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Chapter Text

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the half-packed trunk in front of him. His robes were neatly folded, textbooks stacked on one side, but his hands felt heavy as he reached for the rest of his things. Everything felt heavier these days. Hogwarts was supposed to be home—a refuge. But now, it felt like a place full of ghosts.

His fingers brushed over the soft fabric of a sweater Mrs. Weasley had knit for him last Christmas. He used to love these small comforts, but now they felt bittersweet. Cedric’s face flashed through his mind—the last argument, the cold, clipped words. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove those memories back into the locked box in his mind where he kept everything he didn’t want to feel.

But it wasn’t just Cedric. Ron and Hermione had become official over the summer, and though he was happy for them, a pang of loneliness tightened his chest whenever he saw them together. They tried to be subtle, not to make him feel like a third wheel, but Harry could see it in every shared glance, every touch of their hands.

He couldn’t even be mad at them. They deserved to be happy. They deserved something stable. But it just made Harry more acutely aware of everything he had lost.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to push away the swirling thoughts. This year, he had to keep his head down. No more drama, no more getting pulled into every bit of chaos that crossed his path. He needed to raise his grades, focus on his classes, and get things in order if he wanted to have any shot at becoming an Auror.

McGonagall’s warning at the end of last year still echoed in his mind. “The standards are high, Potter. You'll need top marks in your N.E.W.T.s if you're serious about this.”

Harry stared at the pile of parchment and quills still waiting to be packed, wondering if he was really up to the task. Everything had felt so off-kilter since the summer.

A sharp knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Harry, you ready?” Sirius’s voice came through the door, light but with an undercurrent of impatience. Harry quickly stuffed the rest of his things into the trunk, not caring if they were in perfect order.

“Almost,” Harry called back, closing the lid with a soft thud and locking it. He stood and took one last look around his room as if this might be the last time he’d see it for a while, the familiar warmth of Grimmauld Place now tinged with a strange sort of nostalgia. He went to grab the trunk, but before he could, the door creaked open, and Sirius stepped inside.

“Let me,” Sirius said with a grin, flicking his wand effortlessly. The trunk lifted into the air, floating behind them. “You shouldn’t have to haul this thing around when you’ve got magic, after all.”

Harry gave a small smile. “Thanks.”

Sirius clapped him on the shoulder, his smile faltering slightly. “It’s gonna be a good year, you’ll see,” he said, but his voice was softer now, more like he was trying to convince himself.

Harry nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it. They made their way down the stairs, the trunk following behind them with a gentle hum of magic.

Downstairs, Remus was sitting by the window, reading the Daily Prophet. He looked up as they entered, folding the newspaper in half and setting it aside. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his eyes met Harry’s.

“All set, then?” Remus asked, standing as they approached.

Harry nodded, and Remus’s smile widened a fraction. “Try not to get into too much trouble this year, alright? Sirius and I don’t need any more grey hairs.”

“I’ll try,” Harry said, though they all knew trouble seemed to find him whether he looked for it or not.

Sirius chuckled. “We’ll hold you to that.” He pulled on his jacket, adjusting it before grabbing the handle of the Floo powder jar. “Alright, off to the station. Let’s go.”

They moved toward the fireplace, Sirius tossing the powder into the flames with a practiced flick of his wrist. “King’s Cross Station!” he called out, and in a whirl of green fire, they were gone.

The moment they reappeared at the bustling station, the noise and rush of people filled the air. The platform was already crowded with students and families, and Harry felt a familiar sense of both dread and excitement stirring in his chest.

Remus stayed a step behind, watching as Sirius led Harry through the crowd with the floating trunk in tow. Harry could feel Sirius glancing at him, the weight of unspoken words hanging between them.

"Now, I know you’re still a little heartbroken…" Sirius began.

Harry stiffened, clenching his jaw. A little heartbroken? That wasn’t even close. He wanted to snap, to tell Sirius he didn’t get it—that it wasn’t something so trivial. Harry bit his tongue, forcing the bitterness down.

"But you’ve got to give your best this year. Try to stay far away from any potential beau, alright?"

Beau? Cedric wasn’t just some passing fling. The mention of it stung, burning in Harry’s chest. There was no reason for him to be as angry as he was, but Sirius's words felt like poison. He knew Sirius meant no harm, but it hurt all the same, making everything inside him churn.

“I will. I promise,” Harry lied, his voice tight, almost robotic.

Sirius didn’t press the issue. He watched Harry for a moment too long, his smile faltering at the edges before it reappeared, softer this time.

"You know the story of your parents," Sirius said, trying to lighten the mood. “How your dad kept trying, even when your mum kept blowing him off. He was enamoured from the first moment he saw her.” Sirius stretched out a hand, gripping Harry’s upper arm, squeezing lightly. “I know first-hand about the obsessive streak in the Potters.”

Harry let out a scoff, almost defensive. "Not obsessive…"

Sirius cut him off with a chuckle. “I know, I know. ‘Just in love,’ right? I had to listen to your dad cry over Lily for seven years. I get it.”

Then, without warning, Sirius pulled him into a tight hug. For a moment, Harry resisted, but then he buried his face in Sirius’s green coat, inhaling the familiar mix of cigarettes and wine. The scent was comforting, familiar. Sirius’s hand drifted over Harry’s hair, and he laughed softly when his ring got caught in Harry’s messy curls.

Harry let out a breath, sinking into the warmth of the embrace, but guilt prickled at the back of his mind. He always got too involved, too deep. First Cho, then Cedric. He couldn’t help it—it was like he built people up in his mind, made them into something more, something perfect. And when they didn’t live up to that image, the disappointment nearly crushed him.

He held on to them so tightly, wanting more than they could ever give, then resented them for falling short of his expectations. With Cedric, it had been different… but still, he felt the sting of having lost something he wasn’t sure he’d ever had in the first place. He couldn’t stop getting too caught up, always wanting more than what people could give him, and then hating them—and himself—when it all fell apart.

As Sirius finally released him, Harry wondered how long it would be before he let himself get swallowed up again.

Sensing they’re done, Remus approached and wrapped Harry in a tight hug. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” he murmured softly. Harry felt the gap between them, a distance that hadn’t always been there. Not long ago, Remus had been more of a father figure to him than Sirius, and now… well, that was a thought for later. He locked it away, along with everything else that was too heavy to carry just now.

He waved them goodbye, grabbing his trunk as he turned toward the train. His legs felt sluggish as he walked through the aisles, his eyes scanning for an empty compartment. Harry paused briefly in front of one, his hand on the handle, but froze when he saw Ron and Hermione inside. Huddled together, Ron was saying something quietly, and Hermione laughed, shoving his arm. Their heads were too close, their smiles too intimate. It hit him harder than it should have.

He quickened his steps, finding an empty compartment and slipped inside. The door slid shut behind him with a soft click, and Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. I’m not hiding, he told himself, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. They wouldn’t be cozy in that compartment for too long, anyway. Prefects had duties to handle, and they’d have to leave soon to report to the others. But for now, the ache of feeling like a third wheel was too much.

Harry sank into the seat, pulling his journal from his bag. The one he hadn’t touched since August. He flipped through the pages, skimming over familiar words until one sentence caught his eye.

He grimaced, slamming the journal shut. It was ridiculous, how desperate he had been, how naïve. He wasn’t that person anymore. He couldn’t afford to be.

The compartment door slid open, and Harry looked up.

Silver hair. Grey eyes.

Harry sighed. “Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Malfoy replied flatly.

There were no smirks, no insults. Malfoy stood in the doorway, hand hesitating on the doorframe, eyes darting around as though searching for something to say. He shifted uncomfortably, and for a moment, Harry thought he might speak. But then, as if giving up, Malfoy raised a hand in some awkward gesture before turning to leave.

Two other students followed him out, but one lingered.

Tall and striking, the boy remained in the doorway, watching him intensely. His skin was pale, almost alabaster, with jet-black hair falling smoothly over his forehead. His dark eyes scanned Harry, taking him in.

Harry’s breath caught for a moment, the air in the compartment suddenly feeling too thick.

It was Tom Riddle. They had been rivals for as long as Harry could remember, yet something was different in this moment. There was a quiet charge in the air, and Harry felt himself brighten as if seeing Riddle for the first time.

Riddle’s eyes lingered on him for a beat longer, and Harry’s pulse quickened. He couldn’t explain it—this sudden shift, this new awareness. The boy he had clashed with for years was suddenly… more.

But before Harry could gather his thoughts, Tom’s lips twitched into a small, knowing smirk. He turned and walked away.

Oh.

Harry blanks out, turning his head to the empty seat before him.

Oh, fuck, no.

Chapter Text

Out of all the boys in his year…

The train wheezed, jolting as it began to move. Harry tore his gaze from the hallway, forcing himself to focus on the book in his lap. He didn’t want to see the goodbyes—the little kids waving to parents, the older students tearing up over their last ride to Hogwarts. Last chance to be young, a bit selfish, to pretend that nothing really mattered.

Everything felt strange this year. A soft, almost intangible tension hung in the air—a reminder that their days at Hogwarts were numbered, and soon they’d be out in the real world with real responsibilities. The carefree magic of their younger years had started to dull, replaced by the subtle weight of what lay beyond school walls. Harry could feel it in every interaction, even in the silliest things, all tinged with a quiet finality.

When he chanced a glance, he saw Cho walking hand-in-hand with a Hufflepuff from their year, and his mind flickered, unwelcome, to Cedric. He immediately looked away.

When was the last time he’d held Cedric’s hand?

He was startled out of the thought as the compartment door slid open, and he was practically smothered in a hug, brown curls sticking to his face. He wasn’t crying—no, his eyes were just watering from all the hair.

“Mione…” he mutters, but if his voice sounds a little strained, no one mentions it. Hermione finally pulls back, and Harry sees Ron ducking his head to avoid hitting the doorframe, grinning as he steps in.

“We didn’t see you walk by! When did you get here?” Ron asks, settling across from him.

“Not too long ago. Couldn’t find you, so I just stayed here,” Harry lies. Ron tilts his head as if he caught it but lets it go and pulls him into a hug. 

“It’s good to see you, mate.” Ron grins, and Harry can smell Molly’s cooking clinging to his jumper- he could smell cinnamon rolls and something made of pumpkin. 

“How was summer?” Hermione asks gently, and sits down in front of Harry, Ron falling back next to her, hands clinging to each other.

How was summer? Well, there was the trip with Cedric. The way things unravelled right after. The weeks that followed, feeling stuck between anger and guilt. 

He’d only seen Ron and Hermione once, at his birthday, and even that felt hollow. Sirius and Remus had tried everything to get him out of his room, but it had all passed in a blur.

“Quiet,” he manages, and Ron shifts uncomfortably.

“Have you… talked to him?” Ron blurts, only for Hermione to elbow him, frowning. He raises his hands in surrender. “I won’t pretend I’m not curious, alright?”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Hermione offers gently, eyes soft.

“Good, because I don’t,” Harry says, maybe a little too sharply. He forces a quick smile to soften it. “How was your summer?”

Ron and Hermione share a quick glance before laughing, cheeks a little flushed.

“It was good,” Hermione says, trying to sound casual but failing. “Charlie came home for a few days—he asked after you, actually.”

Harry feels a familiar heat rise to his face at the mention of the older Weasley, his mind filling in the image: Charlie with his long hair, the easy grin, all those scars. Harry, get a grip.

“Anyway,” she continues, her smile widening, “we all missed you.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I wanted to visit, but…”

“It’s okay. We get it,” Ron says with a soft look. But Harry knows he doesn’t get it, not fully. He can’t know what it’s like to have the person you loved walk away—and worse, to know it was mostly your fault.

He sighs. “Look, can we just pretend everything’s normal this year? Like summer never happened?”

Ron and Hermione glance at each other, and finally, Harry smirks and nods toward Hermione’s robe. “So, Mione… Did you get Head Girl?”

Hermione tries to keep her expression neutral, but she can’t hide her glee, the hand hovering over the shiny badge on her robes. Her laughter bubbles out as she tucks her hair back proudly. “I did! I wanted to tell you right away, but… well, I wanted to make sure you were okay—”

“I’m fine,” Harry says, waving it off.

“—And once we knew, tell you. But, anyway, we should get going,” she continues, rising from her seat. “I have to brief the prefects for the train ride.”

“And I’ll be there,” Ron says, deadpan. “Head Girl’s personal arm candy, obviously.”

Hermione laughs and nudges his shoulder, cheeks pink, while Harry tries not to let his envy show. The two of them glow with that easy, innocent kind of love he can’t help but feel jealous of.

As they head out, Hermione gives him a warm smile. “If you need us, just send a signal, alright?”

“Yeah, I will. Love you both,” he says, softer than he meant to.

Hermione’s eyes soften, and Ron nods with an awkward smile. Harry watches them disappear down the corridor, then sinks back into his seat, clutching his journal but staring out the window.

—--

As soon as Ron and Hermione left, Harry regretted not asking who’d made Head Boy.

It was just innocent curiosity, really. He just had to know who’d be strutting around, ordering everyone about, flashing that devilish grin that could make a young puritan faint. Part of him already knew it was Tom, but he hadn’t noticed him walk by, too distracted by that slick hair, the perfectly intense gaze, and—ugh. Get a grip.

