In the last chapter: Harry and Tom enjoy a summer storm. Phil warns them that Fudge is making a move for control over Hogwarts to try to get Dumbledore under his thumb. Tom has a talk with Barty and Bellatrix about his new mentality and they move back into Riddle manor. Bellatrix and Harry reunite. Tom is going to miss Harry.
Harry turned on his heel, pale green eyes flitting over his surroundings with a growing smile on his face as the taller male stood quietly beside him, drinking in his wonder with an amused quirk to his lips. It was late afternoon, only a half hour from sunset, and Tom had suddenly stood from the loveseat in their favorite sitting room and had told Harry to follow him. Tom proceeded to lead Harry to the rarely used east-side of the manor. There, Tom ushered Harry into a room he hadn't seen before in their previous explorations of the estate.
It was a greenhouse.
The planthouse was perhaps the largest one he'd ever been in. Truly something magnificent to behold. It was a wonder it had stayed out of sight on that side of the manor, but he knew that the woods beyond those walls came closest to his side of the estate and probably hid the beautiful monstrosity from prying eyes.
The room was cylindrical, with dark cobblestones underfoot laid in a circular mosaic pattern. All of the walls were a work of wrought iron and cloudy glass—even the ceiling was a dome of glass panels laid into the dark iron frames—and some of the glass was broken, bringing in cooling air from outside and keeping the greenhouse from becoming too muggy as well as letting in enough rain to allow for the tangled overgrown mess of plants that had overtaken the place to thrive.
Unlike the neat rows of plant life in the Hogwarts greenhouses, this was more like an indoor garden that had grown wild from neglect. The high ceiling accommodated the ever-growing trees spaced throughout, their thick roots curling up over the brick ledges surrounding the soil they were planted in and twisting over the cobblestones. Vines hung from their branches, creeped up the walls to hang out of broken windows, and covered large patches of the floor. There were more ferns and bushes and weeds than there were flowers, but it was no less breathtaking. Harry smiled as he caught the high trill of songbirds somewhere up in the trees.
When they slowly reached the center of the room, Harry's breath caught in his lungs for one stuttering moment. At the very heart of the greenhouse stood a magnificent weeping willow. Through the curtain of long green strands—covered with thin, narrow leaves that cascaded down like a waterfall—Harry could just make out the thick twist of the trunk and its many branches. Harry carefully parted the strands that brushed the ground and stepped through.
Inside, it was slightly warmer with the insulation of its leaves. Right in front of the trunk sat a wide stone bench, lit by the hazy warm afternoon light coming through the leaves. He turned to Tom and found the other male watching him with open amusement and fondness.
"I found this place last night after you left. You seem to like nature in its more wild and untamed form, so I figured you'd like this as well." Tom nodded to the greenhouse as a whole as he followed Harry fully under the cover of the willow. Harry took a seat on the bench, Tom doing the same.
"It's beautiful. I'm glad you decided to show me." Harry spoke with warmth in his voice that matched the beaming of the sinking sun as he continued to take in his surroundings.
They sat there for a while, discussing whatever came to mind as the light filling the greenhouse slowly grew richer with gold and red tones and sunset approached. Somehow, their conversation turned to Harry asking Tom about how he was adjusting in terms of his magic. By now, Tom seemed completely recovered and even said that he felt more in tune with himself and his core than he had before the Horcruxes.
Harry wasn't surprised, but he was certainly pleased.
"Mmm. Yeah, that sounds about right. I mentioned it before, but the soul plays a very big part in us being able to access and control our magic. It's the reason why Soul-Magic, or Necromancy, is so powerful. If one can learn all the little nuances of their soul and others' souls and learn how to control and guide it, then they can push the boundaries of magic far past what we consider possible. That's also what makes it so dangerous and feared." Harry's tone turned slightly somber, thinking of the magic that had become such an integral part of himself, but also had made many people uncomfortable to even be near it that they bodily avoided the young Ravenclaw without really realizing what they were doing or why.
