The Slytherin dormitory was unusually lively that evening, a low hum of excitement buzzing in the air. Boys hurried about, straightening their robes and perfecting their masks, their voices blending into a symphony of anticipation. Tom sat on the edge of his bed, one leg crossed neatly over the other, his gaze flicking impatiently toward the ornate clock above the mantle. Each second that passed seemed to thrum in his mind, dragging time along like a stubborn, sluggish creature.
"Are you lot done yet?" he drawled, his voice smooth but edged with impatience.
Avery grinned from across the room, adjusting his silver skull mask in the mirror. "Almost. Can't go to one of the most exclusive events of the year looking like a slob, can we?"
Tom's lip curled, though whether in amusement or disdain was hard to tell. Tonight wasn't just any ordinary Slughorn gathering—it was a masquerade Halloween party, an event that had sent waves of excitement rippling through the entire student body with almost everyone vying for an invite while those who already received theirs weeks in advance watched on smugly. Slughorn's parties were always lavish, and this one was no exception. Rumors of enchanted pumpkins filled with butterbeer, dancing chocolate bats, and a magically expanded dance floor had spread like wildfire. But none of that mattered to Tom.
Tonight, Hadrian was here.
After two months of nothing but letters—letters filled with cryptic musings, fascinating theories, and that infuriatingly casual charm—Hadrian was finally in England, at Hogwarts where Tom only had to reach out a hand. Tom had tried to temper his anticipation, but it was a losing battle. Even the thrill of having finally discovered Slytherin's legendary Chamber, and speaking with the basilisk he found inside, paled in comparison to the thought of seeing Hadrian in person again.
Tom stood abruptly, brushing imaginary lint from his impeccably tailored black robes. His mask, unlike those of his followers, was unique—a silver skull filigree mask, adorned with tiny rubies that gleamed like malevolent eyes around the sockets. The intricate craftsmanship caught the dim light, casting faint red glimmers that made him stand out, as he intended.
"Enough dawdling," he said, voice cool and commanding. "We're leaving."
A chorus of hurried footsteps followed as Avery, Mulciber, Nott, and Rosier scrambled to keep up with him; all four had dates but Tom barely spared the pureblood heiresses a glance. Together, they made their way through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor along with the occasional hushed giggle. When they finally reached the grand double doors leading to Slughorn's chambers, Tom paused, taking in the muffled sounds of laughter and music from within. He reached up, adjusting his mask one final time, before pushing the doors open.
The sight that greeted them was exactly as the rumors had promised. The room had been transformed into something both dreamy and delightfully gaudy with orange, black, and white drapes falling the ceiling like the inside of a massive circus tent. Jack-o'-lanterns floated lazily through the air, their carved faces flickering with warm light. Butterbeer and other enchanted spirits flowed freely from hollowed-out pumpkins, and chocolate bats fluttered overhead, playfully flapping just out of reach of too slow hands.
Tom's eyes scanned the room with practiced ease, taking in the masked faces and festive decor. But he wasn't looking for decorations or mingling students or even Slughorn's distinguished guests—he was looking for him. And it didn't take long.
Near the center of the room, standing beside Slughorn and another man with his back turned, was a figure in deep green robes. His gold, grinning Chesire cat filigree mask did little to hide the distinctive fall of unruly curls or the way he held himself—with that casual, confident ease that was uniquely Hadrian. Tom didn't need to see his face to know it was him.
Without a word, he stepped away from his group, leaving Avery and the others behind as he moved purposefully toward Hadrian. His heart beat faster, though he forced himself to remain composed, his expression as inscrutable as ever. He reached the small group just as Hadrian glanced his way, eyes crinkling slightly behind the mask in unmistakable recognition.
"Tom," Hadrian greeted warmly, his voice carrying that familiar lilt of amusement. "You made it." Green eyes peered out from his mask, the emeralds to Tom's rubies.
"Of course," Tom replied smoothly, his tone deceptively calm despite the urge to grasp the other in a possessive grip. He was pleased to note that he was now standing at the same height as Hadrian and more than just likely to tower over the other by the time he graduated Hogwarts. "I wouldn't miss it."
Slughorn, wearing a suitably garish ostrich feather mask, beamed, clearly pleased by the encounter. "Ah, Tom, my boy! Splendid timing. I was just hearing about how Hadrian had met an old student of mine in his travels. What a small world indeed!" He gestured to the man beside Hadrian, who turned to face them, revealing a pair of warm hazel eyes that seemed to hold an endless curiosity behind a completely uninspired Hufflepuff themed black badger mask.
