Chapter 9

Breaking the Mould

December, 1944

As the World War came that much closer to an end, and the sounds of bombs exploding around them had been silenced, the quaint town of Richmond slowly began to recuperate. An overview of the town showed nothing but obscurity. Where once fairy lights twinkled in the darkness, the fine peoples of the area dared not bring any attention to the constant aircraft flying overhead.

One such house made a vacant exception.

The large oriel window of the pretty, grey-bricked house was continuously lit up at the end of a crowded residential street; a myriad of colours radiated from it throughout the day and it had nothing to do with it being Christmas.

Thunk!

"Damnit, Tom!" Harry could barely contain the heat in his voice as she shook the pain out of his left arm. The tail end of a Stinging Hex had gone right through his shield and bit the ever-loving hell out of his wrist. Tom was standing across the room with the snootiest look on his face that Harry was drooling to wipe off. "Show some restraint, please. I didn't say this type of shield would hold off every single bit of magic you throw at me. The matrix of it does weaken, you know… bastard."

"And that's exactly why I'm trying to show you that a tangible shield is superior. You can clearly see mine weakening; no bothersome guesswork needed. It's obvious that putting up a force field of magic to protect you is not near as powerful as conjuring up a solid piece of metal." Tom drew his wand up to the ready once more. His eyes flashed with challenge. "Reapply it the instant you think its coming and not a second before. Got it? I want it at full strength this time."

Harry nodded. "A big, old shield isn't going to protect you from a spell with any sort of area of effect in its radius. Why not just carry it around and put up a force field when you need it?"

Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head. "No, no, it's far too heavy and makes a lot of noise. Anyway, stop trying to delay the inevitable. You're wondrous theory was flawed, and now you have to pay for that mistake!"

A jet of red light filled Harry's eyes. Clenching them tightly shut, he cried out, "–Protego!—" before it was too late.

The spell bounced away and hit the wall by the front door the very instant Merope decided to walk into the house.

"Boys!" she cried, dropping all of the parcels in her hands to the floor and ducking low to avoid the curse. A picture frame above her head exploded, showering her with glass. "Take this dangerous sporting outside or I'll pull your belts off and redden your arses with them!"

Tom smirked wickedly. She deserved whatever she got. Harry ran to her, cringing. He swiped at her clothes, and then waved his wand over her to remove any remaining glass fragments. "I'm so sorry, mummy. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Harry, and the baby's fine," she assured him, patting her belly.

"Baby?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Oh, please..." Tom threw his hands up and rolled his eyes, completely awed. "Still completely off your rocker, I see. You're not pregnant, mother. Go lie down before you upset Harry, and I get violent."

Pulling Harry into her arms and hugging him so tightly he could hardly breathe, she turned her focus onto the older boy. "Harry isn't old enough to be performing magic outside of school. What would happen if someone came to call on us and saw this? You must stop encouraging him!"

Tom stuffed his wand in his pocket and sighed; long and hard. He had been dreading this visit from their mother all year. He knew if he allowed Harry to talk him into getting Merope released for a visit that she could predictably fuck everything up that he had worked so hard to achieve. "Maybe you should try making a little noise before walking in like that next time. Harry and I can cast spells anywhere we want to; this is my house after all."

"Tom, you're such a high-hat. How did you get that way?" she asked him. She and Harry bent down to pick up the wrapped gifts strewn about, but her gaze remained on Tom. "I didn't raise you to treat others so poorly."

"Certainly not," he chided, dropping in a big, overstuffed chair beside the spiral staircase. "If it were up to you, we'd both be throwing ourselves at your feet and worshiping you like you're something other than you are – instead of just Harry here."

Harry glowered at him as he set the gifts down in front of the Christmas tree. "Shut up, git," he whispered to him. "Don't start with her today, I'm warning you."

Tom planted a shoe on Harry's bum as he leaned in to place one of the parcels near the centre of the tree, giving him a shove and knocking him off-balance. Harry tumbled into the decorated monstrosity, head first, sending baubles flying and getting tinsel caught in his hair. He righted himself and readjusted his spectacles, glittering and fuming. "Real classy, Tom," he growled, picking the stuff off of his shoulders.

