Chapter 32. It's Called Teasing, Tom

Harry tried to look shocked as he entered, but the Slytherin common room on Christmas day in 1941 looked no different at first glance from the Slytherin common room on Christmas day in 1992; fairly empty with an overwhelming initial impression of green. The two situations though, couldn't be more different, and he found himself comparing them as Tom's hand came to rest on the small of his back and gently pressed him forward. This time, Harry thought, there was no looming threat of Slytherin's monster lurking in the castle, no pressing need to deal in deception and subtlety and lies. This time, there was no reason to search for the elusive heir of Slytherin. He was right behind him.

The thought amused Harry as Tom guided him to a small couch—the loveseat, really, set back away from the fire where two older students were sitting—and he wondered how he ever could've thought Malfoy could be the heir of Slytherin. That pointy-faced bastard wished he had an ounce of Tom's conniving mind. Draco fucking Malfoy...

"What's that face for?" Tom asked, and Harry realized he was scowling.

"All this green," Harry lied, waving his arm out, "cannot be good for a person."

Tom shot him a look that said I've seen the Gryffindor Tower, Harry before he pointed at the couch. "Wait here," he instructed. "I'll be right back with your gift." He leaned forward then, smirking as he reached out to adjust Harry's glasses. They were fine, really, only a little crooked, but Harry let him. "Try not to miss me too much, hm?"

"Every moment we're apart kills me inside," Harry deadpanned, and it was impossible to miss the way Tom's fingers twitched (in surprise?) before they finally pulled away. Their eyes met and heat rose in Harry's cheeks despite himself, ruining the joke entirely. Harry didn't look away though, even as Tom's expression grew undeniably smug. He wouldn't.

"Oh, Harry—"

"Oh Tom," Harry mocked as he raised a hand to push against Tom's chest, cutting him off quickly, "Shove off, hm?"

Tom tsked lightly, leaning back. "Touchy. I'll be quick then."

"You better," Harry retorted, and Tom just laughed as he strode off, leaving Harry standing by the couch. With nothing better to do, he shrugged off his bookbag and sat before reaching inside it to grab Tom's gift.

Pulling the carefully wrapped package out of his bag ignited the nerves Harry had been willfully ignoring; he had to resist the urge to pick at the tape on the fancy wrapping paper. He'd been so sure Tom would like it, but what if he was wrong? This was their first time properly exchanging gifts. That was supposed to be—what had Augusta called it? Ah yes—"an important relationship milestone."

Thankfully, Harry wasn't kept stewing in anxiety for long as Tom reappeared quickly, holding a gift of his own. Tom had chosen red and gold paper for his present to Harry and looked a bit nervous himself to Harry's slight surprise. No, he thought, eying him closer. Not nervous. Anticipatory. Tom's smile was contagious as he approached.

"Here," Tom said unnecessarily as he crossed the room. "Got it."

Harry smiled and shifted over on the small couch to make room. "A bit on the nose there," he commented, nodding at the red and gold wrapping paper.

"You're one to talk," Tom shot back, amused.

Harry looked down at the gift he'd wrapped. Green and silver. "We're horrible," he admitted.

Tom settled beside him. "House clichés," he agreed.

"My favorite color is red though," Harry said as he leaned into Tom. "So... Could be worse."

Tom's eyes met his, fond. "And mine is green."

"We're so predictable."

"And impatient," Tom added. "Hand it over."

They swapped gifts in a rustle of movement, careful as always not to touch Harry's skin. Excitement was beginning to bubble in Harry's stomach now. "Go on then," Harry said, watching Tom eagerly.

"No, you first dear, I want to see your face," he replied.

"And I don't?" Harry countered. "I thought you were impatient."

At this, Tom made a show of sighing in dissent but ultimately caved, picking up the box to feel its weight. "It's heavier than I thought," he commented lightly, maintaining eye contact with Harry as he held it up beside his ear. "Oh, how I wonder what it could be..." he crooned.

Harry shoved at his arm. "You're the worst," he complained, grinning despite himself. "Get on with it, will you?"

"As you wish."

Tom did not tear into the wrapping as Harry would have; instead, he deftly peeled back each piece of tape, delicately undoing Harry's work before folding up the Slytherin-colored paper and placing it beside him on the loveseat. The way he did that... It was so... Tom, Harry thought fondly as he watched. So particular and meticulous and, and—

Tom's sure fingers faltered as he finally opened the box and Harry realized he'd become transfixed by them. He looked up.