Right. He didn’t need to go looking. Not for Tom, anyway. He was just going to check on Neville, make sure he hadn’t ended up alone somewhere. Maybe something fun happened over summer, and he was stashed away in some other compartment. Maybe even… on the Slytherin side of the train.

Harry snatched his journal, ignoring the mental slap he gave himself, and slipped out of his compartment. As he glanced into each cabin, looking for his friend ( you’re looking for Tom, stop lying ), he saw nothing but a parade of Gryffindors. He was just about to press onward to the next car when Luna Lovegood stepped in front of him, her blond hair swaying.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Hi, Luna.” She waved her hand over his head, inspecting the space around him with her usual air of mystery.

“You’ve got so many Wrackspurts hovering.”

“I know, Luna. I was just looking for you to clear them away.” He managed a wry smile. Maybe she really could clear some things up. “How was your summer?” he wondered.

“Oh, it was fun! Ginny and I went creature-spotting last week at her place. She got a bit annoyed when she fell into a puddle, but that was the Dabberblimp’s fault,” Luna said, leaning in with a whisper. “It made her trip.”

“That’s awful.” He tried to hold back a chuckle, but a brief silence fell between them before, thank Merlin, Neville wandered up to them.

“Harry!” Neville grinned, holding a book he’d clearly been halfway through. “Did you hear I found that plant I was talking about last time I saw you? It’s in Herbology Today !” He lifts the plant towards Harry and he almost sniffs at the strong herbal smell.

He chatted about plants (Harry had no idea what he was talking about) with Harry nodding along, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on him. When Neville shifted the conversation toward Quidditch, Harry felt a flush of embarrassment over how obvious his cluelessness about Herbology must have been.

Just then, he spotted Tom making his way through the train with a purposeful stride. Tom was heading toward the front, a Head Boy badge gleaming on his robes, and trailing two prefects (a sporty Ravenclaw girl and a tall Slytherin boy) and a first-year who was sniffling miserably. Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the sight. Tom’s eyes caught his, and he raised an eyebrow at Harry’s strange expression. Unable to resist, Harry gave him a small smile, tilting his head as he blinked slowly just as he was passing right by him.

“Congratulations,” he murmured, voice just loud enough to reach Tom.

Tom stopped mid-step, thrown by the softness in Harry’s tone. The prefects stared at their feet, and the first-year wiped his nose, oblivious.

“Thank you, Po-”

“Harry.” He interrupts.

Harry could see the subtle calculation in his eyes.

“Thank you, Harry.” 

The prefects shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting anywhere but the two boys. Meanwhile, Neville’s brow lifted knowingly as he watched the silent exchange unfold, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. He didn’t need to ask questions; he caught the tension instantly. Tom hesitated just a second longer, gaze lingering on Harry before he spun on his heel and strode toward the front of the train, the first-year trailing behind, while the prefects fell into step with only a glance backward.

As the last of them disappeared, Harry let out a slow breath and turned to find Neville observing him with an unmistakable glint in his eye.

“Please don’t,” Harry pleaded, his tone almost desperate.

Neville chuckled, arms crossed and an amused gleam in his eyes. “Fine. I’ll give you two days of good grace,” he promised, meaning two days without a single question on the matter.

Harry sighed, feeling both grateful and wary. “Two days, huh?”

“Enjoy them while you can,” Neville said with a smirk, already gearing up for the conversation he was saving for later.

Chapter Text

Entering the Great Hall was the true mark of the year beginning, the real transition from summer to school-life. Harry took his usual seat by the window next to Neville, where he could watch the other tables as the banquet began. From here, he could already see Malfoy with Parkinson and Nott. Strangely, Malfoy, still a Prefect, wasn’t with the younger students but instead leaned across the table, talking quietly with Goyle. Their eyes met, and, unlike past years, Harry didn’t snap his gaze away but lifted a lazy hand in greeting.

Malfoy blinked, then returned the wave, a bit more energetically than Harry had. Other Slytherins shot Malfoy looks of confusion, but Harry had already lost interest. He opened his journal, glancing down at his notes:

Raised in London—but where exactly? 

He likes snakes. Actual snakes, not just Slytherins. Even owns one named Nagini—she’s huge, might actually be a python, but how he got away with bringing her here… maybe the professors are as charmed as everyone else. Imagine bringing something like that to Hogwarts. What does she eat? Do they have a supply of live mice hidden in the dungeons? Does he hunt for mice?

Top of our year in Transfiguration. Probably in Defense Against the Dark Arts, too. There’s something effortless about the way he handles spells, like they’re second nature to him.

Cologne… What does he even wear? It’s got to be something distinct, like wood and spice, or maybe something sharper, like citrus. I haven’t been close enough to know yet. I’d like to find out, though.

He scowled at the last point. He’d been close earlier today, close enough their robes brushed, but still not close enough to catch a hint of whatever cologne Tom wore. 

(No, he hadn’t sniffed his robes afterward in the bathroom. That would be ridiculous.)

A mane of red hair blocked his view from the pages, then he’s slapped in the shoulder.

“Merlin, you’re so paranoid!” Ginny laughed, shoving a fourth-year aside to slip next to him. She ignored the boy’s glare as she reached for a glass on the table. “No need to worry so much about your little diary.”

Harry chuckled, closing his journal with a snap. “I’m not paranoid,” he muttered, his voice light but laced with amusement. “You did try to read it.”

A small thrill ran through him. Learning Parseltscript had been the best decision he’d made in a long time.It wasn’t just about preserving a rare skill passed down from his father’s side; it was about privacy, about control. With Parseltongue, his thoughts were his own. Very few could ever hope to decode his notes. No one was getting inside his head unless he allowed it. And that felt like power.

“Like I’d want to read whatever that is!” She snatched the glass, and he wordlessly filled it with a flick of his wand. “Thanks, love,” she said, draining it in one gulp. “By the way, you’re not off the hook. We’re talking about Cedric at some point.”

He looked away, gaze drifting to Seamus, who was watching them closely from down the table. “Maybe worry about your own relationships first,” he said, glancing pointedly at Seamus. Ginny sighed.

“Boys are so stupid,” she muttered before adding, “We still have to talk,” and disappearing down the row to join her boyfriend.

Harry exhaled. He loved Ginny like family, but he could never confide in her, not like he might with Hermione or Ron. How could he explain, I ruined everything. You all liked him because he was good. I lost him because I couldn’t let him be.

Just as well they all liked Harry for the good, but not the bad.

He was yanked from his thoughts by a familiar presence. Looking up, he caught sight of Remus at the staff table, scanning the Gryffindor table for signs of mischief. Harry waved, and his father returned the gesture with a wide smile.

There was no reason to look at the Slytherin table yet. The Head Boy hadn’t arrived.

Hermione and Ron finally settled in beside him. Harry pretended to be interested in the enchanted ceiling, but he couldn’t help glancing down just as Tom entered the Hall. Tom took a seat beside Malfoy, murmuring something in his ear. Harry felt his jaw tighten as he watched Tom lean close, lips nearly brushing Malfoy’s ear.

He made a noise of annoyance, prompting Hermione to touch his arm in concern. “Oh, sorry, ‘Mione. Just really hungry.”

“Same here,” Ron muttered.

Finally, Dumbledore stood to welcome them back for a new year. Harry pretended to listen, but his gaze drifted back to the green table. Tom was watching Dumbledore, but in a way that felt... off, his gaze never quite meeting the headmaster’s. Harry had noticed this before, how Tom seemed to look around Dumbledore or even through him, but rarely at him.

There had been one time Dumbledore called them both into his office. Harry had been furious, nearly tackling Tom after a comment he couldn’t quite recall now. He’d felt Snape’s sneer and McGonagall’s quiet, simmering anger. Tom had surprised everyone by apologizing, saying he was out of line. But even then, he hadn’t looked Dumbledore in the eye. His gaze fell just shy, somewhere near the rim of his glasses.

He didn’t trust the old man—and Harry couldn’t blame him.

Brown eyes flashed up at him, and Harry realized, heart pounding, that Tom was staring at him. Not smiling like on the train—just watching, something unreadable in his gaze. Against his will, Harry looked away.

The food appeared, steaming and golden, and Harry busied himself piling his plate as Hermione began recapping the Prefect’s meeting. She talked about new responsibilities, minor rule changes, and how the Prefects were expected to supervise the upcoming events. But Harry wasn’t really listening until she mentioned the new Prefects. Feigning casual interest, he asked, “So, who’s Head Boy?”

“Riddle,” she replied, her tone a mix of resignation and respect.

Harry blinked as if genuinely surprised. “What do you think about that decision?”

Hermione paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Just curious.” He reached for his pumpkin juice, taking a long sip to mask his real interest. “He’s… well, he’s different lately, isn’t he?”

Hermione’s gaze lingered on him, skeptical. “Well, you wouldn’t have noticed, would you?” she said, almost gently. “You were… preoccupied. Cedric and everything…”

It stung, and he glanced away for a moment before refocusing on her. “I know,” he said, his voice softer. “But he has changed, hasn’t he?”

She sighed, a touch of resignation in her voice. “He’s still the best in our year. You know that. He’s worked for that spot, and… he’s kept Slytherin in check. Not just quiet—he’s kept the fights down, cut out most of the slurs.” She glanced at Ron, who’d just returned to his seat.

Ron scoffed, piling his plate with sausages. “Yeah, well, that just means he’s keeping them quiet for now. Bet he’s just biding his time. I don’t trust him, and I’m surprised you two seem to.”

“Ron, honestly,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t deny he’s brilliant.”

“Brilliantly twisted,” Ron muttered. “He’s got all of Slytherin eating out of his hand.”

Harry let the conversation flow around him, picking at his food while he processed every word. Tom’s behavior had shifted over the last year in subtle, unnerving ways. He was more controlled, more commanding, as if he’d tapped into some deeper reserve of influence. The quiet authority he exerted over Slytherin was unlike anything Harry had seen before—effortless, but firm. There was a magnetism to it, a sort of dark allure that Harry hated to admit intrigued him.

“Alright, so he’s Head Boy,” Harry said finally, keeping his voice even. “But…what’s he actually like with the younger ones?”

Hermione considered this, studying Harry closely. “If you really want to know… he’s patient. Like, really patient,” she admitted. “A first-year spilled ink all over his notes last year, and he didn’t even raise his voice. Just helped him clean it up and told him to be more careful next time.” She hesitated, a small frown crossing her face. “It’s almost…odd. It’s like he wants them to look up to him.”

Ron scoffed. “Of course he does. Probably making them think he’s the next Merlin or something. And they’ll find out the hard way—he’ll turn on them like he does on everyone.”

Hermione shot Ron a glare but didn’t argue, and Harry absorbed her words. A mentor. The thought was strange. Tom Riddle, looking after Slytherin’s first years? It didn’t fit the image he’d had of him for years, and yet the idea of him as a guiding figure, admired and relied upon… It made sense.

As he absently chewed his food, Harry felt the questions start to pile up. Every interaction, every new bit of information seemed to deepen the mystery. It was as if Tom was a puzzle that had started to take over his thoughts—this confident, controlled version of the boy he’d barely known. And now, he wanted to know him. To figure out if Tom was sincere in his guidance or if there was something more layered beneath it.

With a sigh, Hermione pushed her plate away and shook her head. “I suppose time will tell. But Harry… don’t get too curious, okay?” There was a hint of warning in her tone.

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, his voice unusually serious. “Curiosity killed the cat, remember?”

Harry grinned, though the expression felt hollow. “Good thing I’m not a cat, then.”

But the truth was, he could hardly keep his curiosity in check anymore. It gnawed at him, the strange pull of everything he’d missed, as if there were secrets he should have known—secrets that had taken root when he wasn’t looking. Tom had transformed from an irritation into an obsession, a puzzle he couldn’t leave alone. The boy across the hall was a mystery that had changed while he wasn’t paying attention, and Harry couldn’t stand the idea of not knowing who Tom Riddle had become.

Harry laid on his bed, his room now feeling much larger than it had last year. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the faint chatter of the others, and the room fell into a deep, still silence. He breathed in, the air thick with the familiar scent of the school, but his mind was far from the present moment.

His thoughts returned to Cedric. The way it had felt to press his lips to Cedric’s neck, to be close enough that he could taste him. He remembered the soft laughter when Cedric had pulled away, playfully reminding him, “There’s no reason to leave marks. They hurt.”

Harry’s chest tightened at the memory. He never argued, never pushed back, even though a part of him wanted to claim him in some way—some subtle sign that Cedric was his. Instead, Harry had buried it, hidden the urge behind a quiet gaze, and never let it slip into words. He wasn’t supposed to want that. Cedric didn’t want that. He wanted gentleness, space, light touches. Soft, caring affection.

And Harry... Harry wanted more. He wanted to consume him. To bury his magic in Cedric, to hold him so close he couldn’t tell where he ended and Cedric began. He wanted to lose himself in him. But that wasn’t how it worked. Cedric’s love was light, fragile even, and Harry had learned to keep his darker urges hidden. To let go of the force that swelled inside him whenever Cedric was near.

It wasn’t that Cedric didn’t love him. He did, in his way. But Harry’s love was bigger, more intense , more desperate. Cedric, though, had boundaries—his space, his softness. It wasn’t just physical, either. 

There had been times in bed when Cedric let him close, let him touch, but only in ways that didn’t push the limits. Harry had tried to tease him with his magic once, letting it flow gently across Cedric’s skin, tracing his chest, his arms. Cedric had never fought him physically, but when Harry’s magic touched him, there was a flicker of unease, a slight pull away. He had tried it again, thinking it was just a misunderstanding, but Cedric had moved even farther away.

