AN: Inserted at a scene change found 3/4 of the way through Chapter 9, not far before the end.

Scenario: Tom and Harry were once again duelling in the RoR when Tom discovered the results of Harry's first detention with Umbridge.

Extract below in bold, followed by my accompanying drabble.

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'I'm going to kill her.' It was said in such a pleasant, conversational tone, that for a moment Harry was convinced that he'd misheard. Then he remembered exactly who he was talking to.

'I can fight my own battles,' he said stiffly. Tom raised a brow.

'I don't doubt it, however, I don't think you were planning to.'

...

Then he pulled out his wand, fast: one minute it was in his pocket and the next in his hand.

'Whoa,' he reflexively jerked his wrist back. It didn't really work when Riddle was still holding on.

'Easy,' Tom hissed, stilling his hand for a moment, meeting his gaze. 'I'm just healing your hand. It's annoying me.'

Only Tom could get away with doing something nice on the count that it was annoying him.

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Harry forced his body into the practiced stillness he'd learned from a year of living with Tom. Even after all this time, the feeling of Tom's magic washing over his skin could be... unsettling. Having Tom perform parselmagic took that feeling to a whole new level. No matter how hard he tried, Harry couldn't stop the goosebumps that erupted all over his body, standing the fine hairs at his wrist on end. The wrist that Tom was still holding...

Uncertainty swept over Harry as he braced himself to not look away from the intensity of Tom's dark blue eyes. They had joked once, that eyes must indeed be the windows to the soul as both of their "hidden houses" were revealed through their eye colour. Harry tried not to think about it too much, though. Tried not to think about Tom having eyes remarkably similar to a famous movie siren. It just wasn't right. He didn't want to think about Tom in that light—ever. Things were already too intense between them. It was like normal boundaries just didn't apply—couldn't apply. Even worse, there was this voice that whispered in his ear during the sleepless hours of his nights, whispering of what would happen—how he would react should he ever lose that... intimacy, that closeness that he had only ever shared with Tom.

And then he felt it. It was so subtle, that had he not been completely focused on this moment, on Tom, he might have missed it. For just a second there, he could feel Tom's thumb shift—roughened pad dragging silkily mere millimetres over a feverish pulse-point and then back again. So slight a movement that it could have been accidental in almost anyone else. But this was Tom. Every gesture was meticulously planned and executed.

Harry realised that though his body was frozen, it was stiff with tension, and perhaps that had been enough to feed the probing presence in front of him. He forced his arm to become a limp weight as he looked away. No, he didn't want to think about Tom's eyes, or the feel of his magic, or the coolness of every ridge on his thumb, or how his pulse quickened to meet it.

Tom had taken up enough room in his head already.