Warnings: Non-magic AU, very short, forum roleplaying, not very accurate job descriptions or descriptions of anything else really (AKA a bunch of lies strung together to look pretty, like jewelry), PRESLASH and IMPLICATIONS OF M/M (aka male/male relations), unsastisfactory ending

Pairing: None, though TMR/HP preslash (AKA friendly friends)

Summary: !Non-Magic!AU! But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, looking every bit right at home here… His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as my vision is stuck on blue, I'm left completely, utterly breathless. threeshot; TMR/HP PRESLASH

I'm the most misleading person in the world for this summary. Sorry.

Also, most misleading person for the first chapter, because this fic isn't really about RPing at all. Okay I'll shut up now.

Disclaimer: Shh. This thing is really here to just fill up space in the header and make things look cool. Disclaimers are the new hip thing, y'know?


It's at the actor's reading that Tom meets him. He doesn't know it's Evan when he first sees him—they never video chatted before, so naturally he has no inkling to what the man looks like—but something about his face looks familiar. Hardly enough to warrant any epiphany or hair-tugging frustration, so Tom forgets it but a second later.

Because Evan is striking. He has the most brilliant eyes, hidden behind aged glasses that really need to be replaced, with a messy mop of black hair that usually implies a very active night in bed. But his personality doesn't support that—not to mention, last night Evan was with him—so Tom hazards a guess that it's usually like that, or he's allergic to brushes or something equally ridiculous.

"Thank you for letting me be so involved in this project, director," Evan beams as he's lead over to be introduced.

"Not a problem, my boy! I do believe we should be thanking you for letting us produce it!" Albus Dumbledore smiles genially. He's old and some people say he's senile, but even Tom has to admit the too-many-greats grandfather knows how to make one hell of a movie.

Evan is introduced first with his pen name, Persepheus Hadrian Jameson—P.H. Jameson. Then, he personally introduces himself with his real name.

Harry Potter.

It sounds familiar to Tom, like a warm puff of breath leaving his lips on a cold winter day. The memory flitters on the tip of his tongue, beckoning but never revealing itself. He almost tastes it—coffee, the scent of espresso, a comforting burn of a hot drink in the back of his throat—but it's so ordinary and part of his daily protocol that the mere idea that it's significant is laughable. The word 'jade' pops up in his mind, but again he pays no attention to it. It's the color of the man's eyes, after all.

But they're not cold as the stone at all. They're lively and amiable, and if the man wants to, he could probably dart off into the wilderness, assimilating into the sprites and spiritual aspect of the woodlands seamlessly. He doesn't look to be an outdoors type of person, but there's a certain attitude in the way he stands and the way he talks, the way he breathes and the way his eyes stare, that's freeing. That understands freedom; has swallowed the trash of oppression and helplessness and now savors and respects the liberty he now has.

Tom is observant. But even he knows every little thing he notices about Harry Potter is much too detailed for meeting a person for the first time. It's because this man, this Harry Potter is Evan, his Evan, that he sees all this. Having a face to the name simply helps out.

"Have we met before?" They both blurt out the same thing, though Tom sure as hell didn't know his mouth was moving until the sound had already come out. Evan's eyes widen in surprise, he looks a little startled, but then he laughs a bit and the suspicion and oh-my-god-did-that-just-happen, this-is-so-surreal is over.

"Even though I said the same, I don't think we have," he says without missing a beat, and Tom nods in agreement.

The moment is over. It'll just be a fading memory, an oddity at the end of the day that one might think back on, but forget the next week.

The actors sit, and begin to read. Evan is quietly observing them, physically in the circle but mentally an outsider, and part of Tom wants to give in as much effort as he can; not, for once, because this is his job and he has a reputation and if he's going to do something, at the very least he'll do it right—no, he wants to put in all the effort he can to impress Evan. It's the feeling in his chest that tells him it is as it is, not his mind or his thoughts, because thinking that he's doing something for the sole purpose of impressing someone is just not what Tom Riddle, William Ferrin or other, does—the thought is taboo, but the feelings are not.

He doesn't dare look at Evan, try to read his thoughts off his face and through his eyes like some of the younger, lesser actors are doing. While it's tempting to see exactly what the author thinks of their portrayal, or at least a tentative rough draft of, they are professionals. They cannot take a bite of the apple, take a glance at the forbidden gateway. Perhaps that's too big of an exaggeration—Tom knows there's nothing wrong with observation; the author is here for a reason.

