide her blush.
"Now all you need is a name," Tom mused.
"N-name?"
"Witches don't go by their real names in the organization," Tom explained. "If you should get a partner, you'll probably introduce yourself by your real name, but it's also just fine to go by alias. It's a simple courtesy, understand?"
Harry nodded quickly.
"In case you were wondering, my alias is Voldemort," she drawled, "Lord Voldemort to the Witches off my territory. Hmph, but you're one of my own now, so call me what you like."
"T-Tom is still fine…?"
"I suppose it is."
They were quiet for a bit, both flipping through names in their head.
"You should choose something feminine," Tom said suddenly.
Huh? "Pardon?"
"Well, isn't that common sense? You have a cute face, but you call yourself 'Harry'… Shouldn't your alias be cute as well then? To balance it out."
Harry blinked. And blinked again. She felt her cheeks heat up at the accusation, and several things occurred to her just then—not all nice—flooding into her head like a rapid stream, but first—"Like you could talk! Your name is Tom while your alias is Lord Voldemort! There's nothing feminine about that at all! And there's nothing wrong with my name!"
Unexpectedly, Tom huffed a laugh at her in the face of Harry's outburst. "Mmm… I take it back. I think I like you after all, brat."
Three, two, one…
"I'm not a brat!"
…
No one but my family has ever called me 'cute' before…
And, after a few more lessons with Tom, Harry realized that when the woman meant "only the basics"… well, that was a whole lot more than "only the basics". She wasn't so sure Dumbledore was right in saying Tom was, in reality, actually friendly, but it was true that the woman didn't want her to get hurt or worse. Tom trained her to fight and survive at the same time, not recklessly jump in just because she thought she could help.
Her time with Tom was probably her most treasured part of the day. As time passed, Harry wondered if her life really had gotten better, or if Tom distracted her so much that she no longer thought about her inadequacies.
Either way, it made her smile. And others began to take notice too.
The way Harry carried herself was no longer shy and reserved. Subconsciously she had began to mirror, or at least take some attributes of, Tom's manner. She stuttered less. She walked looking straight ahead, not down at the ground. She raised her hand during class, not just a short, sheepish wave, but with arm straight and eyes focused. It didn't shoot up like Hermione's, but it was confident nonetheless.
People began to notice her not for her faults, but for her abilities. They mentioned how amazing she was in her gymnastics routine, or complimented her on taking initiative to learn how to protect herself.
Harry found she did more than she simply wanted. While before she only accepted what was offered to her, now she spoke up. She asked her mother to teach her how to bake, something she dreamed of doing when she thought of an imaginary significant other who would accept her sweets with a smile on their face. She asked her father if he could take some time off from work and spend more time with the family during the summer. Things were different—in a positive light—so much so that Lily chose to comment on it one day.
"You're happier," she said as they both sorted through the laundry. "I don't think you were ever really sad, but maybe just not happy. And now you are."
"…I think I am too, mum," Harry replied.
Lily sighed, a complicated expression crossing her face. "You know, I always thought it was strange—you were so different from your father and I, not as… socially active, let's say. But now I think all you needed was someone to reach out. Be your role model…"
"You're wonderful, Mum," she said honestly, "Really. I don't think I could've asked for anyone better to be my mother."
Reassured, Lily smiled at her. "Thank you dear. Remember, you can always come to me if you have any problems, alright?"
Something suspiciously like guilt bit at her heart. Harry tried to smile back. "Yeah, sure."
"Now that you know at least a bit about protecting yourself, you're coming along with me tonight," Tom said as she brushed dust off of her sleeve.
Harry lifted her head in surprise. "Coming with you?"
"I'm on patrol duty tonight," she replied. "What did you think was going on while I was training you? The Muggles just lying low? The Witches usually on standby were taking care of it."
"O-Oh…" Harry bit her lip. "Tom?"
"What?"
"Being on standby… uh, is that also going to be me when you're done training me…? I mean… what'll happen after?"
Tom glanced back over her shoulder to look at her. "Normally I wouldn't even be training you. In that case, yes, you'd be on standby. But the old man sees something special in you, and after you defeated a level five in one blow I'd assume you're at least not your average Witch. Now whether that'll come to mean something is entirely up to you. As for what'll happen after, should I deem you pass, you'll probably be assigned to a nearby town. I don't need the extra help—didn't I say so before?"
"You did," Harry answered, but her reply sounded hollow even to her. Because that was the reality of it—Tom was her teacher, she was her student. They weren't—weren't friends, or partners, or anything like that. They wouldn't be. Never could. Tom, untouchable, beautiful, cold Tom could never be reached. Not by someone like Harry.
And in these thoughts, she completely missed the older woman's softened look, and her muttered, "The future's not set in stone, after all…"
Watching Tom fight was… it was really indescribable, but the closest Harry could get in one word was 'magnificent'. Tom's grace was not limited to the runway—she effortlessly weaved through her prey like they were nothing more than a simple obstacle course, and one second they were there after she passed them… the next they were ash. Harry wondered if she would ever be able to move like that.
Then, all of a sudden, Tom darted upward through the cloud of Muggles. Completely airborne, she spun about to steady herself, took half a second to aim, and fired a bolt of electric green down at the mob.