"Don’t do that," Cedric had said once, his voice almost shy, as Harry’s magic wrapped around him. “It frightens me when you do that.”

Harry’s heart had sunk in that moment.  He hadn’t meant to frighten him. He just wanted to share everything—wanted to show Cedric how much he loved him, to share something deeper, something raw. But he had pulled away, and Harry had learned to bury that part of himself. He kept it locked away, even as the longing burned in him.

His thoughts drifted, then, to Tom. To the way Tom stood apart—calm, composed, his presence commanding. Harry couldn’t help but admire it. Tom had strength, power. When they’d duelled last year, it had been a reminder of how easily Tom could wield his magic. How effortless it had seemed, compared to the struggle Harry sometimes felt with his own.

The duel still lingered in his mind. He had been distracted—by Tom’s power, by the way Tom carried himself. And he had lost. Not just the duel, but something else. Something deeper. There was an allure to Tom that Harry couldn’t quite shake. The way he moved, the way he controlled everything around him with just a glance. Tom didn’t have the soft, careful love Cedric had. No, Tom had power, a kind of magic that pulled people in and didn’t let go.

Harry swallowed hard. He didn’t understand it, but he wanted to understand it. To feel that kind of control, that kind of strength.

With a sigh, Harry pressed his lips to the leather-bound journal beside him. He could feel the weight of it in his hands, a constant reminder of the thoughts he could never voice. Cedric’s love was soft, kind—but it wasn’t enough for Harry anymore. It never had been.

And Tom? Tom was the opposite. The power, the control, the sharpness—there was something dangerous in that. Something that made Harry feel alive.

He had everything Harry wanted. Everything he needed .

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he knew it was time to start searching.

Chapter Text

Harry had never made it to breakfast this early. As he walked down the corridor, he spotted Hannah Abbott, who did a double-take at seeing him up so early, leaving him feeling strangely defensive—he was punctual, wasn’t he? 

Crossing the massive double doors to the Great Hall, he felt the usual buzz of students settling in, their conversations blending into a soft hum. As his gaze swept over the hall, it landed on the Slytherin table, where Tom was quietly speaking to a group of first-years. One of his hands rested on a small boy’s head as he leaned in to talk, and the boy was gazing up at him with barely-contained awe. Hermione had mentioned that Tom was good with kids, and now, seeing it for himself, Harry had to admit she was right. He mentally noted this under yesterday’s entry.

The table in front of him was piled with platters of breakfast foods, but his stomach was a knot. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he let his gaze wander, trying to shake off the tightness he felt. Then, with a soft cry, Hedwig swooped down, dropping the Daily Prophet next to him before she perched beside his plate. He petted her absently while flipping through the pages.

His attention snagged on page thirteen. There, taking up half the page, was a photo of two groups standing awkwardly side by side. The right side showed two wizards and a witch grinning broadly, while on the left, two unsmiling wizards barely moved. But in the middle, there was Cedric.

Harry stared, feeling a pang at the sight of him. Cedric looked thinner than he remembered, his suit slightly loose, and his hair a bit longer. But he was still sporting that wide gleaming smile. The headline read: 

Department of Magical Creatures Collaborates for Better Magical Creature Protection

The article described their role in building connections between the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the Committee for Experimental Charms, a partnership aimed at improving care for magical creatures across departments. Harry read only a few lines before sighing, folding the newspaper, and tossing it further down the table, away from himself.

His gaze shifted to the Slytherin table again, where Tom was now on the other side, leaning over the Daily Prophet with Zabini. Harry looked away quickly and focused on his coffee until Hermione swept into the hall, her hair tied back with a red ribbon.

“Morning, Mione,” he greeted as she slid into the seat across from him, reaching for a piece of bread.

“Morning!” She downed a glass of water with a gasp. “Ugh, I have to meet with Riddle and the Heads of House in a few minutes. Should have been here an hour ago,” she huffed, clearly annoyed. “You’re early, too. Everything okay?”

He forced a casual smile. “Nope, just woke up hungry.”

Hermione didn’t look convinced as he looked down at his clean empty plate, then glanced at the Daily Prophet where he’d tossed it aside. “Bad news?”

“Just Cedric being successful and happy,” he muttered, and Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but a hand came to rest on her shoulder. They both looked up to see Tom.

“Apologies for interrupting. Granger,” he said with a nod, voice soft yet clear. His gaze didn’t linger on Harry, though Harry's attention was sharply on him. 

(He’s aware that he is straightening his back and raising his head. No, he won’t talk about it.)

Hermione turned to Harry with a quick, “I’ll talk to you later,” before hurrying after Tom towards the Head Table and disappearing through the side door.

Watching them leave, Harry gritted his teeth and turned back to his coffee, finally feeling the first edges of hunger settle in. He reached for an apple just as the rest of Gryffindor House filled in. Ron slumped into the seat Hermione had vacated, eyeing the piece of bread she’d left before grabbing it for himself.

“Didn’t think you’d be up this early,” Ron mumbled, chewing, clearly just as surprised as Abbott had been.

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry said, pushing aside a smirk. “Woke up fidgety, didn’t want to wake you and Neville.”

“Fidgety?” Ron raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

Harry shrugged, but his eyes drifted back toward the Slytherin table. “Nothing, really. Just…first-day stuff.”

Ron didn’t look convinced but nodded as he picked up the Daily Prophet , flipping through it. “Blimey, Cedric’s still making the news, huh?” He held up the article. “Sounds like he’s really in his element at the Ministry.”

Harry forced a smile, but his mind kept drifting. “Yeah, he’s doing well.” There was a pang of pride and something else he didn’t want to name. He quickly turned his attention back to his coffee. “Speaking of, you’re not usually up this early, either.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” Ron began, then grinned, “I figured we’d catch the schedules as they come out. Better chance at the good seats if we’re early, right?”

Harry chuckled, relieved to shift focus back to Ron as they bantered lightly, deflecting any deeper conversation about Cedric. When McGonagall began moving down the rows with schedules, Ron glanced over and murmured, “Defence Against the Dark Arts with Slytherins after lunch.” Harry’s attention sharpened, an idea blooming, and he excused himself quickly, leaving Ron to his toast as he headed toward the high table where Remus sat, casually sipping his tea.

“Morning, Harry,” Remus greeted with his usual warmth.

“Morning,” Harry replied, glancing over Remus’s scattered books and notes with mild interest. “Any idea what’s on the agenda for Defense today?” He leaned against the table, ignoring Snape’s loud and dramatic scoff by his side.

Remus chuckled, looking a bit bemused. “I was thinking of starting with some duelling practice. You’re all at a point where you need it.”

Harry allowed his expression to brighten, as though the suggestion were news to him. “That’s perfect. Hermione’s been stressing over duelling lately—she’s convinced Ron’s not there yet, and you know how she is when she gets something in her head.”

Remus’s smile grew, catching onto Harry’s tone. “She’s a sharp duelist. Maybe pairing her with Ron would settle things between them.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully, almost offhand. “Yeah, she’d wipe the floor with him, if you ask me. But if they’re paired…” He paused, letting the idea seem to come to him as though it hadn’t been planned all along. “Maybe I could be with a Slytherin?”

Remus raised an eyebrow, interest piqued. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d volunteer for that.”

Harry shrugged with a sheepish smile, as if reluctant to admit his motives. “I mean, I’m not about to complain about house rivalries,” he said lightly, careful to keep his tone disarmingly casual. “And I want a good challenge.”

Before Remus can speak he says:

“What about going against Riddle?”

Remus’s eyes sparkled, his curiosity well and truly caught. “Riddle? Well, that’s a duel I’d be interested in watching.

Harry’s smirk widened, his voice dropping to a murmur. “So would I.”

Classes passed quickly, a barely-registered blur as Harry’s mind drifted forward, consumed by the upcoming duel. The anticipation left him restless and twitching to act, and his thoughts kept circling back to the sheer thrill of duelling Tom again—this time without Cedric’s shadow hanging over him. The idea of feeling his magic stretch, push, and clash fully against Tom’s left him almost dizzy with excitement.

At lunch, he joined Hermione and Ron at their usual table, barely able to sit still. Hermione eyed him critically. “Harry, eat something,” she insisted.

He sighed, forcing down a few spoonfuls of soup, but his appetite was nowhere to be found. His attention was divided, wandering over to the Slytherin table, where Tom sat in quiet conversation. The room felt charged with possibility, as if it sensed the energy surging through him. He caught sight of Draco at the table too, looking bored and half-listening to a friend, but Harry’s attention skated over him without much thought. Every part of him was ready for Defense class to begin.

When the hour finally came, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was transformed, its walls expanded to create ample space for duelling. The anticipation in the room was palpable, every seventh-year student visibly charged up. Remus entered with his usual easy smile, though his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief.

“Good afternoon, everyone!” he greeted them with a cheerful nod. “I hope you had a hearty lunch—you’ll need that energy today.”

The class murmured back, brimming with excitement. Remus motioned them closer, his tone all business now. “We’ll be pairing up, and some of you will duel with students from the other house.” He glanced around the room, waiting for objections that never came. With a satisfied look, he took out a list from his bag. “Right, I’ll call out your names. When you hear yours, head over to your duelling partner.”

Harry fidgeted as Remus started calling names. At last, he heard it.

“Tom Riddle with Harry Potter.”

The rest of the names barely registered. Harry’s excitement sparked anew as he strode forward, eyes meeting Tom’s. Tom inclined his head slightly, acknowledging him with a look that was intense, focused, yet calm. 

“This will be a traditional duel,” Remus instructed, “no more than three offensive spells at a time. Respect the rules, the etiquette—and may the best duel win. The top three pairs will each earn thirty points for their house.”

A few classmates came before them. Some of them were lazy in their work. Other’s didn’t try to keep it non-verbal. 

Then finally it was their turn.

Harry flashed him a quick, almost conspiratorial smile as he took his place across from him. They took their stances.

Remus nods, and that’s all they need.

Tom’s wand cut the air, sending a swift green hex that slashed toward Harry with the precision of a blade. Harry blocked it, his shield shimmering as it absorbed the impact. A grin tugged at his lips as he countered with an Expelliarmus , followed by a quick Impedimenta . Tom deflected both with an effortless flick of his wand, sidestepping as he raised his own shield, his face focused, almost serene.

Harry’s blood sang with the thrill of it. He shifted his weight, sidestepping to throw Tom off as he cast Expulso with a swift movement. Tom raised a shield, barely wavering as it absorbed the blast, but Harry pressed forward, sending a dazzling array of five brightly coloured hexes in rapid succession to confuse and obscure. Each spell burst through the air in a chaotic spectrum, and he watched with satisfaction as Tom’s concentration flickered for just a moment, his brow furrowing in irritation.

“Harry!” Remus called out as the spells crackled through the air, but Harry could barely hear him over the pounding in his ears, the hum of his own magic weaving with Tom’s in a strange, vibrant harmony.

Tom steadied himself, and in an instant retaliated, redirecting a hex toward Harry as he flung another Bombarda at Tom. Their spells collided, sending a crackling wave through the room. And for a moment, it felt like they were locked in place, each holding their ground, every ounce of focus aimed at the point of impact.

Harry’s pulse hammered as he felt his magic respond to Tom’s, as if drawn forward, pulsing and stretching in tune with the challenge before him. It was thrilling, intoxicating. Just as he pushed forward, however, Tom’s spell slipped through his defences, catching him off guard and hitting him squarely in the shoulder. The force of it threw him backward, and he stumbled to the ground with a breathless laugh.

Meanwhile, his Bombarda crashed into Tom’s shield, rocking him back a step, and Tom’s expression flickered briefly, a flash of strain as he steadied himself.

Remus leapt forward, raising a hand to signal the end of the duel. “All right, enough!” he called, his voice carrying through the room as he stepped between them.

“Winner: Tom Riddle!” he announced, sending a small surge of pride through the Slytherins as they cheered.

Still sprawled on the floor, Harry raised a thumbs-up in good humour, his smile wide enough to draw laughter from several Gryffindors nearby. Some students gaped in awe, a few Slytherins whispering in appreciation, but Harry barely noticed. He felt the residual energy of the duel humming in his veins, a satisfaction he couldn’t quite name.

As Harry rose to his feet, brushing off the dust, his eyes met Tom’s once more. There was a flicker in Tom’s gaze—something new, something subtle yet undeniable. Harry felt a magnetic pull in his chest, a strange ache that bordered on exhilaration as he acknowledged the intensity of their duel. For a brief, dizzying moment, he was lost in the rush of it, the hum of his magic still thrumming in his veins.

Remus’s hand landed on his shoulder, guiding him back toward the crowd, “You alright?” His father asked, concern painting his voice. But Harry, still buzzing with the aftershock of the duel, waved him off.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past the concerned looks of his classmates. He shook his head when one of them asked if he needed to be taken to the healer.

The pain, the sting in his shoulder, was nothing. In fact, he was almost eager to feel it, to savour it. It was the reminder of a duel well fought, a challenge that had lit something deep inside him. He wouldn’t let it fade too quickly.

Chapter Text

"Harry," Tom calls, halting him in his tracks. They just duelled, and now he's already talking to him? Harry follows the path of his gaze, landing on the scorched hole in his robes, revealing pink, bloody skin underneath.