"This is Newt Scamander," Slughorn continued, oblivious to the way Tom's eyes narrowed slightly. "A magizoologist of considerable renown. He's been helping Hadrian with some fascinating research on magical creatures and beings abroad."
Scamander offered a hand, his smile awkward but genuine. "Pleasure to meet you."
Tom's gaze flicked to Hadrian, who was watching the exchange with quiet interest, before reluctantly accepting the offered hand. "Likewise," he said, his voice polite but lacking warmth.
As they exchanged pleasantries, Tom's terrible mind quickly connected the dots. So this was the "colleague" behind the camera—the one who had captured Hadrian's unguarded smile in that photograph, the one who had been with him in Morocco. He didn't like it. He didn't like the way Scamander stood so comfortably beside Hadrian, as if they shared some private understanding.
How long had they known each other anyway? It couldn't have been more than a month at most! And why didn't Hadrian mention anything about it? Tom conveniently ignored the fact that he had only known Hadrian for four months if you counted the last two months of correspondence.
"And how did you two meet?" Tom asked, his tone light and nonchalant.
"In Morocco," Hadrian replied, his eyes brightening as he recalled, completely oblivious to Tom's mounting ire. "Newt was tracking a rare species of fire-dwelling lizards, and I myself was also on the trail of a tricky djinn when we happened to cross paths."
"Quite the coincidence," Tom said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Must have been an interesting trip."
"It was," Hadrian said, leaning slightly closer, his voice low enough that only Tom could hear. "Though I think I would have enjoyed it more if you were there as well."
Tom's heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to remain outwardly composed. He wasn't about to let Hadrian see how much those simple words affected him.
As the small talk continued, Tom stayed close to Hadrian, subtly steering the conversation away from Scamander whenever possible. His followers watched from a distance, occasionally exchanging curious glances but knowing better than to interfere. For now, all that mattered was that Hadrian was here—and Tom had no intention of letting anyone, not even an esteemed magizoologist, come between them.
The atmosphere within Slughorn's chambers grew increasingly heated as more guests arrived. The warm, golden glow from the Jack-o'-lanterns bathed the room, lending a cheerful quality to the evening. Everywhere Tom looked, there were flashes of color from swirling robes and intricate masks. But his focus remained fixed on the growing crowd around Hadrian and Scamander, who were now the center of attention, recounting one of their many adventures in Morocco.
And honestly, Tom couldn't fathom just how anyone could have gotten into so much mayhem over just a couple weeks. But he supposed that for a glorified beast handler, looking for creatures that would rather eat you than befriend you was all par for the course. But that he had dragged Hadrian along…
Tom scowled.
"…so there we were, deep in the Atlas Mountains," Hadrian was saying, his tone light and engaging. "Newt had just spotted the trail of a fire-dwelling salamander when we stumbled into something far less friendly—a nest of ashwinders. Quite the shock."
There was a ripple of intrigued laughter from the gathered crowd. Slughorn beamed proudly, clearly enjoying the way his star guests were holding court. Even students from other houses, along with a few alumni and dignitaries invited to the event, leaned in closer, captivated by the tale.
Newt, though initially hesitant, seemed to find his rhythm under the younger man's easy encouragement. "Yes, well, ashwinders are fascinating creatures—deadly if you're not careful. Their eggs can cause quite the explosion if left unchecked."
"And who was it that nearly set his robes on fire trying to collect one of those eggs?" Hadrian teased, eyes sparkling behind his gold mask.
A round of laughter followed, punctuated by murmurs of good natured remarks. Some older witches at the edge of the circle exchanged delighted glances, clearly enchanted by the two young men's charisma and charm.
Tom rolled his eyes. Scamander was a good two decades older than Hadrian, how was he a "young man"?
He stood on the outskirts of the group, his jaw tightening with every word. He'd tried to stay near Hadrian, but as the crowd around them thickened, he somehow found himself edged out by enthusiastic, perfumed listeners twice the width around the middle than Tom was. Now, he was relegated to the background, separated from Hadrian by a wall of brightly clad old witches who were practically swooning like they were still young chits in the spring of their years.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Jealous, Tom?" Mulciber's voice drawled behind him, unable to resist teasing.
Tom turned sharply, fixing Mulciber with a glare cold enough to silence the burly boy's smirk. But before he could retort, Avery joined in, grinning like a cat that had caught a particularly amusing mouse.
"Relax, Tom. They're just telling stories. Though…" Avery paused, his grin widening mischievously, "…you have to admit, they do make quite the pair, don't they? Peverell and Scamander, off adventuring together. Who knows what else they got up to, eh?"