"Avada Kedavra!"
From her lessons, Harry knew what this was. Each Witch had a unique spell, hidden in the very essence of their core. This was the only spell they ever spoke—every other piece of magic was done nonverbally—and was, of course, incredibly powerful. In Tom's case, hers caused the immediate decimation of a Muggle and had an incredibly short cast, just two words, and could theoretically be used over and over again. The fault in it was taking more and more energy by each successive catch, and it was a very thin beam that could be difficult to aim against a single enemy.
"Pathetic," she sneered as she landed back down on the building rooftop next to Harry, "I spend a couple of weeks off patrol, and the Muggles are swarming in this place! Listen up brat—you want something done, you do it yourself. That's the only way you'll ever know if the job's done right."
"Uh… why are they bunched up in one place…?"
Tom glanced at her with curious eyes. "We're their target too, you know," she said slowly, "but you're half right. There's a lot of them here for some reason…"
The woman took off again into flight, spiraling back toward a growing mob to take care of them. Harry watched her briefly before taking another glance around below, scanning the grounds for any discrepancies. And it was then that she saw it. A dark cloud of shadowy figures, swooping down at just one spot a block away. She could vaguely make out the raggedy cloaks, waving ominously in the night air, and that was when Harry knew.
Dementors. Level eight and nine Muggles.
A chill trilled down her spine, the phantom touch more frigid than a gust of winter air.
Harry glanced back down where Tom was. The woman was still fighting, and wouldn't finish soon—so maybe, if she just crept a bit closer, tried to see what the Muggles were doing… that wouldn't hurt, right?
She stepped up onto the ledge of the building. No, it wouldn't hurt at all…
Harry leapt. Her legs bent, propelling her from the ledge, sending her flying to the next building. While she couldn't exactly fly yet, she had at least mastered the ridiculous jumping ability key to any Witch's mobility. Tom had drilled that into her during their first few lessons. With that, it didn't take too long at all to reach a safe vantage point nearby the swarming Dementors.
What she saw horrified her. A little girl dressed in rags was on the street, with Dementors crowded all over her, occasionally swooping down. Harry had asked—only once—what exactly happened when a Muggle got to a human. And Tom's answer had said that "it varied". Level one or two Muggles could cause severe injuries by ripping or clawing, but the person still had a chance to get away if they kept their wits about them. Level three or four Muggles would also rip or tear to pieces, though this time getting away for an ordinary human would be impossible. Level five and six would eat the person whole. Level seven, they would pull their victims into the darkness and consume them there without a trace. Level eight and nine, specifically called Dementors, would give what they call the 'Dementors' Kiss'… suck the human's soul out and leave the body an empty husk. No one had ever encountered a level ten Muggle.
She couldn't let those things devour that girl! She… she was an innocent! A human! A person!
Harry glanced back over at Tom's direction. Too far away—she couldn't fly back over, by then it might be too late, nor could she shout for her mentor either. That would alert the Dementors to her presence, and there was no way she could make it out alive or even save the girl with that. If she charged in recklessly…
Harry paused. She'd never fought a Muggle as a Witch before. She'd sort of sparred with Tom, but all those times she'd gotten her ass handed to her. So, how…? Think Harry! Think! You can't let that girl die!
Wait. A Witch's power would only harm a Muggle. In that case, if she could take all those Dementors out in one go—or maybe half, at least a third?—with pure force, then that would buy her enough time and space to swoop in, grab the girl, and use the nearby building to leap out. But how could she do that? There were a few long-ranged spells Tom had showed her, but none of them would be able to take out that many Dementors at one time!
Harry groaned. She needed like, like… a grenade, or something!
…Wait…
Maybe that was it! If she could make something explode, that would take them all out! But it couldn't be a physical object, otherwise it would hurt the little girl too. It'd have to be a manifestation of power—from her. But what would keep its form, never mind its shape for an indefinite amount of time…?
A barrier. A shield. Maybe—
Harry lifted her hand up and stared at it. That would be perfect. The deflection on a shield would make the explosion even bigger. But how to do it…?
Think it up!
Could she?
Use your will!
But—
Just. Do. It.
Harry bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping beyond all hope that this would work.
I'm in a rhythmic gymnastics lesson. There is a ball in my hand that I will toss. I have it in my hand, holding it with the balls of my fingers—
I can feel it.
She opened her eyes. This would have to be perfect. Another attempt and the Dementors would notice her. She'd have to throw it in their midst, and then hit it with another spell to blow it up. Her aim would have to be on point. She—
She wasn't Tom. But that didn't mean she couldn't do it.
One chance, Harry—!
She pulled her arm back and threw. The red orb propelled forward, flying towards the crowd of shadowy black unnoticed. Right when she figured it was in deep enough, Harry pointed her stave, steadied her hands, and fired. There was a few seconds before her bolt of energy reached the orb that she prayed to whatever deity there was up above that'd it hit its mark.
It did.
There was a loud explosion as the orb reacted violently to the incoming magic. A static discharge ran through the cloud of Dementors, turning one by one, two by two, three by three to ashes. This was her chance. Harry leapt off the building, made a mad dash toward the girl as soon as her feet touched the ground, and planned to follow her escape route of leaping across a shorter building to safety… until the Dementors fell in on her.