But there's something about doing so that reminds him of a classroom, of students nervously presenting at the front, eyes flickering to the teacher in hopes of encouragement or assistance. He thinks it shows a lack of confidence, so steadfastly keeps his eyes trained on his fellow actors and his script.

After all—the private thought sneaks into his mind, completely bypassing all of his professionalism in one go—he can always ask Evan later tonight what he thought of the reading.

For a second, Tom's lips twitch down. The movement is reversed in less than half a second, hardly perceptible, but it shows his distaste for being so weak as to think such a thing. Still, he despairs, it's Evan, and his friend has always been rather excellent at catching him off guard and thusly keeping him on his toes. So he lets his slip… slide.

And then it's his part, his entrance as Emrys in the fifth scene, and he reads.


Tom wants to be like the younger, amateur actors who swarm around Evan after they're done for the day. Two women are gushing about the book, a man is asking rapid-fire questions about Evan's inspiration. There is a small circle around the author of eager listeners. It's irritating to watch, for some reason—Tom just wants to march over and tear the man away from the crowd, laying down a claim like it was his right, but obviously, he doesn't.

In fact, he doesn't get a chance to talk to Harry at all. Which is frustrating—it's their first time meeting in real life, even if his partner doesn't know it, and a large part of Tom just wants to sit down with him and have a conversation to see if he'd recognize him. It's stupid and irrational and—fine. Whatever.

Tom takes a last glance before walking out the door with his manager. Evan doesn't see, overwhelmed by the gaggle in front of him.

At least there's tonight.


VolDeMort: So, how did the actors' reading go?

PheonixRising: Not bad. It was nice to meet everyone—they're soooo amazing *~*… I've never seen "behind the set" before.

VolDeMort: Who did you like best?

Tom knows he's being rather shameless right now. It's not his usual style, definitely, but something inside of him plowed forward in aggression. He wanted Evan's attention—God did he want it—and it makes him feel like a child, indignantly stomping his foot when someone barges into his monopoly. He needs to soothe the metaphorical beast, needs the comfort of secrecy and privacy that their relationship online represents.

At first, meeting Evan seemed like an interesting idea. Now he wonders if it's worth the trouble of dealing with everyone else who will take his partner's attention away from him.

It's been forever since I've felt like this…

PheonixRising: Ah, you want me to choose one of them? They were all very good… still a work in progress, but I can see perfection in the future! Dumbledore really is an amazing director, choosing all these people…

Tom scowls. Not good enough.

VolDeMort: Nothing stood out to you? Really? Not with all these amazing people around you?

PheonixRising: Haha, don't tease p_q" Not all of us can be Hollywood star bigshots, you know!

The frown melts right off of Tom's face so quickly that it's almost comical. His hands freeze on the keys of his laptop, and a million thoughts barrage him at once, all relatively similar—does he know? Did he figure it out? Holy shit, I don't remember Evan being this intuitive—

PheonixRising: I mean, I've never been around anyone famous in my entire life

PheonixRising: And here I am, sitting in a circle full of actors that've been on the big screen

PheonixRising: William Ferrin, Daphne Greengrass, Lorcan Scamander…

PheonixRising: Seriously. It was so awkward I felt like I was the odd one out—even the few rookies were sneaking glances at me like they knew I didn't belong

PheonixRising: but afterward everyone was so nice to me…. It was really overwhelming I don't know how to put it into words haha xD

Oh, Evan… Tom doesn't know whether to cry, laugh, or scoff. Only Evan would think such things—he was the famous writer there, wasn't he?—and it's even more humorous because Tom was there, and could connect everything his partner is telling him to what he had previously observed.

To even think—

Some people are just that deluded, he supposes. Or rather, oblivious, with a healthy dose of low self-esteem. But that's what makes Evan, Evan—maybe—and it's hard to imagine any other outcome, even if Tom hadn't been expecting the radically different view.

I'm probably going to regret this, but—

VolDeMort: Oh? You met William Ferrin?

PheonixRising: Ohmygodyes. It was soooooo awesome asdfghjkl!1!1! We only talked briefly—oh, funny story about that; we both asked each other if we met before haha but of course I would've never met WILLIAM FERRIN before right? I mean—

Tom could hardly keep the grin off his face.