"People . . . people mostly see Necromancy as 'death-magic,' something evil and corrupted. They only see how it can harm and destroy. They don't know just how much it can heal and create. I cannot even blame them for their ignorance. How could I when they've been told for generations that Necromancy is dark, forbidden? How can I, when the magic itself feels so revolting to them?" He could feel Tom's dark gaze on his profile, but he kept his eyes locked on the curtain of green before him.
Little hazy flashes of 'Ice Prince' being spat at him like an insult instead of the endearing nickname it was originally meant to be, and moments when one of his peers gotten close enough to touch his skin and shuddered with a disconcerted frown as they quickly withdrew from the touch. Even before he had truly come into his gift, while he lived with the Dursleys, he could remember times when his sharp-tongued muggle classmates had recoiled in disgust as his touch and asked him if he was dead.
His internal temperature was perfectly normal, it was more that his innate magic gave off the feeling of cold and dangerous and off. Not all that dissimilar to the aura of a Dementor. Harry thought with the slightest bitter tone to his own thoughts. He sighed internally, immediately knowing that his thoughts were mainly a product of his frigid and disdainful childhood. His insecurities stemmed mostly from years under the disgusted and fearful eyes of his relatives.
"Will you show me?" It was spoken so softly, barely a rustling in the quiet air, but Harry heard it just fine. He turned to look at Tom with wide, confused eyes. He had gotten lost in his thoughts and had a bit of trouble back-tracking to what they had been talking about. Thankfully, Tom spoke again, clearer and more determined this time.
"You've talked about your magic and this Soul-Magic quite a lot over these past few weeks, but I have yet to see you do little more than a few wandless spells when it was convenient. You don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable, but I'm quite curious." His expression was open, Harry noted, and there was only a hint of curiosity and genuine interest in his dark eyes. Harry licked his lips, catching the faint trace of honey from his tea earlier, and fidgeted a bit with his robes.
"I . . . I don't know if that would be a good idea. As I said before, it can make people fairly uncomfortable-" Harry started, but the other interrupted him gently.
"Does it make you uncomfortable?" He asked, holding Harry's gaze and searching his face for answers.
"No." Harry found himself answering honestly. Tom smiled, nothing but honest fondness in his gaze.
"Then I would very much like to see it and decide for myself whether it makes me uncomfortable or not." He encouraged, patiently waiting for Harry to either refuse or show Tom his magic.
Something inside Harry was excited, he recognized. A part of him was eager to share his magic in a way he'd never been able to or felt comfortable enough to do so before. Especially with Tom, his brain unhelpfully supplied. Harry swallowed his nerves, sat up a little straighter, and shifted his body to face Tom more fully on the stone bench. The sun had cast its last few rays into the darkening greenhouse as night crept in, cool against their slightly flushed skin.
"Hold out your hand. . ." Harry instructed in a barely audible hush.
Tom readily obeyed, raising his left hand to hover in the short distance between them, palm facing down. Harry kept his breathing calm as his magic readily raced through his frame, like a pent-up animal eager for freedom. The raven reached out his hand as well, positioned just an inch below Tom's outstretched one without touching, palm facing up. Tom's hands were larger than Harry's and seemed to eclipse his completely. Tentatively, Harry coaxed out his magic from his palm to gather in the place between their hands.
It was just as cold and invigorating as he remembered. Harry watched Tom's face avidly, waiting for the vaguest hint of discomfort to pull away. Instead, the other wizard's breath stuttered with a barely-there, breathless laugh. Watching Tom so closely, Harry's mind began fade into a low hum without any real direction as he stared. With the dying light cloaking them and Tom's face close enough to touch, Harry felt like he was back to the night of the resurrection.
Tom's fair features almost seemed to glow in the cool light, the undeniably handsome cut of the alabaster planes of his face were captivating. The shape of his surprisingly pink lips. His strong, straight, immaculate brows over midnight blue that was so dark and vivid that each look felt like cool, richly dyed silk over his skin. The soft swell and curve of his dark hair as it lay against his head and the side of his forehead in a lax wave. And of course, the interspersed dot of small, dark moles that did nothing but emphasize the man's beauty.