Their chilly presence kept her frozen in place. The girl was deadweight in her arms. All Harry knew was the sound of screaming, her knees locked, feet immovable and glued to the ground—
"Harry!" a woman's scream.
"Harry!"
"Ha—rry!"
She was so pathetic. She couldn't save even one person. One life… one precious life… She couldn't do it.
She was weak after all.
"Avada Kedavra!"
…What…?
Electric green surrounded her. The cold melted away, replaced by a fiery warmth. One second there was dark dark dark, the next there was… there was Tom.
"Incompetent fool. What the hell do you think you're doing? Move."
The words woke up her body. Suddenly she could feel her extremities again—Harry took in a deep breath before obeying the command and moving. She leapt over the building, child in her arms perched at her hip, and continued to move to the closest vantage point. There, she turned around and looked for Tom.
Tom. The woman was finishing the rest of the Dementors with explosive power, hunting down every single one before she finally lowered her stave and flew off the ground to where Harry was. Her expression was furious—a raging stormy goddess in the face of a travesty.
"What exactly did you think you were doing?"
"I—"
"No. I said what the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!"
"Saving someone's life!" Harry shouted back.
"You both would've been dead had I not gotten to you! Now I said what the hell did you think you were doing?!"
"And I said I was trying to save someone's life! Is that so wrong? Why am I trying to be a Witch if I'm not allowed to save anyone?!"
"You wouldn't have saved anyone Potter. You don't save someone by suiciding. And so what, what if you did sacrifice your life for hers and she got out? How many people do you think would die because of that? Your life for hers? A Witch for just a regular human? How many people would die because you wouldn't be there to kill those damned Muggles?"
Harry paused. She took in a shaky breath, looked up and stared straight into Tom's blue eyes. "I will not value a life over a life, nor lives over a life. I will not value quantity over an individual. If there is a chance I can save someone, I will save that person. That is why I want to fight. Why I will fight. It may be stupid, may get me killed, but that is what I believe and that is what I will follow. And nothing you can say will make me willing to watch someone die if I can do something about it."
Tom sneered down at her, unimpressed. "Fine. Go play hero. Do what you want." She shoved past and began to walk away.
Harry sighed as she closed her eyes. Had… had she really just done that…?
There was a tug at her sleeve. "Thank you," the little girl said. She tried to smile. "I knew you would save me. I was waiting for you."
"Ah—uh—you were—?"
The little girl's smile grew. "I heard your voice inside my head. You asked me to trust you. I did."
Baffled, Harry didn't know what to say. She introduced herself instead. "I'm Harry."
"I'm Luna! Nice to meet you!"
And the innocence on the child's face was enough for Harry to believe everything was worth it.
"Harry."
Startled, the teenager turned around. Tom had stopped a few meters away, her back still turned and her aura still cold and standoffish, but she had definitely said her name.
"As far as hunting goes, for a first time that wasn't so bad."
…Maybe there was hope for them after all. Harry ran to catch up.
Apparently, Tom found her reckless and needing watching after, but strong enough to begin fighting seriously. Experience was the best way to learn after all, according to her. To meet with Tom's approval was a thing that surprised Harry—after the whole Dementor ordeal she'd expected a revisit to basics, just to torture her, but the woman had other ideas.
And actually, they worked together rather well. Fighting with Tom had actually taught her how to fly, sort of—enough to lift off the ground in times of desperation was a better way of putting it. Sometime between then and there Harry began to think of Tom as a partner instead of a mentor—they had differing views on things, practicality for instance, but upon certain matters they agreed to disagree.
Privately, Harry wished she could get along with Tom outside Witch matters as well—she wanted to know more about the idol turned friend of hers—but the topic never came up. It was always Muggle affairs, Witch training and ranking, details she'd need to know later on after she got out from under Tom's wing.
Their pace was fast. Harry wondered when she'd collapse from it all.
One night after their recent hunt, where Harry had gotten badly clawed on her left arm by a level four, Tom took her home to her penthouse.
"If you go to the HQ to get this treated, they'll keep you there for hours," Tom had explained. "Your records there are practically nonexistent—they'd want to get a bit more medical data on you at the same time, and that takes forever. Leave it for later; you look exhausted and the night's not young anymore."
"Err—"
"Don't look so worried. I know what I'm doing."
And that had been that.
Tom also explained that wounds from Muggles would heal faster than normal cuts and scrapes, since they were Witches. That was reassuring—Harry didn't know what to tell her parents if they caught sight of her bandaged arm by accident. The less she had to hide, the easier it'd be. She wasn't exactly used to keeping secrets to begin with.
"Haa," Tom breathed, leaning back on her soft couch. She threw an arm back, letting it hang off of the cushions.
Harry had never seen the woman so relaxed. She sat stiff beside Tom, nervous and not quite so sure what she should do. Well… her wound was wrapped, wasn't it? Should she… should she go home?
Her thoughts were cut off when a weight landed on her lap. Startled, Harry looked down and saw Tom staring up at her. "Err—Tom—?"
"It's useless," Tom muttered.
"What's useless…?"
She mumbled something else unintelligible.
Harry blinked. "Tom… are you… tired?"