There was confusion in Tom's eyes as the teen hesitantly lifted a stack of heavy parchment out of the box. Beneath it, Harry knew, were several bottles of ink and adhesives, and below that leather, thread ribbon, and more.

It took effort not to burst into an explanation as Tom began to sift through it curiously. Tom would figure it out.

He did. Something within Harry's chest seemed to unravel as Tom let out a small ah, his face finally lighting up with understanding. "Is this a bookbinding kit?" he asked, meeting Harry's eyes eagerly. "From Quinn's Quills?"

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed. "Do you like it? I thought—I mean, you said you made our journals that day in the library last year, not bought—"

"It's perfect," Tom interrupted, smiling broadly. "Truly Harry. It's wonderful. I didn't think you'd caught that."

"Well, I did," Harry said, "Erm, obviously," he laughed. "Okay good. I hope I got you the right one by the way, I don't really know anything about bookbinding but it should have a bunch of different types of ink and, I dunno, glue and things."

"You chose well," Tom promised him, the reassuring words aided as he continued to examine the kit. He kept pausing as he took out items, seemingly unable to stop himself from explaining to Harry why one charmed adhesive was better than another waxed thread or why he preferred one type of needle before he finally set the entire kit aside. "I need to stop; I could talk about this for hours. I'll pour over this later. It's your turn now."

Before Harry could say anything, Tom pressed the red and gold package into his hands. "We don't have to stop talking about—"

"Yes we do," Tom interrupted. "Open it."

"So bossy," Harry chided, but the effect was ruined as he eagerly tore open the paper to reveal a soft, knit—"You didn't."

"I did," Tom replied.

"A scarf." Harry unrolled the offending item out to display it in its full glory. "A Slytherin scarf. Really, Tom?"

"I said I'd get you into one eventually," he smirked.

"You will not," Harry shot back.

"But I made it for you," Tom said. He pressed on as Harry faltered. "I had to knit it myself if I wanted to weave in the protective spells properly. It's..." Tom looked pained. "Not perfect by any means, but..." He shrugged as if to say, What can you do?

"You... knit this?"

"Yes." Harry eyed the scarf more carefully, noting small imperfections here and there. As Harry fingered at one absently, Tom sighed. "I know, it's not—"

"I don't care about that," Harry said honestly. "It's... Did you have to make it a Slytherin scarf, Tom?"

"Green suits you," Tom replied stubbornly.

Harry didn't believe him for a second; his eyes narrowed. "You just want everyone to think of you when I wear it."

A slow smile. "Almost."

No... That wasn't quite right, was it? "You... You want everyone to know I'm yours."

"Better."

How was he supposed to respond to that? A complicated knot of—of fucking emotions clotted in Harry's chest as the implications of the statement settled in. Embarrassment, flattery, shame, want, anger, dread.

His. Tom's.

Wanting that... That wasn't normal, was it? Tom wanting that. Harry wanting that.

"You'll wear it, won't you?" Harry looked up from the scarf, meeting Tom's brown eyes. "I would very much like it if you did."

"...You said it has protective spells?"

"Amongst others," Tom affirmed. "I could tell you more if you'd like."

"Please," Harry said, already knowing he didn't need to hear it as Tom began to wax lyrical about the Slytherin scarf's magical abilities.

He would wear the fucking scarf. Not because Tom wanted him to, but because he did.

Similar to last Christmas, only a handful of people had stayed over at Hogwarts, justifying a single table of students and professors for the Christmas feast rather than the customary five. This meant, of course, that Harry had the opportunity to see Professor Dumbledore's knowing face close up and personal as he showed up with Tom Riddle wearing a fucking Slytherin scarf.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," Harry hissed out of the side of his mouth at Tom as they approached. Dumbledore was waving them over congenially with one hand, the other over his mouth. Oh god, he was definitely smiling underneath there. His eyes were twinkling with so much mirth they were practically flashing or something.

Tom—the bastard—laughed. "Whatever for? You look lovely, dear."

"I hate you."