Harry was pulled out of his reverie by his own involuntary sharp intake of breath at the sudden blossom of heat at his wrist, threading between the small, delicate bones like warm honey. His gaze flickered down to their hands and he saw that Tom's long fingers had curled down slightly and were resting over the sensitive skin on the underside of his wrist. The touch was ever so light, but surely intentional.
His magic curled up around the digits, welcoming the contact in the only way it could—by pulling for more. As he watched, frozen, the fingers brushed down to his palm and back up in a light caress, almost tracing the blue and purple veins that just barely shown through his fair skin in the evening light. The touch was so careful, but it was filling the bones in his hand with molten heat.
Harry pulled in a heavy breath, the magic Tom was touching, the power he was coaxing to the surface of his skin with each little glide of his fingertips was dangerous. It was magic Harry had used more than once to release a soul gently from its body. It was not just Harry's bare magic, it was the darker, richer, more wild part of his magic that clogged his lungs and flooded his mouth with the taste of rich cherries and spring rain when it tingled in his lips as he kissed away a creature's pain forever. It was the delicious curl of heat between his hips when he wielded the soul-magic with a heavier hand. Tom did not know how dangerous it was to be drawing that out of Harry's magic, but somehow, Harry wasn't afraid. Oddly enough, something in his gut told him that Tom could plunge his hand right into that magic and be just fine. He hoped for both of their sakes that this wasn't just a hunch.
Harry's chest was thrumming with the rapid pounding of his heart. He swallowed thickly as the hand over his continued to brush against his skin. It took him another moment to realize that the heat he was feeling was not just the temperature of Tom's skin—as he had touched the other briefly here and there over the past few weeks—but actually his magic.
At that realization, Harry automatically moved his hand up until it was pressed fully against Tom's. Warmth immediately curled in his chest and sank into his gut until he felt almost dizzy as it settled behind his navel. Long fingers curled around his hand until their palms were aligned in a breathtaking buzz of the two magics intermingling. It was like he could feel Tom's core; a condensed blazing sun was oh-so-enticing. As wild and devastating as fiend-fire, but to Harry the warmth was intoxicating, clouding his thoughts like fire-whiskey, soothing his body like a bath so warm it was almost too hot, but also set his brain on fire and made everything he felt ten times more intense.
"It's incredible." Tom hissed in parseltongue, seemingly unaware that he had even spoken aloud. Harry looked back up at the older, feeling a strange mix of so many different things at once that it all sort of became white noise in his head.
Most of all, though, he felt wonderstruck. By Tom. Tom wasn't repulsed, he wasn't uneasy because of Harry's magic—his touch. Tom looked . . . enraptured. His eyes staring down at their clasped hands as Harry had been just moments ago. Harry could feel Tom's fascination and his delight at the feeling of Harry's magic. There was this odd urge in the back of his skull, as he sat there watching Tom, to gather as much magic as he could and push it towards the other. Like . . . he wanted to unload every little bit of himself and hand it over to his friend for the other to marvel over—because that was exactly what Tom was doing right then, marveling. And for the first time, Harry felt like being marveled at.
"It truly is." Harry replied, causing the wizard before him to look up in surprise. All he did was smile brighter at Harry, though. Harry wanted him to always smile like that—eyes squinting a bit as his cheeks pushed up, dazzling straight white teeth on display, and the faint indent of an absolutely endearing pair of dimples. Smiling like this, Tom looked like a little kid. He looked . . . cute.
"Show me more." Tom insisted eagerly, making Harry smile.
Harry pulled his hand away so he could begin showing Tom bigger, more impressive displays of magic, occasionally pulling the other in to feel it for himself or even try to replicate—something he was hilariously abysmal at—and when Tom got fed up with Harry's teasing jabs, he showed Harry spells he hadn't even thought possible (some Tom had created himself during his youth) with wild displays of magic that sung like sunlight and left the faint taste of honey on the back of his tongue.