The model turned over to lie on her side, her head still in Harry's lap. "Work's a pain in the ass," Tom said, "I really can't catch a break. Both modeling and at the HQ. Dealing with people is really troublesome—I don't even know why I work in the modeling industry if Dumbledore pays me so much already."
"…But you do."
"I know that," she sighed. "It helps me stay fit."
Harry glanced further down at the contours of Tom's body, eyes trailing over the curves and pale, smooth legs that were crossed over each other—
It took her a second of appreciative looking before she realized she was actually checking out another female. The thought had her sliding her eyes back to Tom's face. "Being a Witch isn't enough?" she asked cautiously.
"Helps me stay fit for hunting," the woman corrected herself. "Sometimes I simply want to eat what I want to eat though."
Harry grinned. "I think I sort of know what you mean. There's this really cute cake shop near my school, and all the other girls go there but—"
"You can't go? Why not?"
"It's—"Harry paused. "It's not the type of place I can go. I'm not dressed the right way, or look like the other patrons… I know it shouldn't matter, but I don't want to go to a place and try and enjoy a delicious slice of cake while being stared at. Especially alone."
"You can't go with any of your friends?"
"My friends… are mostly boys. And Hermione—she's my only female friend—isn't the type to go to those places, I don't think."
"You can't buy new clothes then? Judging by your battle gear your sense of fashion isn't terrible."
"Thanks," Harry snorted. "And… I do want to buy cute clothes but… I've never tried? I guess. It feels weird. I wouldn't know where to go, and I don't want to go alone. People will look at me funny."
"There's nothing to laugh at when a cute girl goes to buy cute clothes," said Tom. She shut her eyes before she could see Harry's growing flush. "Mmm… nothing weird about that at all."
The silence stretched for a moment longer. Tom's breathing evened out, and Harry realized the woman was asleep. The thought made her cheeks warm up even more if that was possible.
…Because the temptation was too great.
Harry raised her hand, tentatively hovering it over Tom's head. The woman wouldn't wake up because of a light touch, right? She had always wondered what Tom's hair felt like—it was so smooth, and silky, and unlike her own bird's nest. She probably used an expensive brand of shampoo and conditioner to make it look like that—but Tom could afford it. She was a celebrity. Harry bit her lip in indecision.
She took the risk and ran her fingers through Tom's hair. It was soft. She took a second to inwardly freak out over being so close to her idol as to—as to do something like this—because Tom trusted her enough to fall asleep. In her lap. After calling her cute.
This woman—! What kind of mixed signals are these?!
But they were both females. Did—did most girls do this with their friends? Certainly, Hermione had never used her as a lap pillow—but were they usually this familiar with each other? This teasing? This flirtatious? Tom changed so much it gave her whiplash. One second she was the cold, irritable mentor, the next the understanding and amiable tutor, the second after that she could be the frighteningly beautiful warrior—and then—and then—
Do all kinds of things like this. Compliment her. Brush a stray hair back behind her ear. Stand so close to her that she had to notice. Trust her.
Harry wanted to scream. Looks like I won't be getting home anytime soon. She reached for her phone, set an alarm for the early early morning on vibrate so she could dash back to her bedroom before anyone could notice, and then tucked it away into her pocket so she could lean back into the soft cushions.
She ignored the way her hand immediately went back to Tom's hair and continued to play with it.
At least five weeks after, once Harry had fallen into her regular routine of school, friends, home, family, homework, hunting, and as much sleep as she could scramble to get, Tom broke her schedule.
"Haha! Did you see that move? I couldn't believe I blocked it!" Ron exclaimed as they all walked out together. The final bell had rang three minutes ago.
"Knew you had it in you, Ron," Dean said as he slapped his friend on the back.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Now if only you could apply yourself just as much to your schoolwork…"
"Aww, Hermione!"
Harry hid a smile with her hand. She was about to say something, before a crowd at the front gates caught her attention. "Uh, guys?" she called instead. They all turned to look at her. "What's going on there?"
"I dunno," Neville murmured. He furrowed his eyebrows and tried to see over the crowd.
"Maybe an event…?" Hermione volunteered. "Ah, but I don't remember reading anything on the daily bulletin…"
Seamus frowned and tapped the shoulder of someone in the crowd. "Do you know what's going on over there?"
The student spun around and looked at them incredulously. "What? You don't know? Tom Riddle is at the front of our school!"
"…What?!"
"Dunno why she's there—looks like she's waiting for someone actually. But she's just standing there! Everyone's trying to get her autograph!"
Harry stiffened. It… well, it couldn't be, right? But why else would Tom be here? She'd mentioned her school once or twice, maybe, in a conversation—but surely Tom wouldn't remember something so insignificant, right?
Well, there was only one way to find out. Slowly, she began to squeeze herself through the crowd and make her way over until she could see Tom through and over the heads of some students, her friends right behind her in the bustling crowd. And, sure enough, there was Tom, leaning against the gate, completely unperturbed and not paying any attention to the mob of students. When she felt her gaze on her, Tom looked up from her watch, locking eyes with her and smirking. Then, she lifted a hand and beckoned with a finger.
Okay, she admitted it. Harry gapped.
"Uh, was she… that was in our direction, right?" Ron managed to make out.
Hermione, equally shocked, turned to Harry. "I think… I think she meant you... but surely not, right?"