Merope stood there proudly in her pretty coral suit and leather strap shoes, looking healthier than Tom could ever remember seeing her. Soft, dark curls framed her face and hung down past her shoulders. Her fingernails were painted bright pink, matching the ostrich-feather handbag she was clutching against her chest. She had obtained a pair of eyeglasses recently, with lenses so thick you could hardly notice the strange angles her irises were set. She looked like a mother, to him, a real mother. It was a crying shame that she had allowed Morfin to torment him and Harry all of their lives and not did one fucking thing to stop it. She could have made life so special for them; it could have been magical…

"What time are your friends arriving? I really should lie down for a spell; the baby has been kicking me all day." Merope set her handbag down on the arm of the couch perched in front of the enormous front window and scampered off toward the hallway.

"How did you know about that?" Tom cried, rising quickly from his chair.

Harry whipped around from gaping at her to look back at Tom. "Who's coming over?"

The old cat had a way of figuring things out that she ought not to know. If Tom wanted Harry to be made aware ahead of time that he had invited a few fellow Slytherins over for drinks and cards, he would have told him. Now he would have to face the inquisition.

"Oh, you know… Just a few boys from school and some that have since left, er… I think Nott, Avery, Lestrange, Dolohov, Yaxley, Black, Rookwood, Mulcibur, Bagman, and maybe Rosier. They might bring along a few others. Couple of birds might show. They're umm… well; I thought it might be a nice gesture if we had them over to our place for a sort of… gathering. You know, show them around, and get to know them a little better and all that." Tom's cheeks flushed pink and he found it difficult keeping eye contact with Harry as he spoke. He knew Harry would be opposed to this meeting, but that wasn't going to stop him from inviting them.

"That's quite a list," Harry said bitterly. "Funny how you forgot to mention anything about this to me, isn't it?" He worked over the names in his head, with each of them curling his lip more toward a sneer. Armon Dolohov… That pig was going to be there, in his home. The mere thought of it made him want to hex Tom's eyes out. "When are they getting here?" he asked, glancing at the large deco clock behind his brother's head.

The two of them had been on pins and needles with each other since Merope's arrival, and no relinquish looked to be in sight. Their brief moments of exuberant happiness always crashed and burned with the mere mention of their mother's name. Tom was finding it difficult having her around when all was going so well between him and Harry before. They had a lovely little home now, a cosy place with indoor plumbing and lighting and all those goodies that they thought only existed in Hogwarts. He did not like thinking about the House of Gaunt, and the stigma of a being that little rogue that he once was. All of that was gone, over, done away with…

Tom was now in a place where he felt real; he was a powerful, skilled wizard, he was Head Boy, and he was at the top of his class… Why did she have to return and make things worse?

"Look, I was hoping you wouldn't show your age over this matter, you little toddler, but I suppose you're just a little too weak to handle it. So, instead of trying to be a man about this, you can just sit in your room all night and knit some nappies with mummy."

Harry shook his head slowly, smirking. "You wish."

Tom set his jaw. "You should try and get on with some of these blokes because I'm working with them on something big. They are going to be around a lot more than you'd like. It'd be a nice gesture. Well, to me, at least."

Harry stood there for a spell, staring at him. A look of genuine inspiration creased his forehead. "So, then I can invite Hagrid over, too – right?"

"No," Tom snapped. "Are you daft?"

Harry shrugged and walked away. "I don't think I am." He gripped the railing of the staircase, curling his fingers around the polished brass until his knuckles turned white. "But you do."

Tom looked away. "That's ridiculous. When is this going to end, hmm? I'm only trying to protect you from the delusions you seem to have of this world, Harry; he's not our sort."

Harry leaned over the railing, giving off a short, hysterical laugh before continuing up the steps. "So, I'm delusional now," he said loudly, and slammed the door to his bedroom.

