Author's Note: A repost of a TRHP story from AO3 for archival purposes. Modern AU. At the time of writing this, I just wanted to write something different.
The first time they met, he had been Mr. Riddle, and she, Miss Potter. Hermione Granger, the unsociable but well-meaning woman she was, had introduced them to each other.
Miss Potter had been a girl with a typical teenager's complexion and haphazardly braided hair and bangs that framed her face but silhouetted her bright eyes. She had avoided looking at him with a flush on her face, and Riddle then had decided, with disgust, that she must be infatuated with him. Then she smiled, the small thing, all the while clasping her hands over her skirt and murmuring, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Riddle."
And when she finally had met his eyes, it had gone downhill from there.
In their fifth meeting, they had collided. Potter had wore a sardonic grin, hair chopped to an obscene length but still wearing a conservative skirt and a conservative slouch, and Riddle couldn't help but to return with his own version of smile.
"It suits you," Riddle had commented, fingers brushing and curling against short, dark locks. Potter was on the cusp of adulthood and blossoming beautifully. Seven years, Riddle had reminded himself and returned his hand to his side.
"Thank you," Potter had replied ungraciously, leaving some words better off unsaid.
A mystery he would solve, Riddle thought.
It had been a complete accident when they met outside Riddle's office. Granger had paled in a panic as she rushed off, manicured hands clutching her phone for dear life. Riddle, being the politely concerned overseer of Granger, had followed.
"Hermione," Potter had greeted, tired and bruised with hurt, with and an air of confidence unlike what Riddle had ever seen on the teenager before. "Mind if I crash at your place for a bit?"
Something went wrong, and Riddle had realised. But then again, as green eyes missed his completely, it wasn't his story to tell. Riddle had offered financial support, but had kept to the background as Potter's family drama unfolded before him.
It had wrapped up nicely but it was, by no means, a happily-ever-after. There was still tension between the Potters and their child, and there still was an ingrained prejudice that would never leave the elder Potters, but Potter himself ended up all right.
Potter's eyes were no longer shadowed. And if he stood a little bit more confident, well. At least Riddle could make talk to him face-to-face without stooping now.
(When Riddle had expressed that to Potter, he had received a tentatively friendly punch. To his sides.)
They had met again and again after that, lives inadvertently entwining, and they both lost count how many times they've sat before each other. But Riddle had became Tom, and Potter became Harry.
"Will you go out with me?" Tom had finally mustered up the courage to ask, but decided the moment after that it was the most pubescent thing he had ever said in his whole entire life.
"Maybe." Harry had smirked into his coffee and Tom had groaned. (Loudly, Harry would recall, like a disgruntled child.)
Harry had been blunt, upfront, and set the boundaries. Sometimes, he would yield, but he wouldn't let Tom define their relationship.
And Tom, in the three years they've been dating, found out more about Harry. During that time, Tom acknowledged that he was completely out of his depth. There had been arguments and disagreements. Harry had confronted Tom that no, he wasn't that strong, dream-like aspiration but a person. Harry was a person and not an ideal and not a mystery and not something to be picked apart.
But underneath all that, Tom never regretted once.
But here they were now, Harry with eyes closed and legs crossed underneath a flowing skirt and decidedly over Tom's stomach, and Tom with eyes on his phone and one hand kneading his love's foot.
"You should consider wearing a skirt, Tom," Harry finally said, lifting damp hair from the sofa's arm. "The fabric feels absolutely divine when it swishes around your ankles." Then as an afterthought, Harry added, "It's pretty breezy too."
"Of course, dear," Tom replied and hit sent. Hopefully, Bellatrix would get the memo that they didn't need 80 pizzas for catering tomorrow. He moved onto the next email.
"What colours do you think you'll like?"
Tom pursed his lips when he read that Lucius was trying to push for a promotion for Draco. Again. "Red and brown, I suppose."
"Great. I'll have Luna bring something over tomorrow." Harry finally rolled off of Tom, stretching his back and arms, and plodded towards the kitchen.
"Make it pretty or dashing," Tom called after a moment. "I wouldn't settle for anything less than that, Harry."