"Uh," speechless, Harry didn't know what to say. "I'll… I'll see you guys later, alright?"
"Mate, you've got to explain how you know Tom Riddle!"
"Maybe later Ron…"
And with that, she began to move through the crowd again. All the students having saw the direction Tom had pointed in were turning this way and that, trying to find the person she was talking to. When Harry tried to move through them, not all too subtly, most made way for her. Eventually this was enough to get her standing in front of Tom.
…Admittedly, Harry felt rather inadequate. It wasn't like when they were on the battlefield together, hunting Muggles. Here, she was just a high school student, and Tom was a model…
"Afternoon," Tom greeted with an amused smirk.
"Yeah," replied Harry awkwardly, "Hi."
"You're free, right?"
She blinked. Well, there was her plan to head to the studio and practice… But Tom was more important. "Yeah, I'm free."
"Good," Tom nodded. She spun around, expecting Harry to follow, and headed a few meters away to her car. "Get in."
Harry did. "Where are we going…?"
"You'll see."
…That was not a good sign. Or at least, Harry didn't think it was. Tom started the engine and they took off. When they stopped, it was in a shopping distract that she recognized, but never really had the pleasure of window shopping through herself. Her mother often did though. It was a rather expensive place—certainly not for the thrifty and frugal—but the clothes were pretty and high quality, just like the food.
It was the type of place Harry would never have decided to go to. She wondered if Tom took that into account.
"We're here," Tom declared, sliding out of the car. Harry mirrored her action from the passenger seat.
"Where exactly is—"
Her question was cut off as her friend motioned to the shop in front of them. "Here."
Definitely, definitely a shop she would never have walked into. A fashionable shop where ladies shopped, carrying their shopping bags by the handle on their arms, walking and chatting with their companions as they strolled down the aisles in five or six inch high heels… nonono! Tom!
"We're—going in—there…?"
"Yes."
And then Tom took her by the hand and tugged her in, completely disregarding a few of the strange looks.
A woman greeted them as they entered. "Welcome. May I help you with anything, ladies?"
"I'm picking some clothes out for her—"she motioned to Harry,"—we'll call you if we need any assistance."
"Of course."
It took a full minute of being dragged around by Tom for Harry to find the voice to say something.
"Wa-wait! Tom! What are we doing here?"
The model gave her a flat look. "Shopping. I know you're smarter than that, Harry. Now here, try this on—oh, this too—"
And that was how Harry found herself practically living in the dressing room as Tom took it upon herself to flip through all the clothes in the store and filter out the few that she believed "went with Harry's eyes."
It wasn't that Harry didn't appreciate it—she did, or well, would, if she understood what was going on in the first place—but the odd break in her routine had her completely displaced, and all she could really do was, well, obey orders. It was in her default settings, okay?!
"Mmm… not that one," Tom declared as she stood behind her in front of the mirror. "A bit too feminine. You're not the type to have frills. Lace is alright though."
"Tom?"
"Hm?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"You'll have to be more specific Harry."
She gulped. "I mean, why are we shopping? For me?—"
Tom held up a hand to stop the oncoming rush she could predict, by experience, was coming. "You wanted to buy new clothes, didn't you? Something to look nice in. There's no shame in wanting to take pride in your appearance Harry, no matter what anyone says. They're all baseless claims. You wear what you like, you buy what you like."
"Yes, but why are you doing this for me?"
Tom stopped. She looked at Harry, glancing up and down and scanning her body. It made the teenager fidget. "That one isn't any good either. Try on this one."
"—Wait, Tom! You didn't answer my—"
"Try it on."
Cowed, Harry obeyed. When she finished putting the pair of skirt and top on, she exited the small stall to find Tom waiting for her, some accessories on hand. The woman pulled her to stand in front of the mirror, and then began to fix her up. First she tied a scarf around her neck, made of a thin light material that felt smooth against the skin, then she untied Harry's ponytail and returned the hair tie.
In front of the mirror, Harry was embarrassed to see how messy her hair was when it was let down—she really couldn't control it; it wasn't her fault! No shampoo or conditioner could keep it down—a trait from her father's side. The only thing that lessened the untamable mass was keeping her hair long and up—having it short was just asking for it. Perhaps it would've been charming had she been a boy, but in elementary school her messy hair had been the source of a lot of teasing that went around.
But Tom paid it no mind. She slipped a hair band onto Harry's head, then pulled the rest of her hair to one side. With this, she tied it in a loose low ponytail, parted the hair before the tie, and looped the hair below through the hole. This had Harry's hair twisting up in a spiral and, for the most part, controlled, as if it had been braided.
"Chin up, brat," she whispered into her ear. "Didn't I tell you? There's nothing to laugh at when a cute girl wants to buy cute clothes. It's a waste if you don't dress up sometimes—and even more of a shame if you're too afraid to try. Who would laugh at you looking like this?"
"Okay…" Harry swallowed. "I look nice."
Tom snorted. "More than nice. Don't try and insult my skills."
"This is great and all Tom, but what makes you think I can afford to buy this?" Harry tugged at the price tag dangling from one of the accessories.
"Oh, well, you're not paying for it, so don't worry about that." It was said far too casually.
"…Then who's paying for it?" Harry asked suspiciously.