"Tom, my boy!" Any response was immediately cut off as Professor Slughorn, seated next to Dumbledore, caught sight of them and cried out in welcome. "And Mr. Evans too, of course. Come, come."

"Thank you, professor," Tom said before turning to Harry. "Here, Harry," he said purposefully. "Your cloak."

Harry's eyes narrowed slightly at Tom's outstretched hand—what was this now?—but he complied, shrugging his cloak off and handing it to Tom who did the same with his own cloak.

That left him in just his uniform and—

"What a lovely scarf, Harry," Dumbledore noted with those mirthful eyes.

"Thanks," Harry said as Tom draped their cloaks onto the bench. He began to unwind the offending—protective, something traitorous whispered—scarf from his neck. "It was a gift."

"From Tom I'm sure," Professor Slughorn added knowingly. "These two, Dumbledore, you should have seen them at my little soiree! They were practically inseparable."

If Harry wasn't feeling hot to the face earlier, he certainly was now. To hide it, he pushed the scarf at Tom. "Here."

Something like disappointment flickered behind Tom's eyes but he took the scarf nonetheless and draped it with their cloaks, and they finally sat. Mercifully, Tom was quick to take up the conversation, allowing Harry to fill his plate and observe the few others who had chosen to stay over the holidays. Including himself and Tom, there were only eight students. He counted the two older Slytherins he'd seen in the common room amongst them as well as an irritable-looking seventh-year Gryffindor, a pair of identical Hufflepuff twins, and a lone Ravenclaw who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else. The professors who opted to stay included Dumbledore and Slughorn as well as Professor Lyptus (Harry was doing his best not to catch her eye), Professor Merrythought, the runes professor, and the old caretaker. What was his name again? Harry thought. Og-something. Why did wizards have such weird names?

"So, Harry."

Harry looked up sharply, mouth full of potatoes. It was Professor Slughorn.

"Tom was saying the mapping project was your idea," the potions master said helpfully. "Where did you come up with such a delightfully helpful project?"

Harry swallowed rather painfully before choking out, "Erm—I got lost." He felt rather than saw Tom's eyes on him.

"Lost?" Professor Slughorn asked.

"When I first started," he added quickly. "You know, being a new student and all." The professor hummed with understanding, and Harry continued. "There's so many stairways and all. It's easy to get lost and—" He cut himself off before another damn "all" could escape. "Yeah, erm..."

"We felt," Tom continued, and Harry felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, "that Harry's unique perspective as an incoming fourth-year student shed light on a previously overlooked problem. How many times a year would you say you've seen first-year students late to your Potions classes, Professor? Or to your Transfiguration classes, sir?" he said to Professor Dumbledore who nodded in acknowledgment.

"You've got me there!" Slughorn boomed affably. "Why, I couldn't count it on both hands."

"Exactly," Tom cried, and Harry couldn't help finding his enthusiasm equal parts contagious and charming. "The number of times I got lost my first year," Tom said, shaking his head with feigned embarrassment and humility. "Shameful."

Harry blinked and couldn't help glancing over at him, dubious. What a liar. As if Tom would admit to that if it were true.

"Oh yeah," Harry found himself saying, "I can believe that. Your sense of direction is terrible."

Tom's eyes flicked to his, just slightly narrowed. "Yes, well," he said, smiling. "It's a good thing we'll be developing this map to help."

"A very good thing," Harry said, seriously. A muscle in Tom's jaw jumped even as he continued to smile.

"I agree," Professor Slughorn gushed obliviously. "It's so good to hear this level of enthusiasm over what's sure to be a very time-consuming project."

"Oh, that is not a concern," Tom reassured him. "Both Harry and I are willing to put in the time and effort to develop this map. We're invested."

A foot pressed against his warningly. "Yeah," Harry said quickly. "Definitely invested."

"So long as this time is invested within curfew hours," Dumbledore began, "I see no issue with this."

"Of course sir," Tom said, voice just on the edge of cool. "We wouldn't dream of breaking curfew."

Just as Professor Slughorn let out a chiding "Oh Albus, let them be!" the food on the plates before them disappeared and all thoughts and discussions of magical maps were lost to the cracks and bangs of Christmas crackers.

Harry arrived late to breakfast on Boxing Day to find Tom waiting for him outside the Great Hall. The Slytherin fell into pace beside him as Harry walked by.

