A/N:

a belated birthday gift for Drowsy, who requested the following:

a same age au where Tom dyes his hair red to appeal to Harry's mommy issues but nobody is willing to call him on it

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Boyfriend Knows Best

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One of Tom's lesser known skills, just like his ability to speak to snakes, was his skill with passive Legilimency.

Legilimency came with many risks. Skilled Occlumens were difficult to outmanoeuvre, and engaging in an outright assault against one left the Legilimens vulnerable to attack.

The best course of action, Tom had learned, was to only skim the surface thoughts. These thoughts still provided a great deal of insight—more insight than perhaps one would expect at first glance, so to speak.

Tom often used this passive form of Legilimency to determine the desires and motivations of his targets. He learned their focuses and fixations. He learned the things they liked, the things they disliked. All of these facts were information that Tom could twist to his own use.

So when Tom set his heart on courting Harry Evans, seventh-year Slytherin transfer student, he had fully intended to scrape as much information as he could from the boy's mind before making his move.

What did Evans like?

Evans liked defence class. He liked flying and playing Quidditch. He liked having treacle tart for dessert.

What did Evans dislike?

From what Tom could tell, Evans disliked being here at Hogwarts. He thought that Slytherin house was full of uppity Pureblood bigots. He also disliked Tom, but that would soon change.

Then there was the most important question:

What did Evans desire?

This question was more complicated to answer. Evans missed the company his friends. His friends, whose face Tom only ever caught vague flashes of. One boy and one girl, both Gryffindors.

He also missed his home. Tom saw glimpses of a lopsided-looking place filled with clutter. Frequently featured was an enormous dining table and a pair of floating knitting needles clacking together some lumpy abomination.

Overall, the largest conclusion Tom had drawn was that Harry Evans was not a very visual person when it came to faces or places. This gave Tom little information to work with.

But that was fine. Tom was smart, the brightest student at Hogwarts. He would someday be the greatest wizard in the world, too, so it was no trouble for him to pick through the facts he had been given and uncover Harry Evans' true desire.

Evans' desire, which was…

A woman. A girl. Some girl with red hair, except the red was sometimes auburn, sometimes ginger, and sometimes a fiery tomato red. The lack of consistency was concerning considering how they were all memories of the same person. However, there was one attribute that stood out quite clearly—the girl had lively green eyes.

The colour reminded Tom of Evans' eyes. The shades were practically the same. Perhaps that was why Evans kept thinking about her. With eyes so similar, they might be destined for each other.

Of course, that would never happen now that Tom had decided to make Harry Evans his.

So Tom continued to practice passive Legilimency on Evans whenever the opportunity presented itself—mostly during classes or meal times—and began to stockpile information on this mysterious red-headed girl that Evans was so obsessed with.

Evans thought of her frequently. Most of the thoughts involved the two of them embracing, or otherwise together in a romantic setting.

Given the level of Evans' preoccupation with this unknown girl, Tom decided it was in his best interests to invoke as many similarities between himself and the redhead as possible. With enough cleverness applied, Evans would come to associate his affections for his crush with Tom instead.

After making discreet inquiries amongst his associates, Tom determined that the information he wanted could not be found in the Slytherin boys' dorm.

"Walburga," Tom said as he settled on the wooden chair across from hers. "I have a question to ask you." With Walburga, it was best to cut to the matter quickly, lest her mercurial disposition shift her to irascible irritation and an unwillingness to help.

"Oh?" Walburga did not look up from her Transfiguration essay, but the progress of her quill did slow enough that Tom felt she was listening appropriately. "And what might that be, Riddle?"

"I require your expertise on hair styling."

Walburga set her quill down. "Hair styling?" she asked, finally glancing up at him.

"Yes," Tom said calmly. "To be more specific: spells that cover hair colour."

A heavy amount of skepticism twisted at her mouth. "Tell me more."

When Tom strode into the courtyard later that afternoon, people were staring at him.