A smirk spreads across Tom's face, pleased. He may have earned a badge of honour, but Harry has one too.

"Good duel," Tom says, his voice flat and neutral, though Harry hadn't really expected him to open up so quickly. "You've improved."

Harry raises an eyebrow, wondering if there’s a jab in there. "Thank you. Though, when was the last time we duelled?"

"Fifth year," Tom answers so swiftly that it makes Harry’s mouth fall open, warmth rushing up his neck, turning his cheeks a shade of pink.

"Yeah!" Harry stammers, trying to cover his sudden discomfort. "That’s about it. Though, it had the same resolution, right?"

Tom hums, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice. "You tend to get distracted."

Harry can’t help but quip before he thinks: "Can you blame me?"

Tom’s brown eyes widen just enough for Harry to notice. Then, to his astonishment, something like delight twists across Tom's face. If they were any closer, Harry was sure he’d feel the magic between them crackling—intense, electric.

But he couldn’t touch him yet.

"It would be great," Harry begins, but his words stumble, as his brain kicks into overdrive. "If we could practise outside of class." He doesn’t wait for Tom’s response, his words tumbling out in a rush. “Hermione’s great at duelling. But she knows my style and I know hers. There's no challenge when she can throw me on my ass in a second."

"I doubt that," Tom says, his voice generous.

"So, if we could… ever…" Harry trails off, unsure, his heart beating harder now. 

“Duell in private?” Tom’s face shifts, the gleam in his eyes growing more pronounced—mockery, maybe, but also something else—amusement.

Harry doesn’t care if he’s being mocked. He whispers quickly, "Yeah…" His glasses fog up, and he’s suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious.

Harry was staring at Tom, lost in the pull of his gaze, and now, suddenly, "…rry?" reality hits. 

He turns toward the voice. Hermione’s eyes are dancing between him and Tom, her brow furrowed in concern. Ron stands next to her, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.

Caught. Damn.

"Bye, Tom," Harry mutters, fighting back the scowl on his face as he turns to his friends. Hermione’s hand grips his arm, pulling him away.

They walk in silence, avoiding the crowds leaving the classrooms. It’s not until they find an empty room that Hermione finally speaks, casting a Muffliato over the room before she spats, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Language," Harry mutters, though he’s not in the mood to be lectured.

"Harry," Hermione pressed, her tone serious.

"I’m not doing anything."

"Bullcrap," Ron cuts in, his voice sharp. "We’ve seen the heart-eyes before. You think no one noticed when you were practically batting your eyelashes at Cedric when he put his name in the cup?"

The jab stings. Pointing out the first time he reached out to Cedric, out of nowhere- right after doing the same, but with Tom.

"Okay, fine," Harry says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I have no game." He notices their horrified exchange, realising how much worse it sounded than intended. "But this—this is nothing like that."

"Harry," Hermione snaps, her voice a warning. Her patient is thin as she talks, “You have ignored us all summer, simply writing it's over in a very disturbing way with no follow up. We have to find out from Sirius what’s happening because you cocooned yourself in your room. And now, now,” she stresses the word, “you’re jumping after another boy?”

A beat of silence.

“... When you put it like that…” Harry trails off.

It had been two weeks since that first, unforgettable, Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Harry had promised himself (and Ron and Hermione, with fingers crossed behind his back) that he wouldn’t seek out Tom yet, as tempting as it was. He’d tried calling it quits, but then reality hit him hard. NEWTs loomed large, and with a heavy course load including DADA, Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms, Harry was exhausted. He’d briefly considered Dreamless Sleep potions, but after last year’s reliance, he knew better; they’d lose their effectiveness, and Remus had made sure he didn’t become dependent.

Then, thankfully, the welcome sign from above: Quidditch tryouts were here. With Gryffindor traditionally triumphant on the pitch, they had a legacy to uphold and positions to fill, especially with one open Beater slot.

The morning of tryouts was cold and misty, with only a sliver of dawn light breaking through the clouds. Half of Gryffindor House gathered on the pitch, many wrapped up in enchanted heating charms thanks to Hermione. Even though his teeth chattered slightly, Harry felt warmth seeing the impressive turnout from his own house—and with an equal number of spectators from other houses gathered in the stands.

He cleared his throat. “Alright, everyone, if you’re trying out, form a line. If not, find a seat or scram.” He grinned as a couple of students scrambled to get into place. “We won the Cup last year, and we’re keeping it this year. Since I joined as a Seeker, we’ve only lost once. I want this year to end with another Gryffindor victory.”

Ron and Ginny shot him approving glances, and the familiar click of Colin’s camera punctuated his speech. Harry caught a flash of Hermione’s curls in the crowd—she was watching with a few classmates, no doubt giving him moral support.

“Alright, first up, Chasers! Step forward!” Ginny, Katie, and Demelza joined a few Gryffindors hoping to snatch a spot. As Harry ran the trials, it was obvious who the real stars were; the returning Chasers showed the others up with ease. With a smug grin, Ginny threw an arm around Katie and Demelza, tugging them over, as Colin eagerly clicked more shots of the official team.

Next, they held tryouts for the open Beater slot. While Jimmy Peakes retained his spot, Ritchie was outclassed by a fourth-year named Jacob. Harry had to handle Ritchie’s complaints, assuring him he’d still be considered as a reserve.

Finally, it was time for the Keeper tryouts. Ron, Cormac, and three others took the field, each determined to prove themselves. The air grew tense as Harry watched, keenly aware that this was Ron’s biggest challenge. Colin’s camera flashed as Ron took his position, focused and calm, and outmanoeuvred Cormac and the others with sharp saves and quick reflexes. Ron won decisively, and Harry congratulated him with a pat on the shoulder as Colin captured this.

Cormac, predictably, wasn’t finished. He loomed over Harry, casting a long shadow as he stepped close, almost close enough to be intimidating. “I want a real shot at this team,” he muttered, voice low. “Let’s see you prove I don’t belong here.”

Harry tilted his head up to meet Cormac’s gaze without a flicker of hesitation, an amused chuckle escaping him. “If you really want to be a Seeker, go ahead—try to take it from me.” He smirked, unbothered by the height difference. “But we both know you’re better off in another position.”

A slight smirk tugged at Cormac’s lips, though the stubborn challenge in his eyes didn’t waver. “Fine,” he sneered, trying to close the gap even further. “But if you’re so confident, prove it.”

“Gladly. Ginny, release the Snitch.”

As she released it, the stands went silent in anticipation. Cormac and Harry shot up, brooms angled and eyes scanning the air. It took a few laps around the pitch before Harry’s gaze locked onto the glint of gold. He dove down, Cormac hot on his tail. His Firebolt hummed, and he accelerated sharply, feeling the wind whip past as Cormac tried to keep pace. The Snitch zigzagged low to the ground, then shot back up. Harry pulled a tight manoeuvre, flipping in pursuit, while Cormac veered wildly to avoid colliding.

At last, Harry’s fingers wrapped around the Snitch. Cheers erupted from the stands, and the official team whooped as he touched down. Ron and Ginny tackled him with high-fives and laughs, while Cormac’s face flushed red with both effort and embarrassment.

“So,” Harry said, trying not to gloat too openly, “still think you should be a Seeker?”

“Am I at least a reserve?” Cormac asked, voice tight.

Harry stifled a laugh. “You can be a backup Keeper.”

With that, the tryouts wrapped up. The team helped him clear the field, storing equipment and jotting down new lineups and strategies. Hermione rushed up to them, throwing her arms around Harry in excitement. Colin’s flash went off one last time blinding him.

“Sorry, Harry!” Colin laughed, showing him the picture once his eyes worked again. “Do you want me to send you all of these?”

“Please, and I’ll need copies,” Harry replied, shaking his head with a grin.

As they walked back toward the castle, students from the other houses filed out, and Harry nodded thanks to a few well-wishing Hufflepuffs. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Tom and Draco walking down from the stands with a group of Slytherins. Hermione, noticing his gaze, tugged on his arm.

“Don’t,” she warned, casting him a worried look.

He raised a hand in a subtle wave toward Tom, letting a small smile slip before allowing Hermione and the others to pull him along, heading back to the castle under the now-grey sky.

Harry sat in the quiet corner of the library, surrounded by scattered rolls of parchment, inkpots, and two thick, ancient books propped open beside him. His half-finished essay sat before him, mocking him with every blank line. He tapped his quill on the parchment, smudging it here and there, as he tried to make sense of the spell’s convoluted history and applications.

"Rubbish to Raccoon Dog," he muttered under his breath, flipping back through one of the books to a lengthy paragraph on waste-to-creature transformation spells. The spell itself was shrouded in mystery; none of his research could reveal who had invented it or why anyone would ever want a raccoon dog out of garbage in the first place. He knew it was supposed to be a demonstration of magically transforming mundane objects, but still... he had questions.

His quill scratched across the parchment as he jotted down a sentence or two: “The transformative spell Rubbish to Raccoon Dog dates back to the mid-19th century, though the incantation is mysteriously unknown. While little practical use seems apparent, the spell likely served as an experiment in recycling materials, magically repurposing waste…”

Harry sighed, crossing it out, then tried again, glancing back to the open book on his left. His brain was swimming with oddly-worded passages and footnotes that stretched on longer than any spell he’d ever learned.

The library was nearly empty, quiet but for the faint scratching of quills and the occasional shifting of books. He leaned back, rubbing his eyes as he stared down at the frustrating pile of notes. 

There’s the sound of a cleaning throat and he looks up, and his stomach does a small flip. It was Tom.

“Do you mind? All the other tables are full,” Tom said simply, setting his books down. Harry looked around, a bit flustered, and realised with some embarrassment that Tom was right. Somehow, without noticing, he’d taken over an entire table all for himself. The parchments, ink pots, and open books formed a wide ring around him, making his setup seem even more extravagant.

“Oh, right—um, yeah, of course,” he mumbled, moving a few things to make room. He felt a flush of self-consciousness as he cleared space, remembering Hermione’s warning about giving Tom too much attention. It would be easy—maybe a little too easy—to fall back down into his promise, especially with Tom sitting right across from him, close enough that Harry could pick up a faint scent of his cologne (musky, woody and with a touch of something sweet). But he fought himself, determined to keep things neutral.

For a while, they both worked in silence, and Harry did his best to ignore the way his thoughts kept wandering back to Tom’s presence beside him. At one point, Harry sighed in frustration, erasing yet another sentence. “Rubbish to raccoon dog,” he muttered, more to himself. “You’d think they could’ve invented a spell that made sense…”

“Trouble with your essay?” Tom’s voice was smooth, patient.

Harry hesitated but nodded. “Honestly, yeah. I’m writing about the Rubbish to Raccoon Dog spell, and I can’t find any solid information on it… seems like half the details are a mystery.”

Tom leaned over, studying the scattered notes. “The spell has an interesting history, if not a practical one. It was created as an experiment in material transformation, to show how waste could be used… if not precisely recycled, then repurposed.”

Harry nodded, scribbling some notes, grateful for the help. “You know more about this spell than the library, apparently,” he said, grinning.

Tom’s faint smile broadened a bit as he shifted his chair to sit next to Harry. His shoulder brushed Harry’s as he leaned closer, glancing at the messy paragraph on Harry’s parchment. “I think the key here is understanding the magical theory behind it. It’s not about the incantation itself—it’s more about the intent behind the transformation. The spell is part of a branch of magic that focuses on animate transfigurations.”

Harry was trying to concentrate, but he found himself glancing at Tom’s profile, captivated by the focus in his expression, the quiet intelligence that seemed to flow so naturally from him.

Tom turned back to him, catching him in the act of staring. “Anything else you’re wondering about?” he asked, his voice calm, almost amused, his gaze steady on Harry’s.

Harry’s thoughts jumbled for a moment, and he swallowed, his mind spinning with things he definitely couldn’t say. He forced himself back on track. “Uh—yeah, I guess I was wondering how they managed to channel the right intent without a standard incantation?” He fumbled slightly, feeling his face heat under Tom’s steady gaze.

“They used non-verbal magic, relying on intent and visualisation.” Tom reached over, turning one of the book pages to a section with detailed illustrations. “It’s a complex spell, but it’s possible to guide the transformation with a clear mental image.”

As Tom explained, Harry found himself focusing less on the text and more on the flicker in Tom’s expression, the way his eyes gleamed with some hidden spark of enjoyment. He nodded along, but his thoughts kept drifting, his heartbeat quickening.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice coming out a bit softer than he intended. He caught himself biting his lip, and quickly turned back to the parchment, hoping Tom hadn’t noticed. “Thanks for the help,” he added, trying to keep his voice steady, though his mind was racing.

"Of course," Tom replied, still close enough that Harry could feel warmth. After a pause, Tom glanced at Harry thoughtfully. “I’ve noticed you’re already using non-verbal spells in class. What do you find is the advantage of it?”

Harry hesitated, surprised by the question, but nodded slowly. “Well… with non-verbal spells, there’s no warning. Nobody knows what kind of magic you’re about to perform, so it gives you a split-second advantage, especially in a duel.”

Tom’s smile shifted subtly, a mix of intrigue and approval. “True. In Transfiguration, especially, it helps with concentration. The incantation isn’t there to distract you; it’s just you and your mental image of the end product. In a way, the silence sharpens your focus.”