Turning to the fireplace at the opposite side of the room, Tom pointed his wand at the neat pile of logs resting on the hearth and levitated them onto the andirons before setting them ablaze. "It's bloody cold in here," he murmured to himself, feeling the warmth in the elegant reception room siphon away with a cool breeze steadily rising in the air.

The commotion on the ground floor mingled with loud music resonating through the walls. Harry sat beside his mother while she knitted booties, clicking the soles of his wing-tip shoes on the iron footboard of her bed. He felt completely out of place, sitting there in a chocolate-brown wool suit that his brother had insisted he wear. His shaggy hair had been neatly combed with thick grease to keep a semblance of the whole 'we're better than you are' thing going for Tom's benefit. He looked like Tom, a little miniature Tom waiting for his call to make an appearance. He was itchy and bored, but could not find it in his heart to leave his mother sitting alone.

Merope was not allowed downstairs. She was being punished for being… well, simply for being Merope. Her smile showed no hurt, though. She hugged Harry around the shoulders, leaving a half knitted bib in her lap, astonished that any sort of gooey substance could tame his hair. "You've always had the most unmanageable and beautiful locks. They're like mine, see? We've got such stubborn curls."

Harry knew her curls were something she had recently acquired from a witch's salon on Diagon Alley, but he wasn't going to say anything to spoil her uppity mood. She had come to adore the great, purple Knight Bus and its easy travel. Tom had not wanted anyone to see Merope leaving or entering their home, though, and this has pissed Harry off like nothing other. Tom treated their mother like a piece of property. He was wrong and stupid, and would be very sorry that he had missed out on the joy of spending time with such a woman once he grew out of this adolescent grudge he seemed to hold.

"All dressed up and nowhere to go," Harry chimed, grinning with embarrassment. He would have sat there all night with her and her growing pile of knitted baby clothes. He loved his mother that much.

"Go downstairs, Harry," Merope urged. "I'm betting there are a few lovely ladies down there that have their eye on you."

Harry shook his head. "Showing me attention is just a way to get to Tom, mum. All the girls fancy him something terrible. Besides, it got kind of hushed down there, didn't it?" The voices once filling the house had stilled, giving Harry the impression that everyone had gone home. "I'd rather stay up here with you."

"You're a very handsome boy. You've got more class in your little finger than Tom has running through his whole body," Merope whispered, patting his hand. "Now, go downstairs and show yourself off. You're wasting this lovely suit on me. I insist – go!"

It was Christmas Eve and Harry was in his mother's arms. "Mummy?"

"What is it, darling?" she asked him, dropping her chin on his shoulder.

Harry tipped his head back and gazed at her out of the corner of his eye. "You know there's no other girl like you, right?"

She chuckled softly, tickling Harry's ear. "Oh, yes, I know."

The overhead chandelier in the reception room had been dimmed. Harry squinted as he descended the steps of the spiral staircase, fearing that he might be walking into some sort of situation he would not want to see. There were couples strewn around all over the furniture. In the pit of his stomach, Harry knew that if he looked hard enough, he'd see that thing he dreaded so.

Sure enough, across the room, lying over some drunken bint with her legs spread and ankles draped over his calves, Tom was in mid-snogging session. The girl's arms were around his neck, hung limp despite her clasped fingers. Her skirt was up to her hips. Harry felt a sensation of something powerful soar through his veins, right to the tips of his fingers. The heat of his skin burned under his woollen clothes.

The music playing was a slow, sappy ballad, egging on the stimulating movement of each couple's actions. Harry hardly heard the stumbling, pissed-drunk footsteps of someone sneaking up on him. He was far too gone in his jealous mind to hear it or care.

"Oh my stars, it's the littler Gaunt making his grand entrance!"

Harry's eyes rolled back into his head for a second, hearing that raspy drone of the person he hated most in the world. He turned around, sneering. "Get fucked, Armon." He had half a mind to march right back upstairs and pack his and his mother's belongings and leave this house forever. His fists were balled up tight, ready to hit anything that touched him.

"Get over yourself, Harry," Dolohov said in a slow drawl. "I came to offer a truce."

Harry turned back to the stairs and made it up three of them before being dragged back down by two large hands. "Nah, nah, don't run off now. C'mon, have a drink with me and let's bury the hatchet."