Tom was no stranger to attention—he was handsome, and talented, and Head Boy. People often gazed upon him with admiration wherever he went. A few people even attempted to talk to him as he passed by, but Tom ignored them. Today, his leisurely stroll had a purpose, and that purpose had green eyes and a stubborn expression on its face.

"Evans," greeted Tom as he came to a stop a short distance away from the other boy.

Evans glanced up dismissively, then glanced away. Then he very visibly did a double-take, his gaze snapping back up to Tom's head.

"Riddle?" he spluttered. "What did you—what did you do to your hair?"

Tom ran a casual hand through his styled curls. "I was in the mood for a bit of a change."

"A bit?" Evans repeated, incredulous." You're—you're ginger! You look like a tomato!"

Tom felt his jaw drop before he could stop it. "I do not," he retorted angrily, jabbing a finger in Evans' direction.

"You do," Evans said, sounding mystified. Then he seemed to shake himself of his stupor as he asked, "Why are you showing me your stupid red hair?"

"It isn't stupid," Tom insisted. This was not going according to plan. Evans was supposed to see his ginger hair and fall madly in love.

Evans scrunched his brows together. "You look like an idiot," he said slowly. "I can't believe I'm saying this to you of all people, but you looked loads better before."

Perhaps Tom should have asked Walburga how to turn his eyes green. Perhaps the red hair had been a red herring and the green eyes were what Evans had been interested in all along.

"Harry," Tom said, determined to ignore Harry's inane commentary and get to the heart of the matter: their burgeoning relationship. He drew a shrunken bouquet of roses from his robes, and with a quick burst of wandless magic, enlarged them to their full size. "These are for you."

Harry's eyebrows rose up his forehead. "For me?"

"Would you do me the honour of allowing me to escort you to Hogsmeade next weekend?" Tom asked with a charming smile as he offered the roses out.

"I am… not interested," Harry said, making no move to take the flowers. "No thanks."

Avery crept up behind Tom's left shoulder and cleared his throat. "Tom? There's something that, ah, I think requires your attention—"

"Not. Now." Tom did not even bother turning around. He hoped that his severe tone would get his point across without having to make a fuss. "I will speak with you later."

Avery lingered a moment longer, cast a furtive glance at Harry, then slunk away. Tom would have to punish him later for daring to interrupt this moment. Couldn't his followers understand that he was currently occupied with more important matters than their boring, pathetic problems?

"But I am very interested in you," Tom said to Harry. "I would appreciate the opportunity for us to get to know each other better."

"Not interested," Harry repeated.

Tom could feel himself getting annoyed. "I dyed my hair for you," he said carefully.

Harry took a hesitant step back. "Fairly sure I didn't ask you to do that."

"You're supposed to find me attractive," Tom added.

"Having… ginger hair… doesn't make up for your lacking personality," Harry said. Then he scowled. "Why did you think having red hair would make me like you more, anyway?"

"That woman," Tom said, frustration boiling in his chest, "with the red hair and green eyes. You're in love with her." And that love was preventing Tom from getting what he wanted, which meant she had to go.

Since changing his looks hadn't been enough, Tom would find out who this tomato-haired witch was and remove her head from her body. Then Harry would finally get over her.

Harry froze, the scowl vanishing from his face like it had never been there to begin with.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Harry demanded.

"Don't lie to me," Tom said in a scathing tone, "you're always thinking of her! I saw her. In your mind. You've been thinking about kissing her."

Harry stared, face twisted with incredulity and confusion. "Why would I be thinking about kissing my mother?"

Tom refused to be distracted or deterred from his interrogation. "I don't know!" Tom shot back. "Why don't you tell me why?"

If Harry had repressed issues related to his mother, Tom was less sure about how to twist that to his advantage. How did one unravel someone's Oedipus complex when one was a male?

"You're ridiculous," Harry said hotly. "I don't want to kiss anyone right now, least of all you!"

Well, that simply wouldn't do.