Sitting in the darkened greenhouse, the pair joked and shared and comforted. They did so until Harry eventually had to leave. They parted on the promise of tomorrow, both baring the secrets they knew of each other like trophies. Tightly held knowledge of what they had explored and discovered of each other, together, was carefully wrapped in their thoughts and guarded by the walls of their minds.
Instead of just apparating straight into Grimmauld Place like he usually did, Harry instead decided to apparate a bit of ways away from his home so he could walk, get some fresh air, and think.
Mostly, his thoughts were too jumbled to really focus on anything, but one thing that broke through the mess loud and clear, was just how good it felt that his friend not only accepted his magic but enjoyed it.
Anthony didn't seem to really mind the nature of his magic, but it was certainly too overwhelming for the magic-sensitive wizard to really let it loose. Draco seemed to have become used to it and learned to ignore it for the most part—but Harry could tell that the blonde was a little unnerved when Harry used more than a spell or two. Hermione, as a muggleborn, didn't seem to really understand why she sometimes felt off around Harry—not realizing it was because of his use of soul-magic—so she mostly just shrugged it off.
They were his friends and he knew that they cared deeply for him, but he also knew that there were certain parts of himself that were a little . . . too much, so it was something he always had to work around and pack away for when he was alone. With Tom, though, there was nothing to hide, nothing to hold back. Because, Tom had parts of himself that were too much as well, and by some beautiful miracle, their 'odd parts' seemed to work together perfectly—as was iterated by what had happened earlier that night.
Tom had confided in Harry earlier that when he was in Hogwarts, his magic had been compared (on more than one occasion) to hellfire. To Harry, though, it had felt like a soothing warmth that sank into his bone marrow and had made it oh-so-very hard to pull away. In contrast, Harry's magic was known for being as glacial as his pale green gaze, but according to Tom, it had been refreshing and a relief to the burning heat of his own magic. What others had always thought to be 'too much' Tom and Harry seemed to find solace and respite in. It took a huge weight off his shoulders to have-
Harry was jolted from his thoughts when he felt the sudden, familiar chill draped itself over him like a cloak. Chasing away the last dregs of precious heat he had managed to harbor like a fugitive inside him after leaving the manor. Tensing, Harry halted in his steps and waited on the deserted sidewalk. Only a moment later, two Dementors drifted down from the black sky and settled in front of him.
{What's going on, here? Why are you so far from Azkaban unescorted?} Harry's tongue easily rolled over the language of the dead, his firm tone resounding through the budding night. He remembered his previous encounters with Dementors, and how they acted more as a 'hive-mind' than as individuals, so he had no doubts that these two knew him.
{Apologies for the disturbance, Necromancer. We are only here on orders.} One of them answered, drifting a little closer but keeping a comfortable distance from the young wizard. Harry felt his features tighten into a frown at that. Orders? Were they looking for another escaped prisoner? But that didn't make any sense, considering Azkaban was nearly impossible to break out of (the powerful and insane Bellatrix seeming to be the exception) and even if they were after a prisoner, they would certainly be escorted by an Auror through the muggle city.
{Whose orders? What is your purpose ?}
{We do not know who specifically made the call. All we know is that we have been discretely moved from our posts and have been relocated to this area. The instructions were vague, but you seem to be the target, young Necromancer.} Despite their orders, neither creature made a single movement to attack Harry.
{Is it safe for me to assume that this encounterwill not be known by anyone else?} Harry asked carefully. Both Dementors immediately bowed their clothed heads.
{Of course. Until the moment of your departure to Hogwarts, we will continue to be thwarted by heavy protective wards.} Harry dipped his head in gratitude.
This complicated matters immeasurably. If someone had sent Dementors after him, that meant that they either wished to kill him via their cold kiss, or they wanted to get the underage wizard in heaps of trouble for using magic in muggle London. Whether he was defending himself or not didn't matter if they attacked him while he was alone—as he was now—since Dementors left no magical or physical trace (the frost from their presence melts away within minutes of their departure) so it could be easy to argue that they weren't even there. The one who sent them clearly didn't care whether he died during the encounter. Which begs the question, who wants to kill him?