Holding a reluctant Harry by the wrist, Dolohov pulled him along through the dark room until his fingers clamped around the neck of a bottle of fire whiskey. "This'll do," he whispered, and he and Harry stepped over Walburga and Cygnus lying tangled on the floor.

"I don't think I'm allowed to drink that," Harry mumbled, feeling a bit sheepish about sharing a bottle with the bastard. He turned back, looking for the couch again in the darkness. "Who's that with Tom?"

"Where's your room?"

"It's upstairs," Harry said absently.

"Let's go up."

"I just got down here. Is everyone with someone?" Harry wanted nothing more than to show up his brother and snog some other girl's face off right in front of him. Tom had no idea how much it hurt to see him doing this, up close and personal, in the home they shared. Harry knew he was doing it was for the greater good, as Tom would say, to get as many witches and wizards to help him out with his research on any ancient spells he could find; many of these purebloods had vast libraries in their manor homes and at their disposal. And many of these libraries contained shelves of books of dark magic banned from all use. Still…

"Look, I'm sorry about that joke I played on your giant friend. He's all right, isn't he?" Armon asked Harry, shaking him from his thoughts. He gave him a tug closer to the staircase. "Upstairs, you said?"

Harry pointed up to the other spiral staircase above the one they ascended. "Yeah, up there, second floor."

Merope's bedroom door was shut. Tom's bedroom door was open, and there were two people humping on his bed. Harry cringed as he passed. Working his way up to the second floor, he jerked his head to the door on the right. Grasping the knob, he looked over his shoulder, trying to figure the other boy out. Harry had his wand on him, and that's all that mattered. If the sneak tried anything fishy, he'd be very, very sorry. "Come on, then," he whispered.

Dolohov snickered. "This it?" He stared listlessly around the room for a moment, before centring on the bed. There were Quidditch pendants of all different colours clinging to the walls. It was small and modestly decorated in rusts and browns, looking very much like a teenaged boy's room to him. He moved toward the bed sluggishly, and dropped down on his back before taking a healthy swig from the bottle. "Here," he said, holding it out to Harry. "Sit, drink."

"Yeah, give it," Harry blurted, and grabbed the bottle. He gulped down a large amount of whiskey, enough to make him cough while his eyes watered up behind his glasses. He pulled them off and set them on the night table.

Armon laughed. "Good stuff, eh?"

Harry wiped the tears away and nodded. It wasn't as bad as he thought it could be, and its effects were immediate. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching Dolohov, giggling. "You're really sorry for hexing Hagrid, then?"

"Of course I'm not," he replied smugly. "I just wanted to get you up here."

"And why did you want to get me up here?" Harry asked him through his returning sneer. His hand was on his wand, ready for anything… or so he thought.

Dolohov began picking at a scab on his arm. Harry watched him, never seeing him look so vulnerable before. He was mildly attractive in the face, with long, gangly legs and a compact, stocky torso. He had strawberry-blond hair and deep blue eyes, and an amount of freckles on his nose that made him look a lot less dangerous than he was. And at that moment, he looked as though he might burst into tears if he were forced to reveal this terrible secret he was holding inside.

Swallowing more fire whiskey than he should, Harry waited patiently for this awkward moment to pass.

Armon refused to look up at him, but finally spoke. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Isn't what obvious?" Harry asked him.

"Like I… little bit… you know… fancy you."

Harry didn't act openly surprised, but he was. Dolohov was a queer, too. "That so?"

"Yeah, I s'pose. Don't know why I'm telling you, though," Armon replied.

"That why you pick on me?"

And then it hit him like a brick to the face; Harry smiled with cheek and inebriation as his mind wrapped around and burned the image of Tom on top of another girl. He knew what he had to do. If it worked for Tom, it would work for him.

Harry clutched the bottle between his thighs to loosen his tie. "Maybe you're telling me because you wanna kiss me?" he asked him softly, moving his eyes slowly upward, until they reached Dolohov's. God, what a chump. It couldn't be this easy…

He looked like a glimmer of hope had sparked behind Armon's deep blues. "Maybe."