"We'll try this again tomorrow," Tom decided. Once Harry had been given some time to… reconsider Tom's attractive offer. It would also give Tom some time to plot a new plan of attack.

"No," Harry called after Tom's retreating form, "we definitely won't!"

Later that evening, after the other students had gone to bed, Tom called a meeting of his Knights in the Slytherin Common Room. They sat in a loose circle while Tom pondered the complexities of courtship and Harry's strange behaviour.

"My Lord," asked Mulciber, his voice breaking through the silence, "might I ask what happened with your conversation with Evans?"

"Nothing," Tom said waspishly. "Nothing that concerns any of you."

Mulciber flinched at the anger in Tom's tone. "Of course. I understand."

There was a pause as Tom's followers exchanged uneasy looks with each other.

Tom was preoccupied with more important matters. Namely, how to alter his tactics regarding his wooing of Harry Evans.

"My Lord?" Avery asked, after several more minutes of silence had passed.

"What?" Tom snapped. He did not take kindly to having his plotting interrupted. "What do you want?"

"Are you… will you be reverting your hair soon?"

"Why in Merlin's name would I do such a thing?" Tom said. Harry hadn't agreed to a date yet. Hadn't agreed to anything, actually. "My plans for Harry Evans are not yet complete."

"I… understand, my Lord."

"You better," Tom said severely. "I will not be bothered to explain myself again."

All around the table, his followers nodded. Tom allowed himself to relax and return to his thinking. He needed more information. Mimicking red hair had not been enough to charm Harry to his side.

What did mothers do? Tom had no experience with that. His mother was dead.

"What do mothers do?" Tom asked aloud. When silence greeted his question, he tacked on, "I require your answers."

Nott frowned. "They… give hugs?"

That was too obvious. Tom waved an impatient hand. "What else?"

Lestrange piped up with, "My mother bakes biscuits on special occasions."

Too much effort. "What else?"

"They tuck their children in," Rosier said, "and kiss them on the forehead."

A possibility, but it would be inconvenient if Harry reacted poorly and started a duel in the boys' dormitory. But it might work later on, once Harry was feeling more amenable to Tom's advances.

"Someone write these down," Tom decided, snapping his fingers. "I want a proper list by the end of the night."

The next day, Tom approached Harry Evans in the corridor that led down to the grounds.

"You look cold," Tom said in greeting.

"And you still look ginger," Harry said without missing a beat. He sped up his pace, clearly intent on leaving Tom behind.

"Here." Tom removed his cloak and jogged forward to drape it over Harry's shoulders. "There you are. All nice and warm—"

Harry twisted out of Tom's grasp and nearly tripped over his own feet in the process. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Harry demanded. "Get your—your hands off me! And your cloak!" He ripped the cloak from his shoulders and threw it at Tom's face.

"I'm trying to help," Tom said mildly as he set his cloak back over his own shoulders. Then he produced a bar of Honeydukes chocolate and offered it out. "I brought some treats for you to eat, if you're feeling peckish."

"I am not feeling peckish," Harry groused. "Stay away from me."

"You're really looking quite thin," Tom continued, "you could stand to eat a little more."

Harry started walking away again. "I'm leaving."

Tom followed him. "What if I baked you some biscuits? Would that be better?"

"No!"

Harry was lying in bed with the curtains pulled shut when Tom arrived in the dorm room later that night.

Today had not gone well. Tom had paid off a first-year to deliver a pair of mittens to Harry, except Harry had set the mittens on fire. Then Tom had brought an ivory comb to the Great Hall during lunch and attempted to smooth out Harry's disastrous hair, except Harry had picked up a bowl of soup and dumped it all over Tom's lap.

But Tom was not willing to give up just yet. There were still twelve more ideas on the list his Knights had put together.

Tom conjured a stool, sat down next to Harry's bed, and began singing. To his left, Nott was changing into his pyjamas and giving Tom the strangest looks. Wisely, however, Nott kept his mouth shut and did not interrupt Tom's bedtime lullaby.