Harry swallowed, feeling Tom’s words settle into the silence between them. He nodded, but the steady gaze from Tom, so close and unbroken, was pulling him in. He managed a quiet, “Right… makes sense,” but his mind was slipping again, caught up in the spark in Tom’s eyes.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else on your mind?” Tom asked, his tone light, almost teasing. “I could lend you a hand.”

I know exactly where I want your hands.

“Nope,” he chuckles, licking his lips and looking away even when the warmth in his skin let him know he was blushing.

Tom watched as Harry said goodbye, his face unmistakably flushed as he hurried to gather his things. Tom’s gaze tracked him as he walked away, noting the way Harry’s broad shoulders shifted under his robes. Though only slightly shorter than himself, Harry’s frame was solid, honed from hours of Quidditch practice that had shaped his legs and arms with a quiet strength. He looked just as powerful as he was agile—and, Tom thought, irresistibly easy to read.

A thrill flickered through him, sharp and satisfying. For once, the Hufflepuff wasn’t around to take Harry’s attention. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand as Harry disappeared around a bookshelf, his footsteps fading.

Tom’s gaze dropped to Harry’s seat, then drifted over the scattered parchments on the table. His eyes narrowed when a few lines on one page caught his attention. Leaning in, he brought it closer, intrigued by what looked like disjointed scribbles. But as he examined the text, he recognized them. 

Tom's eyes lingered on the chaotic scrawl in front of him. At first, the words seemed like nothing—just a jumble of thoughts written in a rush, almost too erratic to decipher. But then he saw it. A familiar pattern, a strange fluidity to the script. Parselscript. His breath caught as he read the scribbled lines, his gaze moving over the words like they were drawn by some invisible force.

His name stood out, clear and repetitive. But it wasn’t just his name that held his attention. It was the rest of it. “I have to stay away from him.”

A shiver of realisation ran through Tom, his heart thudding in his chest. Harry had written this. In Parselscript. The very same script Tom had used in his journal, the language that twisted in his soul, inseparable from his thoughts. Harry knew it. He understood .

Tom’s fingers twitched as the meaning of it all hit him, and he could feel something dark stirring inside, a sense of possessiveness that made his pulse quicken. The way Harry had written it—so carelessly, yet so deliberately—it wasn’t just a passing thought. It was a confession, a desire, something far deeper than Harry had let on. Tom could almost hear the crackle of Harry's thoughts as they swirled around him, caught between fear and fascination.

A smile curled on Tom’s lips, but it wasn’t one of amusement—it was a smile of something far more dangerous, something possessive, knowing.

He slid the parchment closer to him, his fingers tracing the slant of the letters. He could feel the tension building in his chest, the pull of something he couldn’t quite explain. Harry had written this, Harry had opened the door without even realising it. And now Tom knew. He knew exactly what Harry was hiding beneath the surface. He could see it in the way the words tumbled out, each stroke of the pen growing more desperate, as if Harry had tried to contain it all and failed.

Tom leaned back in his seat, feeling that dark, familiar hunger rise within him. He needed to catch Harry, to confront him with what he had unwittingly revealed. His instincts itched to claim what was his, to sink into this twisted game they were both playing. It was no longer a matter of curiosity. It was a matter of possession.

A small laugh escaped him, low and almost inaudible. Stay away from him? Tom’s eyes narrowed as the thought festered in his mind. No. Harry had no idea what he was getting into. He folded the parchment carefully, tucking it into his backpack with a possessive grip, before his eyes locked on the door through which Harry had disappeared.

The monster in him stirred. He would catch him. He would make sure Harry knew exactly what he had started.

The game was on.

Chapter Text

Harry’s fingers drummed restlessly on the table as he glanced around the Potions classroom. They’d been assigned a project to last the entire term, working on a complex potion of their choice from the NEWT-level syllabus. Ron had chosen the Invigoration Draught, though he’d mainly been motivated by how straightforward it seemed. Harry, on the other hand, was torn between the challenge of Veritaserum and the rare Felix Felicis.

The potion ingredients lists and intricacies were all blurring together. He flipped through the annotated pages of his Advanced Potion-Making book, willing himself to focus. Across the room, he could see Tom working alongside Zabini, looking entirely at ease. From his angle, Harry couldn’t make out much of the potion, but he could tell that Tom’s movements were calm, measured, confident—like everything he did in Potions was second nature.

A figure loomed beside him, and Harry looked up to see Snape, his expression not quite as severe as it had been in past years, though still vaguely unimpressed. “Potter,” he said, his voice low and cutting, “time is running out. Choose your potion, or I’ll choose for you.”

For a split second, Harry considered the Wolfsbane Potion, but he caught Snape’s flat look and knew it was too much to ask. “Forget it—I’ll do Veritaserum,” he said, shrugging.

“Good,” Snape replied, one eyebrow raised. “Then you’ll also complete the antidote alongside it.”

Of course. Snape would make him do the antidote as well. He shot Snape a look before silently cursing him in his mind, carefully avoiding eye contact lest the professor catch the sentiment.

Harry gathered the ingredients for Veritaserum and let out a frustrated sigh. The potion couldn’t be started until the new moon, so today was pointless. When he mentioned it, Snape looked unimpressed. “Then you’d best be useful and start another potion.”

So Harry reluctantly settled on the Draught of Living Death. He saw Hermione working on it nearby, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. If Hermione was struggling, that was… not encouraging.

Harry turned to his cauldron and set out each ingredient, lining them up as he prepared to begin. He took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the recipe and back to the cauldron as he carefully measured the Infusion of Wormwood, feeling the slow weight of concentration settle over him. With a steady hand, he poured the pale liquid into the simmering cauldron, watching as it blended and darkened slightly, a faintly bitter smell rising.

Next, he reached for the powdered root of asphodel, measuring out just enough to dust evenly across the surface of the potion. He stirred twice, clockwise, as instructed, feeling the thickening texture take hold as he watched the potion’s colour deepen to a murky green.

Harry glanced up, catching Hermione’s focused expression, and steeled himself. He added the sloth brain with a slight wince, grimacing as he stirred. The smell was foul, but he managed to ignore it, carefully keeping count as he completed two clockwise turns, then three, then finally the seventh anti-clockwise, watching as the potion started to shimmer faintly.

Finally, he reached the Sopophorous Beans. He picked one up, setting it on the chopping board with a knife. Following the recipe, he pressed the blade down to cut it, only to find that very little juice seeped out. He tried again, adding more pressure this time, but the results were no better. Frowning, he muttered to himself, shifting impatiently as he tried another. But each bean gave him only the smallest trickle, nowhere near what he needed for the potion.

Harry let out a huff of frustration, feeling his cheeks warm as he looked around. Hermione’s potion already looked promising; even Ron was further along with his. Determined not to waste any more time, he got up and headed to the ingredients cabinet to retrieve a fresh handful of beans.

Just as he turned back, he saw Tom coming up to grab more Powdered Moonstone. Despite his own frustration, Harry found himself noticing the light sheen of sweat on Tom’s brow, the single bead of it tracing down the side of his neck. It sent an unexpected spark through Harry, who quickly focused on his beans, ignoring the sudden flush he felt.

“You have to crush them.”

“What?” 

“The Sopophorous Bean,” Tom explained. “You need to crush it with a dagger, not cut it, to release the juice more efficiently.”

Harry looked back to his potion, then back up, unsure if he was being teased. “It doesn’t say that.”

Tom just shrugged lightly. “Trust me,” he said, voice steady, as he left.

Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek on the way back to his table, then reluctantly followed Tom’s advice, retrieving a silver dagger. Back at his seat, he took one of the beans and, pressing the flat of the dagger against it, applied pressure. To his amazement, it released a rich flow of juice, far more than he’d managed before.

Grinning a little despite himself, he quickly added the juice to his potion.

By the end of class, his potion had turned a shade close to lilac, though with a slightly darker tint than he’d expected.

Snape drifted over and peered into his cauldron, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “It’s almost lilac,” Snape commented, his voice dispassionate but laced with faint approval.

Harry bit back a grin, but Snape caught it and added, “Almost won’t cut it at NEWT level, Potter. Lilac, not ‘close enough,’ would yield proper effects.”

As they packed up, Harry felt an odd mix of satisfaction and irritation. Hermione, who had successfully achieved the correct lilac colour, was practically glowing. “It was better than last time I tried it!” she whispered happily. Then gasped as she looked through his backpack then turned back muttering about forgetting her ink, and rushed to retrieve it.

Harry finished packing his things, waiting by the door for Hermione while Ron chatted with her nearby. Then he saw Tom approach, and Harry instinctively straightened, brushing a hand through his hair as if that might somehow make him look a bit more composed.

“Thank you for your help,” Harry said, aiming for casualness but unable to stop the small smile that crept onto his lips.

Tom inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “It was no trouble,” he replied, his voice smooth and quiet. He turned, heading toward the door where Malfoy was waiting. Malfoy shot a questioning look at Harry, but Harry barely noticed, too caught up in the residual warmth of Tom’s presence as he walked away.

Harry was supposed to be writing a Charms essay, but the idea of finding something on soulmates had led him to the library stacks instead. After scanning through spines of mostly academic titles, his gaze landed on Soul-ties: An Introduction into Soulmates by S.B. Ritters. He pulled it off the shelf, feeling that strange little thrill that came with glimpsing something close to what he was hoping to understand.

Flipping through the pages, Harry couldn’t help but laugh at the overly romantic tone. Most of the writing felt like a romance novel disguised as research, all sweetened prose about destined connections and otherworldly bonds. But then, a line made him pause: “When you feel a soul tie, it’s the sense that another soul is in your life for a reason. Even amid chaos, this feeling compels you to make room for them, drawing you in.”

Harry reread it, struck by how perfectly it captured the pull he felt. That’s what it was with Tom. He felt… compelled, even if he couldn’t fully explain why. The feeling was more than curiosity; it was a quiet gravity pulling him back again and again. And the thought, however foolish, that there might be something like destiny behind it was oddly reassuring.

He looked around for a place to sit and noticed Tom, alone at a nearby table, absorbed in a book. Their last conversation had been so unexpectedly enjoyable that Harry found himself walking toward Tom’s table without fully deciding to.

"Could I sit?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual.

Tom looked up, and a smile spread across his face. Not the sly, polite one he wore when he wanted something—but a genuine, open smile. "Of course." Harry slid into the seat beside him, feeling the satisfaction of being right where he wanted.

Tom didn’t say anything at first, just glanced at the book in Harry’s hands, and Harry felt a bit of heat rise to his cheeks. He cleared his throat, scrambling for something to say, to fill the silence that felt both heavy and full of potential. "How’s everything going… with classes?" he asked, wincing internally at his awkwardness.

Tom’s eyes flickered with amusement. He seemed content to let Harry twist in his own silence for a moment before answering, "Pretty good."

“Thanks for helping with the potion,” Harry added, trying to shift to safer ground. “I was… kind of in a bad spot.”

"I heard you almost got it," Tom replied, with a look that somehow managed to be both encouraging and amused.

“‘Almost’ is a word that’s going to haunt me,” Harry sighed with a grin. 

Just then, Madam Pince appeared, her stern face signalling that they’d overstayed their welcome in terms of noise.

“Take this conversation elsewhere, or quiet down,” she warned them, giving them both an exasperated look.

Harry bit back his disappointment, expecting Tom to stay and let him wander off on his own, but to his surprise, Tom stood and offered his hand. “Shall we?”

They left the library side by side, falling into step as they moved through the halls, with the warmth of early evening light spilling through the castle windows.

“Snape has it out for you,” Tom said after a moment, a small edge of humour in his voice. “He has for years, it seems.”

Harry scoffed. “It’s a family thing, I think. He had a thing for my mum, and she dropped him. Then my dad…” he hesitated. He’d never told anyone this. “He, well, wasn’t exactly nice to Snape. Sirius doesn’t like me admitting it, but he kind of… bullied him.” He shrugged, uncomfortable with how easily the admission came out. “But that’s not my problem now. Snape just likes to take it out on me.”

“Seems a bit unfair,” Tom observed, his voice thoughtful.

“He could have gotten rid of me out of spite alone.” Harry scratched the back of his neck, trying to push Cedric’s memory out of his mind as it crept up again—Cedric’s quiet guidance in Potions, his easy laugh, the way he’d gently nudged Harry’s hand to keep a steady stir. “I was only able to keep up with tutoring,” Harry admitted.

Tom nodded, studying him in that observant, quiet way of his. “I noticed,” he said, his tone oddly soft. “You've gotten better.”

Harry looked down, feeling uncomfortably exposed. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “And thanks again for the tip with the bean. If you hadn’t said something, I think I might’ve had a breakdown.”

Tom smiled. “No problem,” he replied, and they walked on, comfortable in the companionable silence. After a moment, Tom added, “I’m working on Amortentia.”

“Oh.” Harry couldn’t help but grin. “That’s… fitting,” he said, raising a brow. The Amortentia potion was notoriously tricky, and for some reason, it felt perfectly in character for Tom to take it on.

Tom glanced at him, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I hope that’s a good thing,” he replied. “To be frank: I was curious about the smell.”

The words brought Harry back to last year’s class, when Professor Snape had brewed Amortentia for them to smell. Harry could still remember the faint traces of vanilla, pumpkin, and fall leaves—warm scents that feel both nostalgic and distant. But now, with Tom standing next to him, the memory felt sharper, laced with a nervous thrill.