Harry was fairly private when it came to the media and had yet to take part in or even show an interest in politics. He did his best to fade into the background—the only exception being his academics, but he seriously doubted one of his classmates had the kind of power and sheer hatred towards him to actually try to make an attempt on his life.
Not only that but, who has the power to discreetly move Dementors without anyone else knowing? The first name to pop into his head was Fudge. He knew that the Minister of Magic had a bit of sore spot when it came to Harry, but was that enough to wish to kill him? He needed more information on the matter. If someone was trying to kill him, he needed to deal with it quickly and quietly before he died in front of someone who didn't know his secret and then came back to life before their eyes.
'Death? Would you mind?' Harry asked silently, knowing that the other had been watching their entire encounter curiously from just beyond the veil.
'I'll look into it, little raven. We'll know soon enough who's trying to harm you.' There was a sharp edge to Death's rattling tone and Harry knew that this mess had made the other upset. Harry sighed as he felt his companion's retreat. His friend's protective side seemed to have grown passed 'constantly passive about anything and everything' over the years. A vindictive Death would not be a comforting escort into the afterlife. Harry almost felt bad for those who would eventually move on that had unknowingly irked the immortal being. But then again, Harry had always found it difficult to pity others. He tended to be just as passive as his companion most days.
Well . . . Harry thought back on willow leaves under the light of the half-moon and the cling of wet clothes in warm rain . . . perhaps not so much recently.
Harry shook himself from his drifting thoughts and turned his attention back on the two dark creatures still waiting before him with endless patience.
{Thank you for warning me. You can be on your way.} He politely dismissed the Dementors and they immediately obeyed.
Harry only lingered on the street a moment longer to breathe in the cool night air before apparating back to Grimmauld Place. He was welcomed home by the thick, savory scent of roast beef and other mouth-watering side dishes permeating the air. Harry was mildly surprised by the sounds of the meal still being prepared in the kitchen, since this was one of those times when he'd returned home a little later than usual even though he hadn't eaten dinner at the manor. He had just planned on eating whatever left-overs they had when he got back.
Harry quickly located his adoptive parents; Remus moving around the kitchen with a glide in his step as upbeat but slightly outdated music played through a radio that had been modified to not short out in the magical household, all the while Kreacher watched in disdain from the corner as the werewolf took over 'his bloody kitchen,' and Sirius rendered himself blissfully useless as he sat at the dinning room table with a beaming grin as he waited for the food. Harry rolled his eyes at Sirius and pushed up his sleeves to begin helping Remus cook.
Remus didn't really need the help—or he would have allowed Kreacher to aid him—but this was something he and Harry did together sometimes. It was relaxing and a way to spend time together that was just for them (Sirius liked to act like he'd never picked up a cook book or used an oven in his whole life) it was a way for them to bond. Cooking wasn't Harry's favorite thing to do, as it had been one of his main 'chores' back with the Dursleys and could sometimes bring up old feelings he'd rather not relive. However, Harry liked cooking with Remus.
The older man often played music when he cooked and would sometimes dance and sing along, usually playfully trying to goad Harry into joining him. Whether it be bright mornings filled with sweet breakfast foods and solos yelled at the tops of their scratchy sleep-roughened voices, or nights where Remus popped open a bottle of rich, dark red wine that he sipped at while swaying to the grand orchestral flow and splashing more and more wine from his own glass into the dishes he cooked as the night went on to 'give it a little something.' It was all loud and warm, the memories soothed like a balm over the places where Harry's hard edges seemed to scrape himself a little too raw.
Eventually they all sat down to eat. Harry was too caught up in his own head to notice that his parents were quieter than usual and were exchanging meaningful glances every few minutes. It was as Harry was almost finished with his meal that he caught them in the middle of one of these glances and watched in confusion as the pair seemed to sort of panic for a moment (there may or may not have been a kicked shin under the table and a cleared throat before Remus took the mantle and spoke up).