After a few seconds, an irate Harry yanked open the bed curtains to glare at him.

"Hello," Tom said. "Was the singing alright? I can try a lower range if it helps you fall asleep faster."

"I don't need a mother!" Harry said furiously. "I don't need mothering!"

"Well, of course you don't," Tom said in a patient voice. "I know you don't need a mother."

Harry's left eye was twitching. "Then what do you think you're doing?"

"Being your boyfriend," Tom said simply.

"I don't need one of those either. I'm perfectly fine with being single."

"You think a lot about kissing for someone who wants to be single." Lately there had been a steep decline in thoughts about the red-haired girl. Tom counted his recent efforts as a win because of that.

"You're deranged," Harry said sharply. "Go away. I want to sleep and I don't need a bloody lullaby to do it."

No time like the present to push his luck. "May I tuck you in for the night?"

Harry grabbed the edge of his bed curtain and tugged it shut. "No."

"I left an extra jumper of mine in your trunk," Tom said the next morning as they got dressed for the day. "You should consider wearing it. The weather's been rather nippy lately."

"How did you—?" Harry inhaled deeply, then exhaled all at once. "Do not leave your things in my trunk. I will set them on fire."

"If the fire keeps you warm," Tom said, "then I've done my job."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and walked away.

Tom set a platter down on the table where Harry was studying. "I brought you biscuits from the kitchens."

"I don't want them."

"They're freshly baked." Tom slid the platter closer. "Eat as many as you like."

"I'm not eating them."

Tom left the tray on the table then left the library. He waited out in the hallway and tapped his foot impatiently on the floor. Fifteen minutes later, Mulciber came out to join him.

"Did he eat any?" Tom demanded.

Mulciber had little red scratches all over his face and hands. "He Transfigured them into birds and sent them after me."

Damn it. "We'll try again tomorrow," Tom said. "And I'll get Rosier to take your place."

"I knitted you a scarf. It's green, like your eyes."

"You can take it and stuff it up your arse."

Tom called an emergency Thursday meeting with his Knights. None of their ideas were working. If anything, Harry was even more intent on avoiding him than before.

"Perhaps," said Rosier in a hesitant voice, "perhaps you ought to consider reverting your hair, my Lord? Seeing as it did not work and all. Evans did say he preferred your natural state, did he not?"

Tom had actually been debating whether to let his hair grow out some more. "None of you have yet to give me any decent ideas, so why should I believe you?"

"What if…" Avery swallowed. "What if Evans simply prefers you as yourself? This… red-haired witch he pines for, whoever she is, she is no longer in the picture. Perhaps his memories of her are the cause of his hesitation?"

Avery made a good point. Tom frowned. "I will consider it," he decided. "Meeting dismissed."

On Friday, Tom cornered Harry after Potions, which was the last class of the day.

"If you agree to go on a date with me," Tom said sanctimoniously, "then I will go back to being myself."

Harry narrowed his eyes.

"You have a spot on your cheek," Tom added, then licked his finger and rubbed at it.

"Stop that!" Harry said, smacking Tom's hand away.

Tom reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Harry reluctantly took it and wiped Tom's saliva off his cheek.

"You are the worst," Harry said angrily. "What is wrong with you?" He drew his wand and levelled it at Tom's chin. "I'm not going on a date with you!"

"Somehow," Tom said seriously, "I don't think hexing me in this corridor will resolve your odd preoccupation with kissing your mother."

Harry let out an incoherent noise of frustration. "You are impossible and I hate you!" Then he spun on his heel and stalked off.

The next day, Tom's hair was back to normal.

Harry's hair was not.

When Tom approached him in the library, box of treacle tart in hand, he noticed that Harry looked different. Very different. His hair was brown and slicked back. He must have used some product to get it to look that way.

"Harry?" Tom asked cautiously. "I brought you some treacle tart."

Harry turned slowly in his chair to glance up at Tom. "Is that so?"