“Do you think the smell would change for you?” Harry asked, casting a sideways look at Tom.

Tom paused mid-step, seeming to consider the question. Then, without warning, he leaned in, his shoulder brushing Harry’s, and inhaled softly near Harry’s neck. Harry froze, feeling a rush of heat rise to his cheeks as he processed what was happening. His breath caught.

“Did you just—” Harry stammered, feeling both flustered and oddly exhilarated. “Did you just smell me?”

Tom straightened with an expression of mild amusement, utterly unbothered. “Difficult to avoid,” he replied casually, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world to invade someone’s personal space like that. He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I’m not sure if the smell would change. Might be interesting to find out.”

Harry tried to mask the wild beat of his heart, keeping his voice steady. “I think mine would,” he muttered, half to himself, and looked away. Part of him wondered what he would smell now, with his thoughts so tangled, so fixated.

They walked in silence for a moment, the intensity of the moment still hanging in the air between them, and Harry barely noticed the passing Ravenclaws who jostled them as they moved down the hall. Even so, the brush of Tom’s shoulder against his lingered, as if the connection were carved into the very air around them.

When they reached the Great Hall, Tom turned to face him, his eyes sharp and glinting. “Remember that duel we had?”

Harry’s heart gave an involuntary leap, and he tried to keep his voice light. “Remember?” he echoed, though he didn’t think he could forget it if he tried. The memory was burned into him, surfacing at the oddest of moments. 

What do you think it’s in my mind when I wank?

“Feel like having another go?” Tom asked, his tone challenging, yet laced with a promise.

“Definitely,” Harry replied, feeling a spark of excitement. They passed through the double doors, and Harry barely noticed how the conversations around them quieted. All he could focus on was Tom’s presence beside him, the faint smirk that tugged at his mouth, the closeness that seemed to grow with each shared word.

“Bye, Tom,” Harry said finally, his voice softer than he’d intended, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

Tom’s gaze lingered as well. “Harry,” he replied, his tone low, and there was something in his expression that made Harry’s chest tighten.

To hell with his promise. 

Chapter Text

Harry wants to tell them. He wants to rush over to Ron and Hermione, to spill every detail about Tom. About the duel they’ve planned for next week. About the way Tom had leaned in, close enough for Harry to feel the faint warmth of his breath, and smelled him—casually, as though it was nothing. It wouldn’t change, Tom had said, and Harry’s heart had soared.

It means so much. Tom likes him. Maybe he has for a while, a year even. And even if it isn’t real—if it’s all some game to make Harry blush—it still feels like something. Tom is flirting with him. Tom Riddle is flirting with me. He’s taking the time to respond, to match Harry’s clumsy attempts at charm with quiet, calculated amusement.

Harry is enchanted.

The essay in front of him is an afterthought. Hermione keeps glancing at it, frowning at his scattered notes and half-written arguments, and eventually sighs. “Here, let me just—” She starts fixing it, quill moving furiously, even as Harry protests weakly. But he doesn’t care. Tom likes him, and that truth is so bright it blocks out everything else.

Classes, however, have become unbearable—especially those without Tom. If Tom isn’t there, Harry can’t see him, can’t catch fleeting glances or imagine what he might say next. Instead, he’s left with an empty desk in front of him and daydreams that spiral out of control.

Even when Tom is there, it’s almost worse. Like today, in Defense Against the Dark Arts, where Harry sat beside Ron but kept sneaking looks across the room at Tom. They were supposed to be reading about Nogtails in preparation for next week’s practical. Harry couldn’t have told you a single thing about them.

By the end of class, when Remus dismissed them, he called Harry to stay behind.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance but didn’t linger. They knew better.

Harry approached him, feeling like a kid. His office was warm, the scent of old books and tea hanging in the air. Remus gestured to a chair, sitting down across from him with a mug in hand.

“Everything alright?” He asked, his tone gentle but probing.

“Yes,” Harry lied instinctively, then winced. “I’ve just been… a bit distracted.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “I’ve noticed. What’s been on your mind?”

The urge to talk about Tom surged up, but instead, another thought spilled out before he could stop it.

“I’m not sure if being an Auror is right for me.”

Remus’ expression didn’t change, though Harry caught a flicker of surprise in his eyes. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say, You chose this, but he didn’t. Instead, he set his mug down and leaned forward slightly.

“What do you want to do instead?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, looking at his hands. “I thought I did, but now…” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s not like I can give it a try and then quit if I dislike it. Hermione says it’s not easy to change your mind later.”

“Sometimes it isn’t,” Remus acknowledged. “But it’s not impossible.”

Harry shook his head. “If I start down this path, I don’t think I’ll want to change careers. Everyone’s always told me it’s what I should do. That I’d be good at it. But… Do I really want it?”

Remus stayed quiet, letting the words hang between them.

“Maybe months ago I was sure,” Harry continued. “Maybe last year I thought Tonks was the coolest person ever, and I wanted to be like her. But now…” He trailed off, feeling the weight of his uncertainty.

“What’s changed?” He asked.

Harry didn’t know how to explain it. How the future had once seemed so clear, and now it felt like a foggy path with no destination. He couldn’t say it out loud, but there was nothing in his life right now that made him feel excited —nothing except…

Brown eyes, long lashes, and a sly smirk…

He stopped the thought before it could spiral further. That’s ridiculous. Childish.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, shoulders sagging. “Maybe I’m just nervous.”

Remus studied him carefully, as though he could see right through the flimsy excuse. “You have so much potential,” he said quietly, his voice steady but warm. “You can’t even imagine how proud I am of you.”

The words hit Harry hard, but instead of feeling reassured, he felt hollow. It sounded like a lie. How could Remus be proud of him when he wasn’t even sure of himself? When he felt like a pale imitation of the man his father had been?

Harry blinked back tears, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice thick.

Remus didn’t press further, but as Harry left the office, he felt the weight of those words settle heavily in his chest.

Every day, Harry felt more consumed by this—by him.

His nights became feverish, his fantasies vivid and relentless. Lying in the stillness of his bed, Harry’s hands roamed as his mind spiralled into a scene that left him breathless.

He imagined Tom stretched out beside him, his perfect, styled hair a mess under Harry’s fingers. His brown eyes burned with mischief, his lips lingering just above Harry’s, daring him to close the distance. Harry would pull him down, kissing him hungrily, almost rough, his hand stroking Tom with purpose as Tom returned the touch, torturously slow, driving him mad.

He could feel the heat of Tom’s breath as he let out a soft, taunting laugh against his lips, and it made Harry’s chest tighten. He wanted to wipe that composure away, to make him unravel. Harry’s grip on him would tighten, his movements erratic, Tom gasping into his mouth, his voice rough as he whispered Harry’s name.

Harry imagined himself losing patience, shoving Tom back onto the bed and tearing at his shirt until buttons popped free. Tom would scold him for it, a teasing remark, but Harry wouldn’t care. He’d push him harder, their hips moving in unison, a hand pulling at Tom’s hair as Tom’s touch quickened, tighter, deeper.

But it wasn’t enough. In the haze of his desire, Harry would lower his mouth to Tom’s neck, biting down hard. He could almost hear the startled gasp, the mix of pain and pleasure. Tom would freeze for a heartbeat, his breathing ragged, and then his hand would tangle in Harry’s hair, pulling him closer, as though daring him to do it again.

Harry’s lips would be stained red, and Tom would kiss him fiercely, matching Harry’s intensity, their movements frenzied as they lost themselves in each other-

A creak shattered the moment.

Harry’s eyes flew open, his breath hitching as the dormitory door opened. He froze completely, the rush of his climax catching him mid-motion, his body tensing as warmth spilled over his stomach.

He stayed utterly still, his heart racing, listening as footsteps moved through the room. His hand scrambled for his wand beneath his pillow, and with a flick, he cast a muffling charm around his bed.

Neville shuffled past, oblivious, and Harry lay there, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady his breathing. When the soft sound of the dormitory door closing reached his ears, he exhaled shakily, pushing back the covers.

Grabbing a towel and his toiletries, Harry slipped out of bed, his movements rushed and self-conscious. By the firelight, he caught a glimpse of Neville’s broad shoulders as he settled into a chair, his face illuminated by the flickering flames.

Harry’s cheeks burned with shame as he hurried to the bathroom, avoiding the reflection of his own flushed face in the mirror.

The hallway was alive with chatter, the shuffle of students passing by mingling with laughter and snippets of conversation. Harry walked between Ron and Hermione, his mind only half-focused on their discussion.

“I need to stop by Scrivenshaft’s,” Hermione said, tugging her scarf tighter against the chill. “I’m almost out of ink, and my coat’s looking worse for wear. I saw a lovely one in Gladrags last time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron replied with a good-natured groan. “You do that while I stock up at Honeydukes. Priorities, Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’ll remind you of your priorities when you’re complaining about having to borrow ink again.”

Harry didn’t contribute to the back-and-forth, just let it drift past him as he kept pace with them. His hands were tucked into his robes, his gaze wandering. His friends were mapping out their day, planning each stop before lunch, but Harry wasn’t really listening anymore.

That’s when he saw him.

He was crossing another hallway ahead, his stride calm, his posture perfect. He wasn’t with anyone—just alone, moving down the corridor as though he had all the time in the world.

Harry stopped walking. His heart gave a traitorous little leap, and before he could think it through, his feet moved.

“Tom.”

The name left his lips before he realised he’d said it.

Tom stopped mid-step and turned, his expression shifting as his eyes met Harry’s. A smile curved his lips—not too wide, just enough to make Harry’s stomach twist pleasantly.

“Harry,” Tom said warmly, his voice steady.

Harry felt a rush of nerves, but he pressed on. He took a deep breath, his face already starting to burn. “Would you want to go out to Hogsmeade?”

The words tumbled out too fast, awkward and unpolished, but they were out there now, hanging in the space between them.

Tom blinked, his surprise subtle, but there. He tilted his head slightly, as though considering the invitation. Then, his smile returned, this time sharper.

“Yes.”

Harry couldn’t stop the grin that broke out on his face, too pleased with himself to care how transparent he was being. “Great! So, we’ll see each other… uh…”

“I’ll wait for you at ten,” Tom said smoothly, “by the front doors.”

Harry nodded quickly. “Right. Ten. Got it.”

Tom’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, his smile still in place, before he turned and continued down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

Harry stood frozen for a beat, his heart pounding wildly, before he forced himself to move. He rejoined Ron and Hermione, who were still deep in their plans and hadn’t noticed his absence.

“So, are we going to Honeydukes first or not?”

“Obviously not if we’re stopping by Gladrags,” Hermione replied curtly.

Harry let their voices wash over him, a secret grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His mind was already spinning with another plan—something better than just meeting at the doors. But for now, he kept it to himself.

Harry hadn’t told Ron or Hermione about the date.

Oh, Merlin. It was a date.

He tried to make himself look presentable—just enough without seeming like he’d tried too hard. On his way down, he checked the Marauder’s Map, ensuring Tom was still in the Slytherin common room. Satisfied, he tucked the map away and smoothed his hair one last time.

The entrance to the Slytherin common room revealed itself, and two figures emerged, deep in conversation.

“...not a good idea. Please reconsider—” Malfoy’s words cut off when he noticed Harry leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed. His eyes narrowed. “Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry replied, with a bit of a bite. This year, he’d almost been civil. Was he warning Tom about him? Telling him to stay away?

Tom’s voice cut through the tension. “Harry, I thought you’d be at the front doors.”

Heat flared on Harry’s face. He’d wanted to meet Tom here—to walk him out, to make it romantic. Was that wrong?

“Uh…”

“That’s fine.” Tom dismissed Malfoy with a glance. The blond walked briskly towards the main hall, throwing one last suspicious look back. “You didn’t need to come down here.”

“It’s fine!” Harry insisted quickly.

Tom raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew where the entrance was.”

“Good, because you wouldn’t like the answer. You Slytherins and your secrets.”

Tom’s eyes glimmered. “And you Gryffindors, always uncovering them.”

Harry chuckled. “It’s what we do.”

They joined the line of students waiting to be checked before leaving for Hogsmeade. First-years were carefully monitored; older students walked out without a second glance. As they made their way toward the carriages, Harry’s thoughts spiraled, his nerves growing.

“Is there anywhere you want to go?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Tom considered for a moment, then chuckled, though Harry didn’t get the joke. “I’d like to visit the bookstore. They just released a new edition of Essential Herbology for the Discerning Wizard .”

They headed in that direction. Near Gladrags, Harry spotted Ron and Hermione. His face flushed, and he shifted subtly so Tom’s figure blocked him from view.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not sure what to say.

Tom’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Are you ashamed?”

“What? No! Heck no.” The words tumbled out too fast, and Tom’s lips quirked upward.

“Then what?”

Harry hesitated. “They think I’m not good for you.”

Tom’s laugh was sudden and unexpected. Harry jumped, startled, then flushed with pleasure.

“That you’re not good for me ? That’s beautiful.” He shook his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “In what way, exactly?”

Harry seized the opportunity. He moved closer, their shoes brushing. Tom was just a bit taller, a height that felt perfect—intimate without being imposing. Harry’s gaze fixed on his eyes, close enough to count each lash. He saw Tom’s pupils dilate, the soft change sending a thrill through him.

“They think I’ll ruin your perfect image.” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Will you?” Tom’s voice was low, soft. Harry felt the blood rush in his veins.

