Decadence and its cousins, like self-indulgence and corruption, never waited for a seat because they would always be invited, and they were welcomed to the tables like esteemed, honored guests who would whisper into your ear, press farther into your thigh, taste the candy from your hands, and then they pulled you to the side. And with a knowing kind of glint more befitting for an aunt, they unwrapped you from the rules meant to govern your every want.
With a smile for a smile before the hedon within their eyes looked more and more human as they unraveled who you were. That like a boggart — once they found it and uncovered what you've wanted — they shifted. But no one noticed, and only you could tell the tale.
Because they were nothing you've come to fear, they were everything you couldn't break from. That the only way to banish them was to yield to your desires: that was the price for temptation as you never knew if you'd have it again.
That for a moment and only then and between the choices he could've had, Tom knew he wasn't different from any student and from any man. Because his boggart, his decadence, his corruption, his want had him wrapped around their finger when in reality, they had not
Because Harry's hands and Harry's fingers — and the calluses upon them then — were wrapped around the handles of a bit of pudding and a silver spoon. That wobbled when Harry wobbled, jittered when Harry moved, and were wiped of any chocolate when Harry nibbled with every spoon.
But the only thing he couldn't wipe was the bit of chocolate near his mouth and how it bruised him upon a corner until it was something like a kiss. Like a stain, a mark, a remnant of what he had done: Harry licked what he could feel, but he missed this by a mile. And there was no way he could've done that unless all of this was intentional.
Because Tom — he was weak — no, distracted. He was amused that the only version of his best friend he had his heart on was like this. Not the Seeker, the champion or the greatest duelist of their year; not the trouble but the troublemaker and the boy who was his friend.
Who didn't care about decorum or the sanctity between Houses because willingly and on his own, he would sit with Tom and the Slytherins. And he never waited for a seat because he always had one at the table, and he was welcomed like a brother when Tom's arm was wrapped around him. And it was secured along his shoulder like a stamp of damn approval; that if anyone had objections, it was Tom they had to hear from.
And maybe, that was why no one stopped him before he did this — approached Harry.
Before he swiped him, brushed him, and drew the chocolate from near his mouth. Until he dragged it from whence it were and what remained was a smear, fading lightly from Harry's chin when he pulled away and with a smirk. And licked while Harry watched, while he sucked his own thumb.
That Merlin, the way he widened would make you think that Tom had asked him for private lessons on a broomstick and that before the night would end, he'd have won the golden snitch and in the shape of Harry's heart. And feel it flutter around his skin because that was exactly how he felt when Harry won his with a bit of chocolate and with a stain near his mouth.
And now that Tom had gotten a taste, he could see why it was addicting — why the confection was a fan-favorite for indulgence and amusement. Because, if he could savor this and have it at any time, paired with Harry's "oh" and the softness within his eyes, it wouldn't be hard for Tom to reason that this was something he ought to have.