Tom gave her a reprimanding look. "Don't go back to being a speechless fool. Use your brain. Of course I'm paying for it!"
"But Tom—"
"Do you really think I would take a high school student into this shop and expect them to pay for the clothes I picked out?"
"Well—"
"And do you really think I didn't take into consideration this trip was entirely unplanned on your part and you probably wouldn't have even brought half of the money to pay for that skirt you're wearing, never mind that top?"
"Err—"
"And did you really think I was going to dress you up all nice and lovely and then tell you that you weren't going to get any of it?"
"…Uh—"
"Tell me Harry, how much money do you think I make?"
"Tom—"
"And between work, exercise, hunting, and trying to get a good night's sleep, leaving me practically no time whatsoever for me to shop, how much money do you think I spend on a daily basis?"
"Maybe—"
"Tell me Harry, are you really going to act like an idiot the whole time you're with me today—because that would be a complete, utter waste—or need I say more?"
"Okay!" Harry shouted, "I get it! You're paying! Forget I ever said anything!"
Tom smirked. She poked one of the teenager's flaming red cheeks with her index finger. "My, if I knew you were so agreeable, I would've tried to get a day off sooner."
"N—wait, it's your day off?" Harry blinked.
"Hm? Yeah. It is."
"Wait—"She thought back to the first time they met, how outraged Tom was at getting her time off interrupted,"—shouldn't you be at home then? Resting? I mean, with everything going on, you should be taking a break!"
"I am taking a break," Tom replied, amused.
"No you aren—"
"Harry, do we have to go over again how my plan for today has absolutely zero flaws?"
"No! I mean, Tom, you—"
Tom blinked. "Ah, you're blushing again."
"That's not the point!" she blurted out.
"Then what is?"
It really was hard to say without sounding weird, or arrogant. Harry bit her lip. "Are you sure you want to spend your day off with me?"
Tom sneered. "Again with the doubting my plans… Fine. Yes, if it reassures you Harry, I want to spend the day with you. Happy?"
She hid a smile beneath her hand. "…Yeah. I'm happy."
They ended up visiting two other shops, Tom buying her clothes from each. The difference from the first shop was, surprisingly, a slower pace—Harry found herself beside Tom near the racks now, asking the older woman's opinion before setting it aside to try on later. And, while some part of this was still utterly surreal, Harry enjoyed herself. It was… fun. Definitely fun, being with Tom in such a mundane way, not worrying about Muggles or getting some spell to work…
When had she last smiled so much in an hour?
"Alright," Tom began as they slipped back into her car, "now you lead."
"…What?"
"The cake shop you wanted to go to. Where is it?"
…Honestly, Harry thought wryly, I really can't tell what Tom is thinking. "…You want to go eat cake?"
"Sort of. The point is, I want to see what's so amazing about this cake shop that stopped you from going in and eating cake like a normal person."
"…Well…"
"Because I have a plain face," Harry answered, sprawled out on Tom's bad as they relaxed after a night of hunting. Tom had asked her why she didn't get contacts.
"…A plain face?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "My mother has freckles, and full rosy cheeks. She never wears any blush. My father has an aristocratic face—he's got high cheek bones, and a straight long nose. My uncle has dimples. My godfather smiles and laughs a lot—he's got perfect teeth. I… don't have any of that. Compared to them, my face is plain. So if I wear glasses, at least I have those."
Tom rolled over. The light from the moon shone in from the large window, lighting part of her face and streaming over the contours of her legs and stomach. Her grey-blue eyes gleamed, as they usually did, after a night of adrenaline-rushing work out. Tom was made to be a predator, Harry quickly found, with her keen sense of surroundings and toned body. She was impossible to ignore. Her presence attracted her prey at the same time as instilled fear into them—the deadliest hunter.
"Plain," she repeated again, drawling the word out on her tongue to taste it a second time. "I don't see it."
"Huh?" Harry rolled her whole body onto its side, facing Tom fully now instead of just her head. Her breathing was deep and full, savoring each puff of air as she usually did even long after her pulse slowed to a steady beat instead of the thumping it did during battle.
Instead of answering, Tom reached over and pulled Harry's glasses off her face, placing them back over onto the nightstand. She sat up, took a moment, and then turned over, pushing Harry's shoulder gently back down onto the bed so the teenager lied fully on her back and Tom loomed over her.
"I don't think your face is plain at all," she breathed. The moon illuminated the steadily growing pink of Harry's cheeks.
"Your smile, when I can distract you enough to let me see it, is lovely. It's small, but it's so bright. I can tell a million things from your smile—how happy you are, what you're laughing at, how fast your heart is beating—"Tom leaned closer, supporting herself on one elbow near Harry's head as she used her other hand to brush Harry's lips,"—and your lips are naturally pink. Which way they move, I can tell so easily how you're feeling and to what extent. I can tell when you're nervous, when you're surprised—you know, you're always biting them—"
Harry tried to remember how to breathe as Tom's hand cupped her cheek and squeezed lightly.
"Your cheeks are soft. You still have some baby fat left in them, I suppose. It doesn't matter that they're not like your mother's. You don't need blush at all either; all I have to do is compliment you. It's fascinating how fast you turn red."
As if to prove her point, Harry flushed.