“I was going to wait until the end,” Harry admitted, hands gripping Tom’s arms. He tugged gently, leading them into the shadow between two shops. Tom glanced around, expression blank but eyes bright with emotion. Harry’s gaze flickered down to his lips, then back up.

“Can I?”

Tom didn’t answer—didn’t need to. He leaned in, his eyes locked on Harry’s, and the world around them seemed to fade into silence. Their lips met, soft and tentative at first, the barest brush of warmth and promise. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears as the unfamiliar sensation sent a shiver down his spine.

The kiss deepened slowly. Tom’s lips moved against his with deliberate care, testing, exploring. Harry could feel the tension beneath the surface, a restrained intensity that made his breath hitch. Tom’s hands slid to his waist, fingers pressing firmly through the fabric, pulling him closer. Harry’s own hands found their way to Tom’s coat, curling into the material, anchoring himself as his knees felt weak.

The world narrowed to the space between them—the gentle scrape of Tom’s teeth against his lower lip, the soft exhale of breath between kisses. Heat pooled in Harry’s chest, a mix of nervous energy and something deeper, something primal. He leaned into it, his body pressing against Tom’s, feeling the strength beneath the controlled exterior.

Tom’s tongue flicked lightly against his lip, seeking entrance, and Harry’s mouth opened, the kiss turning from cautious to hungry. Their breaths mingled, ragged and desperate. Every movement drew them further in, a silent conversation spoken in gasps and sighs.

When they finally broke apart, Harry’s forehead rested against Tom’s, their breaths mingling in the cool air. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Tom’s intense gaze—those dark, wide pupils drawing him in like a magnetic pull. Harry’s heart raced, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, as if trying to catch up with the moment.

“Oh,” he managed, voice barely a whisper.

Tom’s lips curled into a smirk, eyes still locked on his. “You’re lovely like this,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. The words sank in, spreading a warm thrill through him.

“Do you need a minute to”—Tom’s gaze flickered down, a hint of amusement in his eyes—“settle down, or do you want to come with me?”

Harry’s eyes widened, excitement flaring. “Come with you?” His mind raced ahead, half-hoping, half-pleading. Oh yes, please.

Tom paused, then laughed—a rich, genuine sound that made Harry’s stomach flip. “To the bookstore.”

“Oh!” Harry jerked back, cheeks blazing crimson as he ran a hand through his hair, trying in vain to flatten it. “Yes, right, the bookstore. I can—I mean, I’m perfectly capable of being in public right now.”

Tom’s chuckle was soft, affectionate. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Harry’s cheek, his lips lingering just long enough to feel like a brand. Harry’s skin burned where they touched, a sensation that spread through his entire body, leaving him breathless all over again.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door chimed softly as they entered the bookstore, the scent of parchment and ink wrapping around them like a comforting cloak. The noise from the crowded Hogsmeade streets faded, replaced by a quiet hum of low voices and the occasional rustle of pages turning.

Tom led the way, his gaze sharp and focused, scanning the shelves with a discerning eye. He stopped in front of a section marked “Advanced Potions” and ran his fingers lightly over the spines of the books, each touch deliberate, almost reverent.

“These are all new editions,” he murmured, a note of curiosity threading his voice. His hand hovered, hesitating over a few titles before pulling one out. He flipped through the first few pages, eyes scanning intently. “Perhaps a bit basic...” He returned it to the shelf, picking up another.

Harry leaned against a nearby bookcase, his eyes fixed not on the books but on Tom. He watched the way Tom’s fingers moved over the covers, precise and graceful. His eyes traced the line of Tom’s jaw, the curve of his lips as they pressed together in thought. He followed the subtle shift of weight between Tom’s legs as he shifted to get a better look at a higher shelf, the play of muscles under his coat.

Tom selected another book, opening it briefly before setting it aside.

Harry’s gaze wandered down to Tom’s hands again, the long fingers gently turning pages. His heart thudded in his chest, warmth pooling in his stomach.

Finally, Tom settled on two books, setting the others back on the shelf with careful precision. He turned, and as he walked past Harry, his hand slid into Harry’s with an effortless, practiced ease, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Harry’s breath caught. His hand felt small in Tom’s grip, warm and secure. The world outside the bookstore seemed to blur, the quiet murmurs of other shoppers fading into a distant hum. He moved closer pressing their joined hands against his side. With his free hand, he reached up and placed it on Tom’s arm, fingers pressing lightly against the firm muscle beneath.

“Oh,” he breathed, the sound barely escaping his lips. The soft exhale was almost reverent, an unconscious reaction to the solid strength beneath his touch.

Tom glanced down, his eyes glimmering. “Surprised?” he asked, a playful smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

Harry’s face flushed, but he didn’t pull away. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, voice quiet.

Tom’s grip on his hand tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment. “Let’s pay for these,” he said, leading Harry to the counter.

The boy behind the register rang up the books, but Harry barely noticed. His attention was on the way Tom’s thumb gently traced circles on the back of his hand, the way every little touch seemed deliberate and grounding.

Tom collected his purchase and turned, their hands still intertwined. He didn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes said enough.

Harry’s heart was racing again, and he couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips. 

Outside the bookstore, the crisp air greeted them, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and distant bakery warmth. Tom walked leisurely, the bag of books in his other hand, and Harry couldn’t help but glance at it.

“Give me that,” Harry insisted, reaching for the bag.

Tom raised an eyebrow, effortlessly pulling it out of Harry’s reach. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own books.”

Harry huffed. “I’m just trying to help. I can carry it—seriously.”

A smirk played at Tom’s lips. “So, would you rather grab the bag... or grab me?”

Harry blinked twice, mouth opening and closing before a grin spread across his face. “Fine. You win,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I was just trying to be a gentleman.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “A gentleman?” He leaned in closer, voice low. “Gentlemen don’t kiss on the first date.”

Harry huffed, cheeks warming. “Your sort of gentleman sounds boring.”

Tom’s laughter was soft, almost teasing, and it sent a pleasant shiver down Harry’s spine. They continued walking, the cobblestone streets bustling with students. Their hands swung between them, brushing occasionally, and with a gentle tug, Tom brought Harry closer, smoothly intertwining their arms. He continued talking, unaffected, as if locking arms with Harry were the most natural thing in the world.

Harry tried to focus on the conversation, but his mind wandered. His eyes lingered on the curve of Tom’s earlobe, and a stray thought surfaced: how good it would look marked—his teeth leaving a memory there.

Suddenly, they passed a familiar face. A Hufflepuff, a friend of Cedric’s. He did a double take, his expression shifting from surprise to something colder. He scoffed, eyes lingering on Harry for a moment too long before walking away.

Harry felt ice trail down his spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. His mind spiraled. Did Cedric tell? The thought gnawed at him. Maybe he got tired. Maybe he told people, showed them the mark… The one time he’d managed to leave his mark.

Tom’s voice cut through the haze. “Harry?” His grip on Harry’s arm tightened slightly. “Are you all right?”

Harry forced a smile, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Tom didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he let the silence stretch for a moment, his thumb tracing absent patterns against Harry’s arm, grounding him.

At the Three Broomsticks, the warm glow of lanterns cast a soft light over the wooden tables. Tom went to order their drinks while Harry scanned the room for a table, finally settling on one tucked away in the back corner. He had barely sat down when Hermione appeared in front of him, arms crossed and glaring. Ron stood beside her, face tight with disappointment.

“Oh… hi, ’Mione,” Harry mumbled, sinking a little in his seat.

“Harry,” she began, her voice edged with frustration.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d get mad,” he cut her off, eyes darting between her and Ron.

“This isn’t about me being mad!” Hermione snapped. “You can’t do this.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not doing anything wrong!”

“Harry…” Ron drawled, his tone heavy with concern.

“No!” Harry’s voice rose, but he caught himself. He lowered it, firm but controlled. “I’m just on a date with him. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, Tom returned, stepping into their tense bubble. The atmosphere shifted as he greeted them politely, setting down Harry’s butterbeer before taking his seat.

“How have you been?” Tom asked smoothly, directing the question at Hermione. “Sorry we had to cancel the last meeting.”

Hermione’s expression softened, becoming more polite. “It’s fine. I heard from Laura that the Hufflepuff prefects had too much on their plate.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, and I want to apologize. One of our snakes was bullying a student.”

Hermione blinked, her curiosity piqued. “What did you do?”

“Brought him to Snape,” Tom replied, his voice calm but resolute. “He had a talk with the parents. Something about permanent punishments with Filch until the end of the year.”

Harry’s fingers tightened slightly around his butterbeer, an old thought creeping in uninvited. How helpful would that kind of intervention have been with his father? The idea of Snape sitting Vernon Dursley down for a stern talk was almost laughable.

Hermione nodded, pulling him back to the present. “I’m glad you’re not defending him.”

Tom’s expression shifted, his features sharpening as his eyes darkened. “How could I? I won’t tolerate bullying. Even less from my own House.”

Hermione blinked, clearly caught off guard by the ferocity of his statement. For a moment, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. She looked stricken, as though this unexpected depth from Tom didn’t align with her mental checklist of what a Slytherin should be. Ron, meanwhile, seemed to be calculating whether Tom’s words were sincere or a performance designed to win them over.

Harry watched them both, his own emotions tugging uncomfortably in two directions. Part of him wanted to defend Tom outright, to make them see what he saw. But another part of him—stubborn, impulsive—wanted to roll his eyes and tell them to get over it. They were always so careful, so concerned. He didn’t want to deal with it, not today.

The silence stretched awkwardly, Hermione standing stiffly, Ron’s hands jammed into his pockets. Finally, Hermione straightened, the polite mask slipping back into place. “I’m glad you handled it that way,” she said, her tone careful, measured. “Bullying shouldn’t be tolerated, regardless of house.”

“Agreed,” Tom replied smoothly, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The air between them was oddly charged, a subtle push-and-pull that left Harry feeling like he was in the middle of something he hadn’t signed up for.

“Well,” Hermione said, stepping back slightly, “we should let you enjoy your drinks.”

Ron followed her lead, but his disappointment hung in the air like a weight. “Yeah, see you later, mate,” he said, glancing at Harry, his tone somewhere between resigned and disapproving.

They turned to leave, their retreat stiff and awkward. Hermione’s gaze flicked back once, and Harry knew she was silently cataloging the scene, turning it over in her mind like a puzzle she was determined to solve. Ron walked with his head down, his shoulders hunched, the way he did when he was trying not to say something he knew would only make things worse.

Harry watched them go, a familiar pang of guilt creeping in, though he shoved it aside. Their reactions, their concern—it always came from a good place, but sometimes it felt suffocating. They worried about him like he was still a sixteen-year-old drowning in nightmares and war wounds. But he wasn’t. Not anymore. He was tired of being handled like glass.

“You okay?” Tom’s voice brought him back, and Harry turned to find those piercing eyes studying him with quiet intensity.

A small smile tugged at Harry’s lips. “Yeah,” he said, soft but firm. “I’m okay.”

“Are you okay with… them?”

Harry shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “Yes. They’re just worried. About me.”

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Harry hesitated, his steps slowing. “After the breakup… I wasn’t feeling great. They think I’m still not doing well.”

Tom’s eyes softened. “How are you now?”

Harry offered a small, genuine smile. “I’ve been good. Until the first day of school, I was still... not great. But I’m better now. He’s… gone from my mind.”

Tom’s expression flickered with something unreadable. Harry quickly added, “I haven’t thought about him in a long time.”

Tom just looked at him, a silent question in his eyes. Harry closed the distance between them, stopping when he was an inch away. “Someone else has been occupying the space.”

Finally, Tom’s lips curved into a smile. Without hesitation, Harry leaned in, pressing his lips softly to Tom’s. He felt Tom’s lips curve under his, and without thinking, he playfully nipped at his lower lip. A surge of something fierce welled up inside him—an urge to bite harder—but he settled for a gentle kiss at the corner of Tom’s mouth.

As Harry pulled back, Tom’s hand slipped behind his head, pulling him in again. This kiss was deeper, more intense. Harry’s breath caught; he felt dazed, his senses overwhelmed. When Tom finally leaned back, Harry instinctively chased his mouth, pressing another kiss to his lips. It was only then he realized his hands were cupping Tom’s face, fingers tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

They lingered there, exchanging soft, breathless kisses until they had to pull apart, foreheads touching. Harry stared at Tom, taking in the way his eyes danced—bright and warm, something flickering beneath their surface. His gaze traced the flush on Tom’s cheeks, the way his lips were slightly parted, as if caught mid-laugh. There was a softness there, an openness that felt rare and precious.

“Merlin, you’re beautiful,” Harry murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Tom chuckled, eyes glinting. “We should calm down before we get kicked out.”

Harry rolled his eyes, grinning. “Nobody gets thrown out for snogging.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, his voice low and teasing. “I need to stop before it turns into more than snogging.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. “Well then, let’s go!”

Tom laughed, pulling Harry back down into his seat. “Let’s have a normal date first. Drinks, conversation… hobbies.”

Harry sighed, feigning annoyance but a smile tugged at his lips. “Fine. But only because I want to know what kind of books you actually read.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “What do you mean, ‘what kind of books’?”

Harry leaned back, folding his arms with a playful grin. “I doubt you read all these books for fun. Is it for pleasure, or just so you can be one step ahead?”