"So . . . Harry," Remus' tone was too stiff to be as casual as he seemed to be trying to make it, and there was an anxious restlessness to his fingers as the knotted together or drummed against the table, "Sirius and I have noticed you've been out a lot more than usual—which is to be expected of someone your age! We're not saying that it's a bad thing!" He quickly backtracked, Harry remained quiet as the older man floundered.
"No offense, kid, but you hardly left the house during break before, and now it's like you're hardly here." Sirius input bluntly, followed by a choked yelp as the sound of a shoe against a shin once more resounded from under the table. Remus quickly tried to salvage the conversation.
"We don't mean to pry, we know you're nearing adulthood in two years, we were just curious about what has kept you so busy lately." Remus sent the boy a smile that looked a little more like a grimace. Sirius huffed a breath beside him and spoke under his breath, but the others still heard what he said.
"I was already disowned by my family and kicked out by the time I was fifteen. Merlin knows all of the other shite I got up to at that age." He shook his head as if remembering and was quick to retract his hands from the table when Remus' grip on his fork tightened in warning, not wanting to find himself with four new puncture wounds through his hand.
"Anyways, we know you said you're usually with Anthony or Draco, but you never seemed to spend so much time with them before during your summer break. Have you . . . met someone new? A girl, perhaps? O-or a boy? You know we wouldn't mind something like that." All at once, it hit Harry right over the head what they were implying—Remus' awkward, stilted and vague attempts at wringing an answer out of him, Sirius' sly smirk and almost-proud gleam in his eyes. Involuntarily, Harry felt his entire face flush an unnatural bright red that bloomed in his cheeks, spread down his neck and chest, and set the tips of his ears aflame.
"You think I'm—t-that I'm dating someone?!" He sputtered, voice becoming shrill with pure incredulity. He gaped at them.
"Well, yes, Harry. You're gone before I can even make breakfast most mornings, and don't return until right before or even after dinner. Also, when you do return home, you're almost glowing. Honestly, I've never seen you this way. I've seen you interact with other people—I've seen you interact with your friends—and I know you care about your friends, but you've always been someone who eventually needs a break from people. I've never seen you seek out one person's company so willingly and so often as well. Harry, believe it or not but Sirius and I were teenagers once too, we know what we're seeing, we know the signs quite well." Remus spoke gently, as if trying not to spook the clearly shaken teen. Harry's mind was full of cotton and sticky wet glue as he tried to force thoughts through.
"Yeah kiddo, you aren't fooling us. We may have been out of the game for a little while, but we can recognize moon-eyes when we see 'em." Sirius grinned.
"You don't have to tell us anything yet if you're not comfortable!" Remus rushed to say, trying to be understanding. "We just want you to know that when you're ready, we will be here to listen and would love to meet the lovely person to have made our son so happy." Remus seemed to realize after he spoke that he had openly referred to Harry as their 'son' but after a moment to reflect, the wolf smiled and didn't take it back.
Harry blinked, mouth slightly open as his brain slowly came back online. They thought he was dating. They thought he was in a secret relationship with someone. They figured that all of his time outside of the house was used to see someone in secret that he hadn't wanted to tell them about yet. But . . . actually that was exactly what he was doing, wasn't it? Not the dating-bit, but he had been going out to see Tom and had kept it from them because he was worried about what they would think. So, that part was technically true.
Though, what was all that about him being 'happier' and 'glowing' and 'moon-eyes' for Merlin's sake!? Yes, he had been sneaking around about who he had been seeing, but was he really behaving differently when he returned home? Because of Tom? Tom was his friend—that he knew for certain—but the possibility of his feelings surrounding Tom being anything other than friendly had never even crossed his mind.
Harry had known very early that his friendship with Tom wasn't the same as it was with Anthony or Draco. Harry had just assumed that it was different because it was Tom. Everything about Tom was different, so it was impossible to compare his relationship with him to any of his other friends. Harry hadn't even thought. . .