A snicker rippled through their little group, Rosier and Nott exchanging juvenile smirks and elbow nudges. Tom's mood, already teetering on the edge, darkened considerably.
"Hadrian has better taste than some freckly, unremarkable animal wrangler," Tom snapped, his voice icy. The words came out sharper than he intended, and for a moment, the others fell silent, taken aback by the venom in his tone.
Mulciber, probably the least self-preserving of the lot with his big mouth, raised an eyebrow. "Touchy, aren't we?"
Before Tom could curse him with an appropriately humiliating hex, a burst of laughter from the center of the room drew their attention back to Hadrian and Scamander. The witches who had crowded around them were now positively fawning, hanging onto every word as if the pair were Merlin himself returned from Avalon.
"And then," Hadrian continued, for some reason incomprehensible to Tom, clearly enjoying himself, "Newt insisted on carrying the salamander in his hands all the way back to camp, despite the fact that it was still glowing hot. Honestly, I thought he was mad, but he said it was important to keep it calm. By the time we got back, he had burns on both hands."
"They weren't that bad," Newt mumbled, clearly embarrassed by the attention.
"Oh, please," Hadrian said with a grin, "your hands looked like they'd gone through a dragon's forge. And I had to perform the healing spells because you could barely hold your wand."
Another round of mindless laughter erupted, and Tom's fists clenched tighter. He hated this—hated the way Hadrian shone so effortlessly in the crowd, drawing people to him like moths to a flame. Hated the way Scamander stood beside him, as if he belonged there. Most of all, he hated the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he felt powerless. No matter how sharp his mind, no matter how carefully he calculated his moves, there was nothing he could do to change the way people gravitated toward Hadrian.
"You're going to snap if you keep glaring like that," Avery piped up, his expression half-concerned. "Come on, Tom, it's just a party. Have some butterbeer, loosen up."
"I don't want butterbeer," Tom bit out. His eyes flicked back to the crowd, where Hadrian was now gesturing animatedly with his hands, the gold embroidery on his robe catching the light in a way that made him look almost too painfully handsome to look at.
Rosier leaned in, smirking. "You know, if you're so worried, why don't you go steal away your 'Adrian? You're his favorite, aren't you?"
Tom ignored him. He was Hadrian's favorite, but that didn't mean he should act like a clingy child throwing a tantrum at being ignored. He had no intention of causing a scene like other idiotic adolescents would just to attract the attention of their object of affection. For one thing, Tom was too far above the plebeian masses to act like a hormone-driven teenage boy.
But the longer he stood there, listening to the delighted chatter and seeing Hadrian smile at Scamander as if they shared some private joke, the harder it became to keep his composure.
Finally, he turned on his heel, striding away from the group. His followers exchanged glances before hurrying after him, falling into step like shadows trailing behind their master.
"Where are we going?" Nott asked hesitantly.
"Somewhere quieter," Tom replied curtly. He needed a moment to collect himself, to suppress the acidic wrath threatening to spill out in hexes and curses. He couldn't afford to lose control—not here, not in front of everyone. Especially not in front of Hadrian.
As they reached a quieter corner of the room, Tom paused, taking a slow breath. He glanced back at the center of the party, where Hadrian continued to hold court, surrounded by admirers.
Hadrian was his. Or at least, he should be.
This… situation—this sudden appearance of Scamander, these simpering witches, this entire charade—it was not what he expected when he had prepared for this night for weeks. But no matter, one unremarkable mayfly was not going to ruin his night. He was patient, after all. He knew how to play the long game.
And Hadrian would soon remember exactly who he belonged with.
Tom's thunderous mood shifted as a thought suddenly occurred to him, weaving through his frustration and temper like the calming hum of a familiar tune. If Hadrian was so interested in magical creatures, he would surely be awed by what Tom had discovered. Who else in Hogwarts could boast of speaking to a thousand-year-old basilisk hidden beneath the school? Surely not Scamander, with his ragtag collection of ordinary beasts.
Tom silently congratulated himself for the brilliance of his mind.
A slow, confident smile curved Tom's lips, much to the whiplash relief of his followers, who had grown uneasy in the face of their leader's simmering rage. That cold fury that seemed only to be enhanced into something more demonic behind his ruby encrusted skull mask melted away, replaced by the charming, collected demeanor they all knew so well. The fact that there was always something off about that façade did nothing to dissuade their preference for it over the palpable fury earlier.
Such was the bleating simpletons he had to contend with. Tom thought with some contempt.
"Well," Tom said smoothly, his voice regaining its usual silken edge, "let's not waste the opportunity. Slughorn's guests tonight aren't just here for the food. Mingling with the right people could be useful."