"Your nose—"she tapped it with her index finger,"—is small. You wrinkle it when you don't like something. It flattens when you pout. Oh? You didn't know?"
Still beneath Tom, her legs trapped between the older woman's, Harry swallowed. She could smell her companion's scent, and as her hair slid from her shoulders to tickle Harry's face, her shampoo.
"Your eyes," Tom began, thumb moving up to brush against the corner, "are probably the most expressive thing about you. I can tell what you're thinking, just like that, even through those old glasses over yours. When you're determined, the green is so bright it's blinding, and when you're frustrated they glisten with your tears. When you're tired you don't want to open them at all, and when you do anyway they're always flickering, searching for me. You told me they're your mother's eyes once—I've never met the woman. To me, these eyes of yours are simply that—yours."
There was a brief second where Harry thought Tom would say something else, touch somewhere else, but it did not come.
"So no, I don't think your face is plain at all," she concluded. "Plain faces don't say anything. They're flat. It's not that they're expressionless—it's that their expression is empty. Their heart isn't in whatever they're doing. You—"leaning close, Tom's breath brushed against Harry's lips, impossibly almost a kiss,"—are not plain. For better or for worse, your wear your heart on your sleeve… and I see it. No one else does, do they? But I do…"
"Tom…?"
Blue met green. "Do you want me to kiss you Harry?"
Yes.
And lips met lips in a sweet climax to the humid spring evening.
It was supposed to be just another hunt. Harry had improved leaps and bounds from her awakening, earning Tom's approval during their shared patrol to take flight in larger and larger distances of the town. "To grow independent," Tom had told her. She was no longer under Tom's watchful eye, and in this forced solitude, Harry was able to experience the requirements that came with hunting Muggles.
Quick reflexes. Swift thought. Improvisation. Planning on the fly, along with an expectation that those plans could and would go wrong, so make a plan B at the same time. It wasn't just her spell repertoire that grew—it was her creativity with them. How many ways she could manipulate her power, transmit it through her stave. To what extent she could fight without her stave.
This was what Harry learned.
Speaking of creativity—
Harry growled as a level five caught her ankle and pulled her up by it after another Muggle had disarmed her. The inky darkness swooped around her, trying to tie her up and consume her. Instead of panicking, Harry kept a level head. She swung her whole body, using momentum as well as a boost of power to get herself right-side-up before kicking with her free foot. Burned by the Witch's energy that had been put into the kick, the darkness reeled back and let her fall to the ground.
Harry knew falling into a messy heap was the last thing she should do. She spun, back-flipping to land on the balls of her feet, knees bent and arms stretched to keep balance. She made a mad dash for her stave, grabbed it and skidded at an angle to avoid an incoming tendril.
"You're not going to get the best of me—"
Harry steadied herself, already on her feet again with weapon in hand. She twirled her stave around, pointing the sharp end forward, and charged. Her run would've been interrupted by several more Muggles leaping at her, but she dodged around them before they could get in way of her path and finally thrust the weapon deep into the body of the level five that had lifted her. Letting out a horrid screech from its mouth, the large monster turned to ash.
Harry sighed, flicking her weapon and glancing back behind her at the rest of the Muggles. Her expression hardened.
"Time to hunt."
Though, that particular battle was yet to be the main event of the night. Harry finished with her side of Hogsmeade, and then flew to the meeting point for her and Tom, as per usual. What was unusual was the time.
Harry waited, and waited, and waited, and still Tom did not come. Usually they finished at about the same time, if not Tom finishing faster. Harry frowned. Something was wrong. Looking up to the moon, she wondered what it could be. Maybe she was mistaken, landed on some other building instead of the usual one?
Oh, there she was. Harry could make out Tom's form in the distance, moving slowly toward her. She relaxed. So it was nothing after all, just running late—
"Harry! Behind you!"
…What?
And then all she could see was black—literally. It was as if she was floating in an inky ocean of darkness, not knowing what way was up or what way was down. There was no ground, no sky, no anything. Just black, for kilometers on end—if there was such a limitless extent of the place.
Harry looked around frantically. It was so, so cold in here… and she was so alone…
Wait, where was Tom?
"Tom!" she yelled, beginning to panic, "Tom! Where are you?"
Tom…?
There was no reply.
A growing sense of dread accumulated in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't just stay here! She had to find Tom! Harry headed off in a random direction, but it was hard to tell if she was even moving. The blackness did not change, moving her feet she could not sense any change, and there was still no Tom.
Tom, who was her pillar in the strange world of Witches and Muggles and magic… Tom, who taught her everything she knew, and even more. Tom who knew her better than anyone—sometimes, even better than Harry herself. Tom, who was always there, who never shied away in complimenting her or insulting her, who called her a brat when she stuttered and 'Harry' when she was pleased with her and 'Potter' when she irritated her—
Tom, who knew when to kiss her sweetly on the forehead, nose, lips… and then when to completely snare her mind and body, drowning out all of her worries with herself.
Oh God—Harry choked. She looked down at her hands, seeing them begin to fade into the blackness as well.
She was being consumed.
She needed to get out of here!
WhatdoIdo—oh God, what do I do what do I do what do I do—Harry bit hard down on her lip, drawing blood and causing an acute pain to jolt in her mouth. It brought her to her senses, forced her to calm down.