"Then kiss me," Harry said bluntly. Armon pounced.

He was in Dolohov's arms, dropped back on the mattress before he could even think. The bottle hit the floor with a splash of liquid spewing out, and rolled away.

Their lips were crushed together, teeth clacked loudly, and heavy groaning purred from their throats. "Look, Harry," Dolohov said harshly, finding little breath. "You can't tell anyone…" He kissed him harder, letting himself go. Harry was so unbelievably willing to give him this shot. "Gods, you're so pretty. Gods, Harry… you can't tell anyone about this."

Pulling his legs up and rolling his hips once or twice for a bit of friction, Harry found himself actually enjoying this sort of learned manipulation. Maybe Tom had it right after all. "I'm not that thick," he hissed through his teeth, while twining his fingers through the short, wiry hair to bring Dolohov's lips back to his own. Newly grown stubble scraped at his skin.

The older boy's hands ran under his jacket, up and down his sides. His thumbs traced over every protruding rib until they reached the hardened peaks of his nipples. "I said kiss," Harry snapped, and moved his hands away.

The music from the ground floor had picked up in pace. Voices on the lower levels bounded through the room.

Dolohov was over Harry, straddling his hips and fondling every part of his upper body without care. The buttons of his jacket were ripped away from the threads. Harry could feel the hard press of an erection jutting against him. It was going too far, and needed to end before Tom walked up the steps and opened his door. He didn't fancy this boy at all; he hated him with every part of his being, but Hagrid's life in Hogwarts was about to get a lot bloody easier. "Geroff," Harry said, giving the boy a simple push to his shoulder. "I'm done."

"That it?" Dolohov ran his fingers through his hair and kept his eyes cast downward.

"Yeah," Harry replied. "You should go."

"I didn't mean to get…" Armon stood up, blushing. "Did I go too… Was this a mistake?"

"That depends on you," Harry stated matter-of-factly.

"You can't tell anyone, all—"

"You've said that already!" Harry growled at him. He had him, had him good and hard by the balls. The poor lad was trembling in his wake. Harry messed with his tie a bit more, adjusting it back into proper position. He wouldn't let the other boy see the smile threatening to surface on his lips. "If you don't want anyone to know, I suggest you leave Hagrid alone from now on."

Dolohov gave him a nod. "You swear you won't tell anyone? My father would… He's very opposed to this sort of thing."

Harry looked up from his clothes, sighing. There were three buttons missing off of his jacket. "Yeah, I can keep your little secret, but you got to lay off Hagrid. Alright?"

"Yeah," he replied.

After pushing himself as far as he could on the kindness scale, Tom yawned through his good-byes to the others as they filed toward the front door. The hour was late, and his disappointment over Harry's decision to remain hidden clawed at his psyche. He swiped at the lipstick marks on his lips, tasting the resin of beeswax on the tip of his tongue. Lucretia's blossomed scent lingered on his clothing. She was a slattern, yes; but she was a rich-as-all-get-out slattern. The goal had been accomplished, to an extent. His lovely little Death Eaters were more than completely smitten with him now.

"G'night, Tom."

Tom turned around. Dolohov had appeared from nowhere to sneak past with his mumbling words and no excuses. "Where did you come from?" he asked him, eyeing his rumpled suit.

"Oh, was using the loo," was all he said in return. He slapped the taller boy on the arm before jamming his hand into his pockets. "Big day tomorrow, yeah? Well, Happy Christmas."

It was a lie, of course. Tom had a very keen ability for detecting even the slightest inflexion or stammer in any word spoken by only looking into ones eyes. He smiled mockingly as the other boy slipped out into the night, and closed and locked the door behind him. He would deal with him later. It was not wise to punish someone without knowing why he had openly lied to his face.

Harry was sitting on the steps, his bare legs dangling over the side through the railing spindles. "Everyone's gone home?"

"Yeah," Tom said. "Hey, was Dolohov bothering you?" A feeling of woe settled in his stomach, watching Harry fidget around to avoid his gaze.