VolDeMort: Don't faceroll on me.

PheonixRising: Gah! But it's so hard not to! X_X

PheonixRising: Tbh I don't think the big screen does him justice

PheonixRising: He's more handsome in real life ;D

VolDeMort: Asked for his autograph on your wallet-sized photo of him then?

PheonixRising: Psssh you know it—I made sure to tell him it was invisible so he'd really sign my wallet instead.

PheonixRising: I'm going to make so much money

PheonixRising: Way more than what my books are giving me. Just for my wallet :P

VolDeMort: Pics or it didn't happen.

PheonixRising: omg you did not just say that. Brb taking a screenshot of this glorious moment

At that, Tom outright snorts and chuckles under his breath. Being with Evan is fun—he idly wonders if he'll ever tell his friend the truth, and maybe they can share a good laugh and do this in real life instead of over a screen in pixilated letters. He'll have to make time in his schedule, of course, but his manager would be able to take care of that—

PheonixRising: I think I'm going to print it out and frame it in my room

It takes an iron will not to choke on his spit at that one. Tom can't help but feel a bit smug—he's more important to Evan than William Ferrin is apparently, and even if they're one in the same, his friend doesn't know that. It's a silly little tidbit that makes itself at home right in the center of his chest, and a close-mouthed smile makes its way to his lips for the briefest of seconds.

There's something wrong about it, Tom's sure. But he'll ignore it.


Tom idly wonders if he could be considered a stalker.

It's not like he's following Evan everywhere he goes, he argues with himself. But then again, most people don't stare at the person they're not stalking with a piercing, calculating gaze like Tom does. And it's not because he's jealous of the actors who stroll right up to talk to the writer with zero hesitation whatsoever—Tom is the one who is Evan's precious Marvolo, after all; there's nothing that could beat that.

But it's a little bit frustrating, and a little bit awkward, and how come Britain's most eloquent actor is rendered without a single word to say?

He's talked with Harry Potter, sure. A greeting here, a pleasant comment there—polite niceties that are expected and the most neutral thing a person could say in the history of ever. Tom is utterly depressed by his lack of progress, but it's not like he can put the blame on anything but himself—he's not even trying, and maybe that says a little bit about himself, more than he cares to admit. Maybe that says a little bit about his relationship with Evan, and how even though he hopes, it's harder than it sounds to break a comfortable status quo.

"What's this? William Ferrin has a celebrity crush?" his manager, Severus Snape, snarks. The man is around forty, meticulous and absolutely intolerant of stupidity, able to do his job remarkably well considering how antisocial he seems—Tom wonders again if his camaraderie with his manager says something about himself.

…Is he seriously going through a mid-life crisis at the youthful age of thirty two?

That is Evan's fault, he's sure.

"If you want to go talk to him, just go," Severus sighs, looking exasperated and Tom decides he can let the muttered dear God, I'm surrounded by children again, didn't I escape this by quitting my teaching job?

He almost lets slip his own it's not that simple, but at the last second controls his tongue because saying that to a man like Snape is asking for the most degrading, sarcastic comment of the year. Besides, Severus doesn't know the complexities of his relationship with Evan. Tom finds himself feeling defensive, but it can't be helped. His partner does the most ridiculous things to him, and he viciously hopes Evan has to go through the exact same things with him.

Ignoring the fact that that's most likely not possible.

"Aren't you supposed to uphold my public image, or something along those lines?" Tom asks without tearing his gaze away from Evan. They're on a fifteen minute break. He counts the time in his head with startling accuracy, never once glancing at his watch.

"I hardly think talking to a famous writer is going to ruin your reputation," Severus sneers, "unless you're going to act like those blubbering amateurs, but I'm sure you have more class than that."

"Obviously. I'm offended the thought crossed your mind."

"That's a good sign, at least."

A stretch of silence passes. They both don't move an inch.

But it's Severus who is the one to sigh, pointedly so. "Are you really going to make me ask what's wrong?"

"No," Tom says, "I'm not making you do anything, other than be my manager. But you're also on a salary for that—so it's your choice whether or not you want to get paid."

"Unfortunately, part of my job also entails taking care of my actor. At least, that's what the contract says. It's as good as being paid to babysit, you know."

"Are you trying to imply something about me that I should know about, Severus?" Tom's voice is threateningly pleasant, and he knows it'll be enough to make his manager back off before the man says a word.