"Yes." Tom held the box out. "Just for you."

"Thanks. I'm feeling a bit peckish," Harry said, taking the box and setting it on the tabletop.

"Oh?" Tom reached for the chair opposite Harry's, intent on sitting down since Harry was being so friendly. Maybe Avery had been right after all. Maybe Tom just needed to be himself.

"Yeah!" Harry nodded. But before Tom could sit down he added, "If you don't mind, there's something else I'd really, really like to have."

Tom paused, his hand clenched on the back of the wooden chair. "And what might that be?"

"Do you think you could get me a sandwich?"

Harry smiled patiently while he waited for Tom's answer.

Mothers did do that, Tom reasoned. They made sandwiches for their children. Tom could go to the kitchens and ask the elves to make him one for Harry.

"Certainly," Tom said. "I'll be right back."

By the time Tom returned with the sandwich, Harry was in the midst of packing his things. He glanced up as Tom arrived and grinned.

"Great! Thanks a lot, Tom." Harry accepted the sandwich, which was wrapped in wax paper, and took a large bite out of the exposed end. "I'll see you later, yeah?" With his free hand, he reached up to ruffle the top of Tom's head. "There's a good lad."

After Harry left, Tom stood there for a few minutes, replaying the conversation in his head. Harry was finally responding in a positive manner to his overtures. Why did this not feel like a victory?

Riding the coattails of his success, Tom had fresh hopes for his hand-knitted scarf. He'd gone down to their common room just to fetch it as soon as he'd noticed the sudden drop in temperature after lunch.

"Harry, love, I brought your scarf," Tom said cheerfully as he entered the courtyard where Harry was sitting under one of the large trees.

Much to Tom's delight, Harry held still while Tom wrapped the scarf around his neck. Tom snugly tucked the fabric around in a loose loop and smoothed the fringed ends over Harry's chest.

"Why don't we head on down to the Quidditch pitch and throw the quaffle around?" Harry asked with a smile.

Tom's mind went blank. "What?"

"The Quidditch pitch," Harry repeated. "Why don't we go toss the quaffle back and forth?"

Tom didn't want to do that. "Why don't we do something else? We could go for a walk."

"That's boring." Harry stood up and punched Tom in the shoulder. It seemed like it was supposed to be a friendly sort of punch, except it kind of hurt a little. "Besides, you could do with the practice, hm? Work on those muscles." He punched Tom's arm a second time.

When Tom continued to say nothing, Harry frowned.

"Come on," Harry said. "Don't be such a wuss, Tom."

"Well, alright," Tom said reluctantly. "Just for a short while." It was, after all, a good thing that Harry wanted to spend time with him.

Tom rubbed at his arm all throughout dinner. Harry had said that healing it with magic would be cheating, and that the only way to build strength was to let the muscles heal on their own. Tom wasn't so sure that logic applied to letting Harry punch his arm over a dozen times in the past two hours, but he couldn't exactly say so now.

"Are the two of you dating?" Nott asked in a low voice as they left the Great Hall.

Tom wasn't sure. He glanced over at Harry, who grinned at him and offered two very enthusiastic thumbs up. "Yes," Tom said, injecting confidence into his voice. "Yes, we are."

"Finally," Nott said with a sigh of relief. "I mean, we all knew you would succeed, Tom. It's just nice to know it's over with." He coughed. "I mean, it's nice to know that you succeeded."

Tom narrowed his eyes.

"I'm sure you both will be very happy together," Nott said nervously.

"Of course we will," Tom said.

"Will you still… be waking Evans up every morning?"

"Of course I will," Tom said, irritated. "And I expect the rest of you to continue taking turns making his bed for him."

"... Yes, Tom. We will."

That night, Harry finally removed the bed curtain barrier and permitted Tom to tuck him in.

"Good night," Tom said kindly. "Sweet dreams," he added, because that felt like something he ought to say, and then he bent down to kiss Harry on the forehead.

Harry grunted in response, then rolled to face the other way.