His mind swam with memories, moments over the past few weeks. Endless conversations, a fleeting touch, unbroken eye contact, a comfort to the other's presence. There was so much laughter and aching cheeks and private thoughts shared without hesitance and always, always a reluctance to part.
Harry hadn't seen it, because his friendship with Tom was still so new and, well, Harry had never really been engaged in a romantic relationship before for reference. Looking at it objectively with what he knew already, it was pretty obvious now that Harry was interested in Tom. The attraction was certainly there—that could not be denied—but he knew it already went far beyond that. If it was simply a physical attraction to the other, he would have probably ignored it in favor of their growing friendship.
Harry had attractive friends, but he had only ever held feelings of platonic affection towards them. The same could not be said for Tom. As Harry sat there, silently analyzing his past feelings and thoughts, he concluded that the affection he held towards Tom was warm like a friend, but it also was partly made up of a richer, stronger bond that he associated with what he might feel towards a potential lover—had he a frame of reference to lean on.
It was early, and Harry had only really started to think about his own feelings minutes ago. However, thinking it over, Harry knew that what he was feeling wasn't one-sided. He had grown to know Tom quite well over these few weeks and he knew that Tom was also just as attracted to and taken by him. And because Harry knew Tom so well, he also knew that the other was completely blind to what was happening between them.
Harry mentally sighed in fond exasperation. He was in no rush, though. He and Tom technically had all of eternity to sort things out—not that he would be waiting that long—and he would give the other time to come to his own conclusions. In the meantime, it would probably be entertaining to observe the other's actions in this new light and watch Tom get confused time and time again by his own doing. Besides, Harry would be leaving for Hogwarts in a few short days and things were certainly too new to try to begin something significant. For now, he would just play it by ear and enjoy watching the other remain oblivious.
Realizing he had remained silent for too long as Remus cleared his throat quietly to gain his attention without scaring him while he was distracted, Harry spoke up.
"I am not dating someone you gossiping biddies!" Harry admonished light-heartedly with a roll of his eyes. "Though, I will admit to having met someone and have gained a new friend recently. Someday I do hope to introduce you, but our friendship is still quite new and he is a bit . . . shy." Sirius looked mildly put-out that Harry hadn't confessed to having a secret relationship with someone—as that was probably what most adults expected of normal, eager teenagers the moment they discovered the concept of sexuality.
Harry was pretty sure that his parents would rather him be rebellious and driven by sex and too many hormonal chemicals in his blood than his continued un-teenager-like-behavior. Because the chaos of being a teenager was normal, and familiar to them and something they could navigate. Harry's lack of interest in such behaviors worried the adults—he knew that—and he knew it made him an oddity and indicated that he was not a normal teenager. Adolescents might be difficult to control, but like the first few wails of a newborn to prove its lungs were working, teenagers needed to go through the tough and emotion-wrought bits to prove that everything was functioning normally.
So, no. He hadn't started dating, but he was sneaking out, connecting with someone else, letting loose, and was starting to develop a romantic interest in someone. Instead of saying he was emotionally inept, or that his childhood and circumstance had ruined him, one could say that Harry was just a late bloomer. Things were coming slowly, but surely. And if he didn't really escape the 'oddity' part because of the subject of his interest being the former Dark Lord, well . . . details.
And, if anything ever came of his and Tom's feelings, then he would introduce his parents to Tom—because he simply couldn't deprive his parents of the awkward-near-painful experience of meeting their son's lover—but as always, Tom was different and the circumstances would require a delicate hand and time. Both of which, Harry felt he had in excess.
Unlike Sirius, Remus hid any disappointment he might have held very well behind his signature understanding smile. When Harry excused himself and went up to his room, he collapsed onto his bed, over the covers with a deep sigh. It had been a long and eventful day. And yet, Harry still found himself smiling as he rolled over and pressed his face into his pillow. Phantom caresses of heat over his palm and a heavy warmth bleeding behind his breastbone, Harry bit down on his plush lips, his thoughts miles and miles away, staring up at a darkened ceiling in a bigger bed, in a more cavernous room, between sheets that felt a little too warm and a little too empty.