Right on cue, "Not at all," Severus answers after a half-skip of a beat, "I'm simply pointing out a bit of social mingling would not be adverse, especially with a man who could write more popular books that, in turn, could be turned into movies, which require actors."

"Of course."

In the minute before the end of break and his resumption in the next following scenes, Tom makes his decision. It's not that some part of him has settled and resolved, or that he's overcome by a wave of possessiveness and jealousy, or anything of the sort that usually motivates making a choice. No, Tom is just tired. He's tired of doubting, he's tired of being completely out of his usual character—composed, calm, assessing in a view not void of emotion but free of high-strung anxiety.

Sort of like Emrys.

Besides, hesitation is not efficient. Caution is efficient. Care is efficient. Prior planning is efficient. But to pause, unexpectedly, distractedly, in a caught-off-guard manner, is not efficient and in that concept, Tom finds scolding himself is easier than he would've thought.

He knows Evan well enough that, in the light of their real life identities, his partner would not shy away in the least. Evan is not the type to throw everything away with a single revelation. He is not the type to say something one day, and deny it the next.

Evan is strong of will. Tom knows that, because it reflects in his characters. Only someone strong could accept the flaws that come with that strength.

Again, it's not like he had an epiphany. It's not like he suddenly understood a new concept. Tom just turns his head slightly, to look back with the corner of his eye—

In a coffee shop. At table number twelve. At a man, with the color of a story-telling jade in his irises and a penchant for biting his lip when he's nervous or excited. Who shared a spot with him, and whispers his name in a cautious greeting and goodbye all at the same time.

They won't meet again, Tom is sure. They won't, but he's one less stranger in the world, and as insignificant as that seems, it's not, because the man is Harry Potter.

—and looks at the situation like he looks at any situation. The answer is sitting there, as it always had been, waiting patiently for Tom to accept it. So he does.


Tom manages to catch Harry after the filming finishes and everyone's packing up to head out. He waves Severus to go ahead—wait in the car, his hand signal says—and the two men exchange pleasantries for a few minutes before Tom believes he's built it up long enough, and idly wonders how long his partner will be rendered speechless after this.

"Well it's not like it's that bad. You do it as Evan all the time." Tom doesn't know how he's able to say that so naturally, but he does and it's probably all thanks to his career as an actor. It's one hurdle over, and another to go—

Harry rolls his eyes. So that's the expression he makes every time… "Marvolo, I do a billion things as Evan. Does that make it okay to, say, sabotage a royal arms' ship, or overthrow a peaceful overlord who refuses to go to war?"

Tom lets the question sit between them for a few seconds, watching as his partner's facial expression change ten times a second. It's the slow shift in his jaw muscles, the furrowing of his brow, the glint of an overwhelming realization crashing down like a rampaging waterfall

And at that exact moment, he decides to answer. "This and that are two different things," he says casually, the line familiar but not usually spoken aloud, "but you're using different examples this time. That's a plus. I was expecting a comment about ravishing a thief in a dark alley as the Minister of the parish."

"Wha—wait—you—no!"

Tom blinks. "No? Then were you thinking about that time when we—"

"No! I mean—you can't be—but you just said—you were doing this on purpose, you prat!"

"Excuse me?"

Harry waves his hands about wildly, and he's sure the remaining cast members are looking at them now. "I swear I spent these last four weeks wracking my brain to figure out why you were so familiar! Don't tell me you knew the whole time! Damn it!"

"You need to be clear on what you want me to say to you."

His partner wrinkles his nose. Tom finds it adorable in an absurd I shouldn't be thinking that sort of way. Then he says, perfectly, "Who am I?"

"Most recently?" Tom asks only because it's exactly what he wants to say, at exactly the right time, in exactly the same innocent mockery that's so familiar between them, "My darling wife, of course—though you insist it's only by papers—useful for hiding from the state, considering your actual gender. The only downside is that you don't share the loving sentiment I wish you did as my spouse. Doesn't ForeverYoung make the best RPs ever?" The sarcastic glee at the end is only the finishing touch.

Harry considers his next words carefully. "How long have you known?"

"First day," Tom shrugs.

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I wanted to see if you'd figure it out."