Tom stood there a moment longer, then carefully drew the bed curtain shut and shuffled off to his own bed.

"Good night, Tom," said Avery from the bed across the room.

"Shut the fuck up," Tom told him.

Tom decided that he and Harry were, in fact, dating.

They studied together in the library and played catch with the practice Quaffle out on the grounds. Harry ruffled Tom's hair all the time, and Tom straightened Harry's clothes and kept them clean of dirty spots. Tom called Harry 'love' and Harry called Tom 'old sport'.

But sometimes Tom would say he was thirsty and Harry would say—

"Hello thirsty, I'm Harry."

—and then he would laugh.

So Tom avoided saying he was thirsty anymore and instead focused all his energy on making sure Harry was wearing an appropriate amount of layers for the inclimate weather, and eating proper, balanced meals on a daily basis. Which was harder than it seemed because Harry was very bad at taking care of himself.

By the time the next Hogsmeade outing rolled around, Tom was excited. He was ready to take Harry out on a real date.

Harry, however, had other plans.

"I thought we could go fishing," he said when Tom brought up the subject of Hogsmeade.

Tom paused midway through brushing out a particularly stubborn snag in Harry's hair. "Fishing?"

"In the Great Lake." Harry nodded. "Have you never been fishing before, Tom?"

Tom had not. "No," he said reluctantly as he teased out the knot and set the brush aside. At some point, Harry had changed his hair back to normal, which Tom was glad for. The smooth, styled look had been strangely unsettling.

Harry yawned and stretched his arms up over his head. "Well, don't worry. I'll show you how."

"Where did you learn how to fish?"

"My uncle took me on a business trip with him once," Harry said. "Anyway, it's late. Good night."

"Good night," Tom said. He tucked Harry into bed and kissed his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry had already shut his eyes, so Tom closed the bed curtains and spun around. The only other person still awake in the dorm was Mulciber.

"Did you pack Harry's bag for school tomorrow?" Tom asked, a sharp edge to his voice.

Mulciber nodded quickly. "Yes, Tom. Everything is packed."

Tom nodded back in acknowledgement, then crawled into his own bed and went to sleep.

Fishing was boring. Thankfully, Harry had brought several bottles of firewhiskey to help them pass the time. Tom typically did not partake in drinking to the point of intoxication—he drank just enough to be considered socially acceptable, then stopped—but Harry seemed eager for them to drink together. So Tom had conceded, thinking that it would be alright to loosen up a little.

"I should have told on you," Harry said later that evening, as he sipped from his third or fourth bottle, "for reading my mind. Being a creep."

"Why didn't you?" Tom asked, shifting to lay flat on his back. He felt extremely warm, like he was on the verge of a fever.

Harry rolled onto his side and squinted down at Tom. "Because it wouldn't have made a difference! You'd still have been a creep."

"You can't say that any more," Tom protested, "I'm your boyfriend now."

Harry scoffed. "You're my mother, more like it."

"I have the range," Tom said idly. "You can't be upset about that."

"Yes, I can, sport."

Tom laid his arm over his eyes and dozed off for a few minutes. He could hear Harry shuffling around beside him. "Did you catch any fish yet?" he asked.

"No." Harry huffed. "You know that red-haired girl?"

"Your mother?"

"No," Harry said. "Yes, but no. My mother has red hair, but I think you got her mixed up with someone else. There is… was… a red-haired girl who I used to like. We dated for a while."

Tom opened his eyes and sat up. "So I was right!" he accused. "There is some tomato-haired wench in your life who you couldn't stop thinking about. Who is she? What is her name?"

"She's not here anymore," Harry said, but he sounded a little sad about it.

Tom squinted. He'd moved too quickly and now he felt slightly dizzy. "Well, you don't need her anymore," Tom said stubbornly.

Harry had removed his fishing line from the water and set the rod down on the grass. "Yeah." He stared out at the lake. "But what I was trying to say was… you don't have to do all that weird stuff anymore. The mothering."