"I'm a Witch," Harry breathed, "and I won't be dying here."
A red light began to expand from her chest. It was familiar, warm, startlingly so, almost like—fire.
She closed her eyes and trusted in her power.
When she opened her eyes next, it was still dark, but not the same endless blackness. Harry recognized where she was immediately—Tom's place. Her bed, to be exact. And despite the warm blanket that she had been wrapped in, Harry still felt cold. Her hands frantically scrubbed at her skin, trying to bring in a little more warmth.
"For God's sake, Potter," a voice growled, "Don't scare me like that."
Harry looked up as Tom walked into the room. "What happened?"
"A level seven swallowed you up," the woman replied as she crawled next to her. Harry eagerly took advantage and snuggled into her side, sharing the blanket. "…I thought you were as good as dead."
The younger of the two stayed silent. She pressed closer, moving her head to rest on Tom's shoulder as her nose nuzzled into the crook of Tom's neck. Harry could feel the rapid, uneven pulse there—worried. How worried had Tom must've been?
What was she thinking, while Harry was stuck in the belly of the beast? How long had she probably stood there, trying in vain to get Harry out, wondering, fearing, that should she destroy the monster that had swallowed her companion, Harry would disappear with it.
It was a frightening truth. Neither of them, no matter how strong Tom was, how hard Harry trained and tried, were completely safe. Not with both of them on the front lines. There would always be the possibility that—that one of them would—maybe even—
"I'm sorry," she whispered, choking on the last syllable, "I'm so, so sorry…"
Tom's arms came around her, and that was it. They fell into oblivion together, frantically grabbing and trying beyond all reality and hells to touch and be touched. Harry didn't feel warm at all, but to Tom she must've been, judging by how the woman embraced her and slammed their lips together.
Harry wanted to burn. She wanted Tom's warmth to scorch her, take away all of the fears and remnants of the frigid blackness that had almost consumed her. If she was going to die at some point, she wanted to have this memory with her, to know someone this intimately, to hold and cherish the knowledge that Tom felt the same thing she felt for her—
Male or female. Female or male. Who cared? Really, who cared? There was only Tom. She wanted only Tom.
"I love you," Harry whispered. The confession fell from her lips like the most natural thing in the world. She wanted to cry. "I love you. Gods, Tom, I really, really love you—"
"Again," Tom urged, "Again. Tell me—"
"I love you."
Tom's breath stuttered against Harry's throat before the woman began to press insistent open mouthed kisses all the way down to her collarbone. That who they were would never matter to Harry was—everything she didn't know she wanted. It was absolutely beyond compare how flawless this moment, this place, this time was, as if the universe had just been waiting for them to click into place and slide into the grand puzzle together.
Harry shuddered from her spot straddling the woman as Tom's hand slid up her shirt, fingers caressing her spine as they trailed along soft skin. She reached up, cupping Tom's cheeks with both hands before slanting her mouth over the other's in a wistful, demanding kiss. The rest of the world fell away. What existed… simply enough, was them. Harry and Tom, Tom and Harry.
She wanted to erase the chills of the night, completely. Would—would Tom understand—
"Mine," the hot, breathy alto whisper near her ear wiped away any remaining doubts. Tom nipped her earlobe playfully before finding a particularly sensitive spot below her jaw along her neck. She gave an experimental lick, smirking when Harry's yelp drowned into a low moan.
Hands slid impatiently under clothing, searching and searching for heat. Fingers stroked along curves, cupping, squeezing, memorizing—
So needy. So desperate. So exquisite…
"Can I?" Harry bit her lip as one of Tom's hands paused dangerously low in their perusal of her body.
Did she even have to ask? This woman—
"Yes."
As in any relationship, Harry and Tom had their highs and lows. Their age gap was seven years, and of course, there was always the social stigma against their same-sex interactions. But… some things mattered a little less compared to each other.
Alright. Harry admitted it. A lot less.
"Your priorities are less of a mess now," Tom drawled as her arms draped around her partner's torso. Harry batted away a wandering hand.
"That, coming from the person who put buying me three more outfits over prepping for the gala Dumbledore threw? When we were already running late?"
"It's not like they could've said anything," Tom shrugged, "I had to make sure you looked cute. You tend to sell yourself short if I don't."
"…Tom, we'd bought my outfit a week before that. Remember? You said—"
"Oh, hush. Honestly, can't you let me spoil you? Where'd the little brat who could hardly say a sentence without stuttering go?"
Harry sighed and fell back into Tom's arms. Without even looking, she was sure her lover had a victorious smirk on her face. "You scared her off, you big bully."
Okay seriously don't ask where this came from because I DON'T KNOW! But there is potential for this universe to be expanded, so don't think this is the end of MahouShoujo!Tom&Harry yet! Haha... ha...
WHAT HAVE I DONE?!
I'm so, sooo sorry, just... OTL. I should be working on other stuff, but I'm not, and then I give you this piece of crack... ha...
Just... sorry. Thought I should cover all my bases, y'know? Gotta be thorough when you ship your OTP... And I'm 10000% sure no one has ever done this universe with Harry and Tom. THE FANDOM NEEDED IT I SWEAR!
Sincerely,
R.R.