"How was I supposed to do that?!" In retrospect, he has a good point

Harry groans helplessly and buries his face in his hands when it's obvious Tom's not going to answer. He seems to be debating over what to say—or, to say anything at all—and Tom wants to savor the moment more than anything. Reading how Evan is completely caught off guard is different from seeing it, and he thinks that both types of reactions—that of on-screen and off—are worth the effort.

"Wait a second—you're William Ferrin!"

Oh. So that's what took so long to sink in. "Yes," Tom confirms with no little amount of amusement. "I am."

"Oh God… you must've been laughing at me the whole time we were chatting!"

"Only about half the time," he reassures, "The rest I was completely in awe of your skill and finesse."

It's such an obvious jab that Harry can't ignore it. "Marvolo!" he clicks his tongue and raises the pitch of his voice, but it's still a bit too low to be a whine, and Harry probably meant it as a reprimand anyway.

Tom at least has the grace to feel bad about it afterward. "Apologies. You're just too easy to tease, Evan. Start over?"

"Fair enough. Nice to meet you, Marvolo. I'm Harry Potter."

"Tom Riddle."

There's a pause in which they shake hands, but then Harry reels back and points an accusing finger at him. "Aha! You're the stranger from the coffee shop!"

"…What?"

"We shared a table because it was packed that day! Remember?"

"…No. When was this?"

"A couple of years ago—"

Tom blinks. "How do you even remember that then?"

His partner shrugs sheepishly. "Well, the day after I got the inspiration for the book… and then I sorta based Emrys' appearance on—"

"Wait. Then how come you didn't recognize me sooner?"

"Well It's not like I got a good look or anything!" Harry defends.

It's a minute more of their bickering, so natural and familiar, before they both break into laughter at the absurdity of the situation. Tom's laugh is more of a chuckle, lips restrained, but Harry is free with it. He beams, words unspoken but written all over his expression, bringing Tom to a concluding thought of yes, this is how it's supposed to be. This is how it's going to be.

And as the world around them is shed away to its barest form, when society and order fade into the unassuming background, when the very unsavories of human nature in and of itself are forgotten, left on the side of the road as a pile of dirty rags—when, perhaps, their relationship and all of the others dangling from as well as supporting it are stripped away, stripped down to easily ignored simplicity, stripped to forsake complexities and all other dreary components of life, no, stripped down to but the sum of words

A smile. "Are you from here?" the stranger asked, "it's obvious you're not a native."

"It's forbidden grounds you're trespassing on," Marvolo sneered. "State your name and business."

"Goodbye forever," Evan whispered.

"A hello is only as brief as you make it," Marvolo muttered, "and a farewell just the same."

And they are two entities so entwined, so ensnared by the other's soul that even in a universe where they are fated to be each other's ends, to be the whisper of Death and the bringer of fate, the servant of Red and the vassal of Green—that it is entirely probable and too entirely predictable when they meet eyes across the battlefield.

"It's Marvolo. Better not wear it out, fool."

"I'm not sure what my name is, but they call me Evan around here. That counts for something, right?"

"Nice to meet you."

—the purest, most genuine perspicuity leaves only the unfaltering truth in both what is said and unsaid: a minute of sincere ecstasy cradled in the lie of a secret. Harry's smile says all this and more. Tom revels in how it's no longer whispered on the staccato beats of keyboard keys and the solid, deeper pitch of a spacebar.

And he can't help but think that it's a shame that they're not in love, because now would be a perfect time to kiss or something equally cliché; the climax of a cheesy romance movie, captivating in only the way moments like those just are. But with Harry's lips curved like that, in a grin that really should be illegal to see, never mind use, Tom thinks that it's okay.

That it's fine, even if they're not head over heels in love.

And he leaves it kind of perfect.


Told you it was an unsatisfactory ending. HA!

But yeah I'm just gonna leave this here u_u" I was sick with a really bad cold (still sorta am) the last two weeks, and it's been sorta killer over here. I think it's because of the changing weather, went from cold to hot really fast these past few days...

I'll be also posting this story on Ao3 too, so if you see it there (under RenderedReversed) don't freak, no one's plagiarizing. It's just me!

As for what happens next between these two, I'll leave that to your imagination :P. Pre-slash tag and what not, y'know? I'm actually starting to get fond of TMR/HP pre-slash (WHAT?!); it might be my new guilty pleasure... kills me because they "don't" get together, but soooo sooo good -drool-.

Thanks for the support on this story even though it wasn't slash guys :p.

Sincerely,

R.R.