Chapter 16. The Wards

It was a Friday afternoon when Tom's warding spell finally vanished with a sharp "Pop!". Harry, who had been moodily dragging himself up the stairs of the North Tower, instinctively ducked at the noise and flattened himself against the curved stone wall. Heart pounding, he listened, searching for the source of the sudden sound but he heard nothing but the muffled groan of the wind whistling furiously around the stone tower. Sensing nothing awry, Harry finally allowed his muscles to relax only to stiffen a second later as he registered a breeze against the back of his hand with a sensitivity he hadn't felt in weeks. Comprehension dawned.

With an air of defeat, Harry reluctantly pushed up his left sleeve, looked down, and swore loudly. The curse echoed down the spiral staircase. The shimmering magic that had covered his skin for the past weeks was gone.

"Perfect," he muttered, "Just perfect." He didn't have time for this; he'd already left later for the lesson than he should have. No doubt Professor Lyptus and Trelawney were waiting for him... He looked longingly down at the stairs below him. He could always just... Not show up.

He shouldn't. Harry shook his head and continued climbing up the steps.

But the wards, his mind whispered. They need to be replaced.

He really shouldn't.

It's not like these lessons are mandatory.

Harry's steps faltered.

Or helpful.

A great point. He slowed to a stop, just close enough to the classroom to hear the murmur of two voices above him.

Besides, he thought as a rather high-pitched muffled laugh floated down the stairs, Who would you rather spend your Friday night with? Tom? Or Trelawney?

It wasn't even a question.

Under the warbling light of a green lake, a drop of sweat slowly dripped down Tom Riddle's face. With the teen still as stone save his lips, the drop was free to languidly roll past dark eyebrows knit together in concentration, and down the smooth skin of his cheek. If it caused any discomfort, it didn't show. The sibilant hiss of Parsletongue slipped steadily past his teeth.

After an age, the drop fell past a white wand of yew. Aimed at an ancient tome pulsing with a sickly green aura, dark purple light streamed from the tip of the wand in tendrils that grasped the book. Though the hand that held the wand was steady, the ancient tome quivered under the smothering strain of the countercurse.

Time passed, and as Tom's voice grew thinner, the dark purple tendrils grew thicker, becoming vines that choked the book til no green remained. At long last, the ancient tome fell to the floor, harmless. Exhausted, Tom dropped too. He could only stare up at the rippling ceiling, back against cold stone, as the minutes crept by him in the sluggish, swift way it only does when one is truly drained. If asked, he wouldn't've been able to venture a guess as to how long he laid there.

Finally, though, he mustered the energy to climb unsteadily to his feet—only to sway dangerously a split second later as blood rushed to his head. Unthinkingly, Tom threw his hand out to catch himself from falling. Blinking back spots, the room came into focus once more and he saw it. His hand was gripping one of the bookshelves.

"Well," Tom muttered, gingerly removing his hand, "I ain't dead."

He looked down at the now-harmless ancient tome on the floor. If he hadn't been sure that it was the focal point of the curse protecting the Athenaeum's books, he certainly was now. He placed his hand back on the shelf, accidentally brushing his thumb against one of the books. It was titled "Mind Over Matter: Advanced Topics in Legilimency."

Legilimency... Now, why did that sound famil—Oh.

He began to smile.

Under the steady light of the full moon, round wire glasses slipped down Harry Potter's nose. Mindlessly, he pushed them back up, rubbed at his eye, and continued staring out at the night from his spot on the windowsill. Every minute or so, his head turned away to glance down at the open journal resting against his legs, but each time the pages were empty save for two short sentences in his handwriting: "Your zappy wards stopped working. Where are you?"

After Harry had ditched his extra Divination lesson, he had gone off tracking Tom down. Somewhat shockingly, he had not been successful. In retrospect, it shouldn't have been that surprising; the week before "The Promise" had certainly proved hunting Tom to be a difficult task. Nevertheless, he had been taken aback at his inability to find the teen, primarily due to the fact that he had been almost annoyingly present since "The Promise", joining him in the hallways between classes and during homework sessions in the library. Did Harry know why Tom was doing it? No. Did he care? Also no. Well... No. He didn't. Honestly.

No. Because he liked Tom. Maybe even... liked him.

Every time the thought inevitably whispered through his mind he violently shook his head. It was confusing and weird and he did not want to think about it.

He was once again violently shaking his head when black ink oozed out of the page beneath his writing.

"I should have seen this sooner. Are you awake?"

Harry was off the windowsill in an instant. He scrambled for a quill and inkwell.

"Yeah," he finally wrote. "Where were you?"

"Common room," Tom replied and Harry hated the sliver of doubt in his chest. "I'll be right there."

Harry blinked, thrown. "What? Where?"

"Outside the Gryffindor common room of course," beaded out of the page. "I'll knock. Agatha loves me."

"?" he scrawled, "Agatha?"

There was no response.

"—hate to do this, and at this time of night, Lady Ashmore, but it truly is of the utmost importance," Tom lied, wringing his hands. Undoubtedly, he looked a right mess having come straight from the Athenaeum. Good. He resisted the temptation to smirk.

"Oh of course dear," Lady Agatha Ashmore simpered, "And please, Tom, call me Agatha."

"If you insist, Lady Agatha."