Harry pulled his legs in to hug them. "I wouldn't call it bothering. I got what I wanted." He felt Tom close in on him, take his hand, and help him stand. He tugged on the hem of his undershirt as he followed his brother up the stairs. He was a little worried he might take it the wrong way. "I don't mean 'got', I mean, well… he won't be hexing Hagrid in the halls anymore. I got something on him to make him stop all that nonsense."

Walking into Tom's room, Harry closed the door and put his back to it. Tom was huffing and hawing about the state of his bedding. "He was in my room," Harry admitted.

Tom remained fixed on his bedding. "I'll have to wash these."

"…on my bed. He kissed me."

"Why would you tell me that, Harry?" Tom asked him coldly, still fiddling around with the sheets.

A jolt of pain hit Harry, nearly cracking his head in two. He pressed his hand to his scar, biting back a yelp. "Stop it," he warned him. The pain immediately ceased. He looked up at Tom with a scowl. "Why do you do that? It's cruel."

Tom was flushed with anger. "Why did you let him kiss you?"

"Why not? I saw you… I saw you snogging Lucretia downstairs. Armon promised not to hex Hagrid anymore if I kept this secret. It's nothing you wouldn't do, so you've got no right to ask me anything."

Tom's eyes snapped open. Harry was standing there in front of him, wearing nothing more than his skivvies, trying to explain to him that he had just taken his first steps to becoming something he wasn't. He was changing, slowly turning into Tom. "Are you telling me that you let Armon kiss you, so, in turn, you effectively blackmailed him with it so he'll lay off Hagrid?"

Harry nodded. "Exactly."

"No more," he said quickly.

"Oh?"

"Don't do that."

Harry smirked. "Says who – you? It's what you do."

Tom seethed inside. Arrogant idiot! "I kissed her for maybe a minute. I've already told you why." He moved closer to Harry, waiting on some kind of cocky retort. His hands were clawed against his thighs. He moved them to the buckle of his belt, unlatching it. "What you did was nothing short of sinister. You're not that way."

Seeing him undressing, throwing clothes on the floor as he inched closer gave Harry a crippling shiver. Tom was obsessively neat about everything. This worried him a bit. "What are you doing?" he asked, reaching for the door knob behind him.

"Get your hand off that," Tom growled, slapping Harry's hand away. He pressed himself into Harry, hard, pinning him to the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

Far too angry to take pleasure in the feel of Tom's body crushed against him, Harry made a little annoyed sound in his throat while he turned his head to the side. "Bugger off,"

Slipping a knuckle under Harry's chin, Tom tilted his face up toward him. Harry's eyes were everywhere except on him. "Look at me," he whispered firmly, giving his chin a rough nudge upward. "I said fucking look at me, Harry, now."

Harry's bright green irises centred and narrowed. His lips were pursed tight. "What?" he stung back, clenching up every muscle in his body.

Tom slid one hand behind the nape of Harry's neck, the other on the small of his back. He gripped a slick handful of hair, forcing the boy's head back, and dipped his tongue between his parted lips. Harry seized up, breathless, helpless.

A telling, exasperated groan vibrated against Tom's mouth, and Harry's proffered hands were thrust back against the door. "You're mine," Tom hissed venomously. "No one touches you." He ran his tongue up the length of Harry's throat, pulled his glasses off and tossed them behind him. They clattered along the floor. He kissed the line of his jaw. "No one touches you but me."

Unshed tears glistened in Harry's eyes. "And how do you think I feel?" He was stiff against the door, gnashing his teeth. Little whimpering sounds were lodged in his throat. He craned his neck, letting the tears slip down his cheeks. "I saw your hand in her knickers. It hurt so badly."

"Gods, I'm sorry," Tom said softly, and he meant it. He pulled Harry away from the door, pivoting them around and dropped them both onto the bed. Harry rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands briskly. He heaved a deep, relieved breath and threw his arms around Tom's neck. They tore at each other's undershirts, pulling them off over their heads.