Nott exchanged a glance with Avery, visibly relieved by Tom's sudden change in mood. Mulciber and Rosier simply shrugged and followed as Tom made his way back toward the heart of the party, exuding an air of self-assured control once again.
Over the next half-hour, Tom slipped seamlessly into the role he played so well—the perfect Slytherin prefect, poised, polite, and engaging. He charmed Ministry officials with well-placed questions about their departments, impressed older wizards with his knowledge of magical theory, and even indulged a few dignitaries in light conversation about Hogwarts' ancient history.
By the time he had finished speaking to a senior member of the Department of Magical Artefacts, Tom had almost forgotten the earlier sting of jealousy. Almost.
Then the music changed.
A lively, upbeat number began, filling the chamber with a pulsing rhythm that had more daring guests flooding the makeshift dance floor. Tom turned his head at the sound of laughter, and his stomach twisted into a knot of irritation when he saw Hadrian and Scamander among those joining the fray.
Hadrian moved with an ease that seemed almost unfair, that grinning cat mask gleamed under the enchanted lights as he laughed at something Scamander had said. Scamander, for his part, looked awkward but amused, clearly caught up in the excitement and nearly knocking off his own black badger mask.
How dull. Just like the man himself.
Tom's eyes narrowed. Enough was enough.
Without a word of explanation, he grabbed Nott, who was closest, by the arm and dragged him toward the dance floor—ignoring the fact that the other boy was just about to ask his girlfriend and date for a dance.
"Wait, what are you—Tom!" Nott hissed, his voice a mix of confusion and reluctance as he stumbled after Tom. "I don't—Melinda—"
"Stop whining, Theodore. Just follow my lead," Tom said curtly, already weaving through the crowd with an uncanny grace.
Nott, wide-eyed and clearly put out, obeyed without further protest as Tom maneuvered them closer and closer to Hadrian and Scamander. When they were near enough, Tom smoothly spun Nott toward Scamander, effectively depositing the bewildered boy into the magizoologist's path.
"Uh…" Scamander blinked down at Nott, who looked like he might faint. "Hello?"
Before either of them could react further, Tom had slipped into place beside Hadrian, one hand clasping Hadrian's and the other settling firmly around his waist. The sudden shift in partners didn't seem to faze Hadrian in the slightest. If anything, the older boy looked amused, his emerald eyes gleaming behind his mask as he allowed Tom to lead them into the dance.
"Well," Hadrian drawled, his voice carrying that familiar hint of playful teasing. "I'd say that was rather cunning of you, Tom. Should I be flattered?"
Tom's grip tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over the back of Hadrian's hand as they moved in perfect rhythm to the music. "You should be relieved," he said smoothly. "It looked like I had been neglecting you too much, and you decided to find entertainment elsewhere."
Hadrian let out a startled laugh, the soft puff of air fanning over Tom's face and causing his normally pale complexion to slowly flush behind his mask. "Neglecting me? I seem to recall it was you who wandered off. I didn't realize I needed permission to enjoy myself."
"You don't," Tom said with a charming smile, though there was an unmistakable possessiveness in his tone. "But I do think you'll enjoy yourself more with me."
"Oh? And why's that?" Hadrian tilted his head slightly, studying Tom with a bemused expression.
"Because I know you better than anyone else here." Tom's voice was quick and silky, his eyes dark and confident. "And I always make things… memorable."
Hadrian's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "Careful, Tom. You're sounding rather smug."
"I'm allowed to be," Tom retorted lightly. He spun them in a smooth arc, his steps confident and controlled. "After all, I always get what I want."
Hadrian arched an eyebrow, his amusement deepening. "My, what a spoiled child you are."
Tom's smile widened, his grip on Hadrian's waist tightening fractionally. "And whose fault is that?"
They continued to dance in comfortable silence for a few moments, the crowd around them blurring into the background. Tom's earlier ire had all but vanished, replaced by a heady mix of satisfaction and exhilaration. With Hadrian in his arms, the world felt right again—balanced, controlled.
As the music began to wind down, Tom leaned in slightly, his voice low enough for only Hadrian to hear. "Meet me outside Slughorn's chambers at midnight. I have something to show you."
Hadrian's eyes flickered with curiosity. "A surprise?"
Tom's lips curved into a secretive smile. "You'll see."
Before Hadrian could respond, the music ended, and they reluctantly broke apart as applause filled the room. Hadrian gave Tom a lingering look, his expression thoughtful, before turning to rejoin Slughorn and Scamander.
Tom watched him go, his heart pounding with anticipation. He could hardly wait for midnight.