Tom thought about that. If Harry was telling the truth about this girl not being his mother, then Tom didn't have to do all of those ridiculous motherly tasks anymore. He could tell his Knights that they no longer had to make Harry's bed for him.

"And if I don't?" Tom asked loudly. "If I don't stop?"

Harry's eyes—green, green, green—honed in on Tom with unsettling accuracy for a drunken teenager. "Then I'd say you have more fishing trips in your future, Tommy."

Tom had never been more offended in his entire life. "Then I'm sure you won't mind if I call you—" Tom paused to think of a suitably sickening nickname. "Call you Harrikins?"

There was a long stretch of silence.

"Let's have another firewhiskey and forget about that," Harry said sagely. "Agreed?"

"Sure," Tom said with a lazy smile. "Let's have another drink."

SEVERAL YEARS LATER.

Tom hosted his 'book club' meetings every other Sunday with the exception of major holidays. Occasionally, however, he would host a smaller crowd of his most trusted Knights. Those meetings took place in the game room of the flat that Tom shared with Harry.

Harry never attended any of the meetings, but sometime he did linger out in the hallway and shout things like—

"Enjoy your trip! Hope you have a nice fall!"

—whenever someone tripped over the ugly troll's foot that Tom had set by the doorway. Tom did not regret forcing Orion to hand over that cursed object, mostly because it was a constant source of amusement.

Today's meeting had barely begun when Harry entered the room with a tray of snacks and drinks in hand.

"Is anyone hungry?" Harry asked cheerfully. "Or thirsty?"

Tom had just finished telling everyone about the new mug that Harry had gotten him. It was a pink mug that used to say '#1 MOM' on it in large red letters. Harry had taken a green pen and drawn a large letter 'T' over the first 'M' so that the cup now read '#1 TOM'.

"Who's hungry?" Tom asked the room, smiling. "Who's thirsty? Come on, speak up."

The longer the silence went on, the more threatening Tom's smile became.

"Well, I've got something to liven up the room," Harry said amicably. "How about a joke?"

"Let's hear your joke," Tom said, waving his hand. "I'm sure it's hilarious." He would glare at everyone within glaring distance until they laughed at Harry's terrible joke. And laugh they would, because the alternative was far worse than pretending to find amusement somewhere in their cold, dark souls.

Harry rocked back on his heels. "Why can't a nose be twelve inches long?"

Tom counted to ten in his head, then asked, "Why is that, Harry?"

Harry grinned. He looked positively deranged, and Tom loved it. "Because then it would be a foot."

Several of Tom's Knights released awkward chuckles. They'd have to improve their acting skills if they expected to ever get anywhere in the world.

"You're slouching," Tom snapped at Rosier. "Sit up. And Lestrange, tidy your hair, you look like a sewer rat."

"... Yes, Tom."

"Is that all?" Harry asked, looking around at them all. "Shall I leave you boys to your little book club?"

Tom kissed Harry's cheek. "Yes, please. Thank you for the snacks and drinks, love."

"Any time." Harry ruffled Tom's hair in return, then slapped him on the arse. "Save some fun for me once you're done," he said with a wink before he left the room.

After the door swung shut, Tom turned back to his silent, pale-faced followers. "Harry and I will be getting married soon," he told them seriously. "So I will require one of you to walk me down the aisle. Who would like to volunteer for this task?"

When no one put up their hand, Tom added, "Whoever does not may be expected to help my fiancé plan his bachelor party."

"I'll do it," Rosier said immediately. "It would be an honour to—"

"Wait, wait," said Lestrange, gesturing for Rosier to shut up. "Wait one moment! Tom, as one of your oldest and dearest friends, don't you think it should be me who—"

Tom let the wonderful sounds of his disciples' pleas for leniency wash over him. It was the sweetest lullaby he ever remembered hearing. If this kept up, he would consider re-dyeing his hair for the two weeks leading up to the wedding. Just for old time's sake.

.

END.