"So what was that about?" Tom asked in lieu of a greeting.

"Hm?" Harry asked. He felt vaguely sleepy still and deeply content in a thick knit sweater, a present from Professor Dumbledore. "What? What was what about?"

"Last night."

Harry glanced at him as they made their way to the empty Gryffindor table. Tom was practically prowling. At ten in the morning. "You'll have to be more specific, Tom," Harry said calmly.

Tom's eyes narrowed. "My 'terrible' sense of direction?" he prompted. "Ringing any bells, Evans?"

"Oh that," he said as he slid onto the bench. "It's called teasing, Tom."

"Is it?" Tom asked forbiddingly. The Slytherin was practically looming. At ten in the morning!

"You're so tense," Harry noted, too content to find it intimidating.

"And you're—"

"Sit with me, Tom," Harry interrupted. "You can tell me all about what I am while we eat."

Tom's nostrils flared but he sat, back rigid. "You're infuriating," he hissed.

"And you're such a liar," Harry commented, reaching to grab some bacon. "I know you; there's no way you got lost hundreds of times or whatever you said."

"Of course not," he said primly.

Harry couldn't help smiling. "You've probably got this entire castle memorized, don't you? You don't need a map, brain like yours."

Some of the tension seemed to bleed from Tom and he finally reached forward to begin serving himself as well. "Obviously."

"Obviously."

The two lapsed into a markedly more peaceful silence and Harry began to eat.

"You're a liar too," Tom said after a pause. "'I got lost,'" he mocked. "I've never seen you get turned about once, Evans."

"Oh didn't you know, Tommy?" Harry teased, "I'm a Seeeer." He wiggled his fingers sarcastically. "I just know these things."

"Firstly," Tom said, and suddenly there was a fork pointed between Harry's eyes, "Never call me 'Tommy' ever again."

"Noted."

"Second," he continued, and the fork was gone, "That's bullshit and you know it."

"Do I?" Harry grinned.

"That's not how your powers manifest."

"Is it not?"

"No." Harry raised his eyebrows. "It's not," Tom said firmly.

"You sure?"

"Stop that."

"Mm, don't think I will, thanks."

Tom gave him a flat stare; whatever fight he'd had in him earlier seemed to have drained out. "You're exhausting."

"You say the nicest things, Tom."

After an elbow to the side, Harry worked his way through some eggs and toast as Tom nibbled on a scone. The companionable quiet was nice, different from what Harry was used to with Tom. He hadn't thought they would be capable of it, somehow, and yet...

It was only as they finished their breakfasts that Tom broke the peace.

"I bet I know more secret passages than you do."

"Oh, you're on."

"How are you doing this?!" Tom seethed as Harry revealed another secret alcove hidden behind a large collection of urns. "You haven't even been here a year!"

"I'm a Seeeer," Harry wailed before ducking a jet of light with a laugh. "A Seeeer!"

"Shut up, this is not becoming a thing, Harry Evans," Tom spat, wand tip glowing threateningly. It would've looked scary except Tom's lips wouldn't stop twitching. "I won't let it."

"Oh, it's too late, Tom," Harry cried, spreading his arms and gesturing. Come and get me, Tom. "This is absolutely a thing. Undoubtedly." A wicked grin spread across Harry's face as his muscles tensed, poised to flee. "You know how I know that?"

"Harry, I swear to god—"

"I'm a Seeeer!"

Harry fled.

They ended up in the Room of Hidden Things, Harry on top of Tom, kissing furiously. It was clumsy and wet with too much teeth at first, but Harry didn't care and from the feel of him beneath him, Tom didn't either. Not at all, and god, that was so hot. So fucking hot. God, he never wanted to stop touching Tom, never wanted to stop being touched by Tom. A single intruding vision as a toll, and they could touch for hours so long as they never pulled apart. Harry never wanted to ever again. He ached at the thought of pulling away.

How much time had passed, Harry wondered as their kisses grew softer and sweeter and finally stopped. It was impossible to know, he realized as they clung to each other, Tom's hand cradling Harry's face. He seemed incapable of letting go, just as incapable as Harry was. But...

"We should probably go," Tom finally said, ages later. His voice was heavy with regret. "Curfew..."

"I know," Harry sighed without moving.

"We can come back tomorrow," Tom said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "We will."