Agatha "The Fat Lady" Ashmore, giggled and stepped aside, revealing an elaborate knocker that Tom knew very few Slytherins ever got the pleasure of seeing. He thanked her profusely and knocked. Almost immediately, the portrait door swung open and Tom was pushed aside.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Harry hissed. "It's nearly half past one!"

"The wards," Tom said simply, eyeing Harry's bare arms.

"They couldn't wait til morning?" he asked aghast.

"You said you were awake," Tom argued, "and they're important. Now, shall we do this out here or...?"

Harry groaned. "Fine. Hurry up then."

"So testy," Tom grinned, but he still moved to follow Harry. As he climbed through the portrait hole, he threw a quick "Thank you again, Agatha, dear," over his shoulder. When he emerged on the other side, Harry was already striding toward the crackling fireplace. A quick scan of the room found several sixth or seventh-years in one corner and a pair of third-years in another. Other than a couple of odd looks, both groups largely ignored the intruding Slytherin.

Satisfied, Tom made his way to the couch on which Harry had unceremoniously thrown himself, and sat. As he sunk into the deceptively squishy cushions, he held back a groan of relief and his eyelids fluttered shut. His muscles unwillingly melted into the softness of the couch as he was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. Maybe sitting had been a bad idea.

"I still don't understand why—" Harry's voice cut off abruptly.

Tom cracked open an eye. "Hm?" he hummed.

Harry's teeth worried at his bottom lip. "Are you okay, Tom?"

He opened his eyes fully at this. "Pardon?"

"You look awful."

"Thanks," he drawled, forcing himself to sit upright as he rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious," Harry frowned, "Your eyes—" His hand unexpectedly stretched forward as if to touch his face. Tom flinched. "Shit," Harry snatched his hand back, flushing. "I—Sorry, sorry." He grimaced. "I just—"

"Don't. It's okay, Harry," Tom reassured him, and hold on, was that sincere? The thought was almost more offputting than Harry's sudden movement had been, well-intended or no. He should be angry. The Gryffindor had made him flinch. He'd cursed people for less. And yet here he was soothing Harry's feelings? He must be more tired than he thought.

After a bemused pause, he spoke. "So... The wards?"

"Er, yeah, yes. Erm, whenever you're ready I suppose."

Tom gave a sharp nod and sat up straighter, brandishing his wand. "Your wrists?"

Harry presented them without hesitation. With more trepidation than he'd have liked, Tom drew upon the already diminished wells of his magic and brought the tip of his wand to the vein of Harry's wand-arm wrist. "Custos Fulgar."

A shimmering film began to grow up Harry's right arm as Tom poured his intent and magic into the protective spell. He could feel himself tiring but he pressed on until the shimmering film began to crawl down Harry's left arm and finally engulfed his hand. "And there," he said, ending the spell with relief. "All set."

Harry smiled broadly at his shiny arms. "Thank you, Tom."

"You're welcome," he said, pleased. "I'm not sure they'll last as long this time but it will do."

The crackling of the fire filled the quiet between the two as Harry ran his hands over his arms and Tom sank back into the criminally comfortable couch. After a moment, Harry looked up. "Where did you find this spell?" he asked.

"'Protective Magic: A Guide' by Cesuras Wright," Tom replied easily, "Though I did... modify it for your purposes."

Harry's eyebrows squinched together. "How?"

"Custodia Fulgar is the commonly used incantation, used primarily to protect objects from ill intent. Using Custos instead of Custodia allows the spell to guard a person instead."

"Oh. So am I guarded against 'ill intent' then?"

Tom wrinkled his nose. "Mm, not quite. Custos Fulgar recognizes the will of the protected person rather than the intent of the person it protects against. The spell wouldn't be activated if you wanted someone to touch you, or if you wanted to touch them."

"O-Oh," Harry choked out. His face had gone carefully blank.

Hm? Tom's mind whirled curiously at the unexpected reaction and he hummed in vague agreement. What had he said? Harry wouldn't quite meet his eyes. He replayed his words in his mind and—Oh. 'O-Oh' indeed. "As the caster," he added, unable to resist, "I suppose if I were to touch you, I wouldn't get shocked."

"...Wouldn't you?"

Tom watched Harry's Adam's apple bob with a thrill. "It'd be hard to tell then, wouldn't it?"

"Tell what?"

"Whether a lack of sparks would be because of who I am, or because of what you wanted."

Harry sucked in a breath and glanced away.

Tom swallowed a grin and spoke. "You know, it's been a while since you've read my future. Or past."

"No," Harry blurted, shutting him down immediately. "Not tonight Tom."

"Alright," he agreed easily. "Out of curiosity, when was the last time you Saw?"

Harry glanced up at that. "A couple of weeks or so, I dunno. Does it matter?"

"Not really. Just curious."

"...Mhm," Harry hummed doubtfully, and Tom just smiled.

"Well," he said, standing with a near-imperceptible sigh. "I should go. It's late."

"Yeah," Harry replied, still looking mildly dubious. He shook his head and stood as well. "Yeah."

Their eyes met. This time Harry didn't look away and suddenly, oddly, Tom felt conscious of the space between them. Of the ease with which he could just reach out and... No.

"Good night," he murmured instead.

"'Night."

Tom turned on his heel and left.