Tom canted his hips into Harry's with a silky moan. "I never thought of it that way. Love you," he rasped, losing his breath. He wriggled a hand between them. "I'll never do it again."

Harry mewled in restless response, feeling Tom's fingers rubbing over the cotton material of his drawers, tormenting his inexorable arousal. "I'm holding you to that."

Tom's heavy breathing cascaded across Harry's cheek. "Take these off, baby. Let me touch you all over."

"All right," Harry said blindly. He slipped them over his hips, and felt the cold realisation of his actions. He had never taken his pants off before while intimate with Tom. Too late to stop, he kicked them away and fell back into the bedding, letting Tom recapture his lips. The soft pads of fingers pulled lovingly along the length of his cock, while a tongue and teeth toyed with his bottom lip. There were no words Harry could properly form to describe how divine everything felt, and how strangely comfortable he was under Tom's ministrations. He did not want this to stop.

"Does that feel good? You're so quiet."

"Mhmm," Harry hummed frantically. His eyes were screwed shut, and his arms tightened around Tom's shoulders. He rolled his hips in rhythm with each stroke, faster and harder. Suddenly, he buried his face in Tom's neck, arching his back as he came all over his hand. He wanted to stay that way forever. His wheezing exhales tickled Tom's ear. It was perfect. It was perfectly perfect, and he could think of nothing else that giving back the pleasure he was just given.

Slowly, uncertainly, Harry's hand moved along Tom's side. "You going to take yours off?" he whispered shakily, still buried in his warm neck. It was scary and exciting to think of what they had done, the barrier they had crossed after months of finding their niche on how to please the other.

"Yeah, if you want me to," Tom whispered back, wishing he had silenced the room. He never imagined in a million years that his mother would have wanted to bunk directly across from his room, and not Harry's. Anticipation crept hurriedly into his every nerve, in wait for his answer. Gods, yes, he wanted Harry to touch him.

Harry nodded in the crook of his neck, and placed a kiss on his collarbone. "Yeah, I do."

Shivering with delight, Tom shimmied out of his pants as quickly as possible. On this cold night, they pressed their bodies together while Tom enticed the smaller boy to come out from hiding by kissing his forehead as many times as it took. Eventually, Harry tipped his head back as his slender fingers wrapped gingerly around Tom's cock.

There were countless times Tom could recall in the back of his mind where he was in this position. With expert hands that knew all the right spots to tug and scrape and stroke, but nothing matched the feel of Harry's awkward motions. He wanted so badly to make it right, to truly please him in any way he could.

Feeling Harry's almost translucent skin warm against him, inhaling the scent of his tamed hair, and tasting the residue of come on the tips of his fingers, sent Tom into euphoric bliss. Harry's sweet hand slipped and stroked him fully hard; his other arm still wrapped tightly around his neck. Their legs entwined to create a better pace anchoring them to each other.

"Do you like it?" Harry asked him so innocently, staring at him with owlish fascination.

"Christ, don't stop, don't stop," Tom panted. He reached down, clamping his hand over Harry's. He took him by the hair, entranced with his eyes. "You're fucking beautiful, baby… fucking perfect." Never had anything as exquisite graced him. And this was his.

Bringing tears to Harry's brilliant eyes had cut out his heart. He would never fuck that up again.

A cry tore through Tom's lips as his body convulsed and shook. He came hard, spilling his seed between them. Harry immediately cupped a hand over his mouth, shushing him. They both looked to the door, huffing and panting for breath, praying they had not woken Merope. Tom fell back, honestly caring less anymore. He pulled Harry closer, hugging him into his side. Sleep was inevitable. "Do you forgive me, Harry?"

"Course," Harry whispered.

"I'm gonna fucking murder Dolohov, you know."

Harry shook his head, swaying it over Tom's bare chest. "No more murder, alright?"

Tom scoffed. "I'm going to hurt him at the very least. He's going to suffer."

He wanted to care, but he honestly didn't. Harry closed his eyes, exhausted beyond all reasoning. "Just as long as you don't get into any trouble, Tom. Good night."

"Right, promise," Tom replied, stifling a grin. "Night, Harry."