Tom blinked, momentarily taken aback, then let out a soft laugh. “If you know about ‘everything’ as you say, you feel great. In the end, it’s both—pleasure and power.”

Harry’s grin faltered, a hint of surprise crossing his face. “Huh.”

Tom’s eyes softened, but a spark of curiosity remained. “Knowledge isn’t just about impressing people. It’s about understanding the world. To control yourself, as is the only thing you can do.”

Harry shook his head, a bit dazed. “You actually enjoy learning, don’t you?”

Tom chuckled, eyes glinting. “You sound surprised.”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “I prefer Quidditch. You know, action instead of words.”

Tom tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “I’ve seen you read, Harry. Outside of class. You’re curious, too.”

“Yeah, but it’s not intellectual stuff like you. I’ve read a lot about souls lately, most times I read about Quidditch.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Tom’s eyes sharpened. “Souls? That’s not exactly light reading.”

Harry flushed, avoiding his gaze. “It’s… interesting.” He wants to change subjects and doesn’t even try to be swift about it. “I’m more of a hands-on learner. Most times writers just start babbling as if to show just how smart and better than everyone else they are. They go on and on, and then you have no idea what they mean because they’re never clear. That’s why practice is always better and more useful.”

Tom nodded slowly, a knowing smile forming. “You grasp things quickly when they’re practical. It’s not just about action. You need purpose. And once you see it, you’re unstoppable.”

Harry’s eyes widened slightly, taken aback.

Tom’s smile softened. “You’re more complicated than I thought.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, the familiar teasing tone returning. “I’m a Gryffindor. What did you expect?”

Tom chuckled, his gaze intense but warm. “I expected a lot more running into trouble.”

“Oh, there will be trouble,” Harry’s grin widened, the moment stretching between them. “You’re not exactly what I expected either.”

Tom’s smile turned more genuine, a quiet satisfaction in his eyes. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Harry leaned in slightly, his voice low. “Yeah. It is.”

There was a brief pause, both of them falling into a comfortable silence, the soft hum of the Three Broomsticks around them. Harry found himself wondering how long this feeling would last, how long he could ignore the world outside of this little bubble of ease and laughter. But for now, he didn’t care. For now, he was here, and that was enough.

Tom’s voice broke the silence, softer this time. “You know, Quidditch might be thrilling, but there’s more to life than flying.”

Harry rolled his eyes, huffing. “Says the guy who probably reads strategy books for fun.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed. “If you know everything, you have the advantage.”

Harry laughed. “You really think knowing all those things makes you feel… powerful?”

Tom’s gaze held his. “It does. But it also makes the world clearer. Less chaotic.”

Harry stared at him, a mixture of awe and affection. “You’re serious about this stuff.”

Tom’s lips twitched. “And you’re serious about flying. We’re not so different.”

Harry leaned back, grinning. “Maybe. But don’t expect me to start quoting books anytime soon.”

Tom’s expression softened, a quiet amusement in his eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

They shared a look, the air between them charged with unspoken words and laughter. Tom finally broke the silence, his voice low and teasing. “You know, I’m starting to think you might actually enjoy learning about magic theory.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Maybe one day. But for now, I’ll stick with Quidditch.”

Tom’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with something Harry couldn’t quite name. “Fair enough.”

They sat there, the hum of the pub fading into the background, the world outside their little bubble of ease and laughter forgotten.

As they left the Three Broomsticks, the air had cooled, a soft breeze sweeping through the streets of Hogsmeade. Harry, with a quick grin, snatched the bag from Tom’s hand, ignoring his raised eyebrow as he slung it over his shoulder. Then, in an almost exaggeratedly gallant gesture, he held out his arm.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head but slipping his arm through Harry’s. “You’re impossible.”

“Charming, you mean,” Harry shot back, a playful glint in his eyes. “Maybe you just don’t know it yet.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. “Oh, I know it.”

They walked side by side, their steps falling into an easy rhythm as they wandered away from the village, the cobblestone paths giving way to grassy trails leading towards the forest’s edge. Their conversation flowed like the path before them, teasing words and quiet laughs punctuating the air.

“So, you really think knowledge is power?” Harry asked, glancing sideways at Tom. “I’m starting to think I could be a good student... if you were the teacher.”

Tom’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Careful, Potter. You’re playing with fire.”

Harry’s heart skipped, the words striking deeper than intended. “Maybe I like the heat.”

Tom’s eyes darkened slightly, the intensity softening as they reached a clearing near the Shrieking Shack. Harry led them to a spot under an old oak, sitting down and patting the ground beside him. Tom settled close—far closer than necessary—their shoulders brushing.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the hum of the forest their only company. Then, Tom’s voice dropped, serious and soft. “I want the truth. Are you still thinking of Cedric?”

The question hit Harry like a cold gust of wind. Panic surged, tightening his chest. He didn’t want to lose this—lose Tom. He swallowed hard, searching for words. “Yes,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. “Sometimes I think about him.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, waiting.

Harry hurried on, heart pounding. “But not because I want him back. It’s just... I’m scared. Scared he’s talking about us. About our relationship.”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver. “What do you mean?”

The weight of memory pressed down, and Harry felt himself teetering on the edge of panic. “I... please, can we talk about this later?” he pleaded. “I don’t want to lose this. Not so fast.”

Tom’s expression softened, but his resolve was firm. “Harry,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere. But I need to understand.”

Reluctantly, Harry nodded, his voice shaky. “It wasn’t Cedric’s fault. He was... he was a wonderful boyfriend. There was nothing wrong with him.” He took a breath, eyes fixed on the ground. “It was me.”

Tom frowned. “What do you mean?”

Harry’s face burned, the words stuck in his throat. “He wanted me to be... soft. Calm. Someone I’m not.” His voice lowered, almost a whisper. “I wanted... more.”

Tom’s eyes flickered with curiosity. “More?”

Harry’s cheeks flushed deeper, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I like using magic. Not just for... regular things. I wanted to—” He broke off, covering his face with his hands, his skin hot. “I wanted to use it to... you know... to get someone... off.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. When Harry finally peeked through his fingers, Tom’s pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable. “I don’t know,” Tom murmured, voice low and rough. “Tell me.”

Harry’s face was blazing now. “I wanted to have him. Really have him. Not just...” His voice trailed off, hands falling to his lap. “He wanted us to be soft. Gentle. Just... hold each other. But I wanted more.”

Tom’s eyes held his, intense and searching. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting more, Harry.”

Harry swallowed the weight of confession lifting, replaced by something else—something electric and unspoken. He held Tom’s gaze, a silent challenge, a quiet plea.

The silence that stretched between them was thick, each heartbeat heavy with unspoken words. Harry’s confession lingered in the air, raw and vulnerable, like an exposed nerve. His eyes darted to Tom’s face, searching for judgment, for rejection—anything that would shatter this fragile moment. But all he found was that intense, unreadable gaze, eyes dark with something Harry couldn’t quite name.

Tom’s lips parted slightly, as if to say something, then closed again. His eyes traced Harry’s face, lingering on the flush of his cheeks, the tension in his jaw. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady. “You think that’s wrong? Wanting to... have someone that completely?”

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. “Cedric did. He said it was... too much. That it felt oppressive. Scary.”

Tom’s eyes softened, a flicker of something—understanding?—crossing his face. “Not everyone understands intensity, Harry. Not everyone can handle it.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But I can.”

Harry’s breath caught, his heart pounding in his chest. The words were simple, but they cut through him like a blade, sharp and exhilarating. “You... can?”

A slow smile curled at the corner of Tom’s lips, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “I can. And I want to.”

The space between them seemed to shrink, the air charged with something electric. Harry felt his pulse quicken, a heat building in his chest. “You... don’t think it’s... too much?”

Tom shook his head, his eyes dark and serious. “Desire isn’t something to be ashamed of, Harry. It’s power. It’s... connection.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his mind spinning. Power. The word lingered, resonating deep within him. He had always feared his own intensity, had tried to bury it, to suppress it. But here, with Tom, it felt different. It felt... right.

“You’re not... scared?” Harry’s voice was barely a whisper.

Tom leaned in, his hand coming to rest lightly on Harry’s knee. “I’m not scared of you, Harry. I want to see all of you. The parts you’ve hidden. The parts you think are too much.” His fingers tightened, just slightly. “Show me.”

Harry’s eyes widened, his breath shallow. The world around them seemed to blur, the distant sounds of the forest fading into a hum. It was just them, in this moment, a thin line between restraint and something deeper, something darker.

“I...” Harry’s voice trembled, his hands clenching in his lap. “I don’t know if I can.”

Tom’s eyes softened, a rare gentleness breaking through the intensity. “You don’t have to, not yet. But when you’re ready... I’ll be here.”

Harry’s chest ached, a mix of relief and something else—something he couldn’t quite name. He nodded, his eyes never leaving Tom’s. “Okay.”

For a moment, they just sat there, the silence filled with more meaning than words could ever convey. Harry’s heart was still pounding, but it wasn’t from fear. It was something else. Something exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Tom’s hand moved, his fingers trailing lightly over Harry’s wrist, his touch sending shivers down Harry’s spine. “You’re stronger than you think. Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”

Harry swallowed, his eyes burning. “I... I don’t want to lose this. Lose you.”

Tom’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing gently over Harry’s knuckles. “You won’t.”

The words settled over Harry like a promise, a lifeline. He nodded, a small, shaky smile breaking through. “Okay.”

They sat in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken words, unfulfilled promises. And for the first time, Harry didn’t feel the need to fill it. He was here. That was enough.

Chapter Text

The dormitory was unusually quiet when Harry stirred awake, faint memories of the night before flitting through his mind. His date with Tom had been... perfect. Too perfect, if he were being honest. The way Tom had looked at him, the things he’d said—it had all felt like a dream, and Harry wasn’t ready to wake up.

That’s probably why Hermione hadn’t said anything. She’d seen him glowing when he returned, his face alight with butterflies he couldn’t quite hide. He’d gone to bed with that same dreamy smile, and she’d let him sleep it off, deciding, perhaps, that she could wait until the morning. But waiting had its limits.

The door to the dormitory banged open.

“Out!” Hermione’s voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding.

Harry bolted upright, his heart racing as the sound of rushed footsteps registered. Dean and Seamus hurried out without a word, and Neville trailed behind, his curious gaze lingering for a moment before the door closed with a click.

The dormitory was left bathed in soft morning light filtering through the curtains. The warm glow did nothing to ease the tension in the room. Hermione stood at the foot of Harry’s bed, arms folded tightly, her expression a mix of concern and determination. Ron sat on the edge of his bed, arms crossed and frowning, clearly bracing for the confrontation.

Harry mumbled, still groggy. “What’s going on?”

“I didn’t say anything last night because you were distracted, ” Hermione began, her tone clipped but with a hint of something softer underneath. “But it’s a new day.”

“Oh, great. More of this,” Harry muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“You can’t just dismiss our concerns because you’re infatuated,” Hermione said firmly, her brows drawing together.

Harry bristled, his jaw tightening. “I’m not infatuated. I know what I’m doing.”

Ron snorted. “Do you? Because it looks a lot like you’re diving headfirst into trouble. Again.”

Harry shot him a glare. “It’s different this time.”

“How?” Hermione pressed, her voice tinged with exasperation. “How is it different?”

“Because he sees me—just me,” Harry snapped, his voice cracking slightly. “And that’s more than I can say for anyone else.”

Hermione’s expression softened for a moment, but only briefly. “We’re not saying you don’t deserve to be happy, Harry. But this with Tom? It feels rushed. Reckless.”

Harry rubbed his face, the frustration building. “You don’t know him like I do.”

“And you do?” Ron interjected, his voice sharp. “You’ve spent, what, a few weeks getting close to him? That doesn’t mean you know everything about him.”

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger. “He’s not hiding anything from me.”

Hermione shook her head, her tone dipping into something more tender but no less firm. “It’s not just about secrets, Harry. People are complicated. Relationships are complicated. And you... you’ve barely had time to heal.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This isn’t about Cedric!”

“Isn’t it?” Hermione’s voice softened further, though an edge remained. “You were broken after the breakup, Harry. We saw it. And now you’re throwing yourself into something new, with someone... intense.”

Harry glared at her, his chest tight with emotion. “He doesn’t want me to be something I’m not.”

Ron stood abruptly, his expression dark. “And what if he wants something worse? What if he’s just using you?”

Harry’s breath hitched, the accusation cutting deep. “He’s not.”

“You don’t know that!” Ron snapped, frustration spilling over. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever felt seen? People can pretend, Harry.”

Harry shook his head, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t understand. Neither of you.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with worry, her voice soft but resolute. “Then make us understand, Harry. Because right now, it feels like you’re slipping away. You’re different. And not in a good way.”

Harry’s voice cracked, a mix of anger and vulnerability. “I don’t need your approval.”

Ron’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed heavily, his voice quiet but no less earnest. “We’re your friends, mate. We care about you.”

“Then trust me,” Harry said, his voice rising. “Trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Hermione’s gaze was steady, though her voice wavered slightly. “We’re trying, Harry. But it’s hard when we feel like we’re losing you.”

Harry looked away, the weight of their words pressing down on him. “You’re not losing me,” he said, his voice softer now, but still laced with defiance. “I’m just... I’m finding myself. And Tom is part of that.”

Ron shook his head, defeated. “I hope you’re right. I really do.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken fears and lingering doubts. Harry turned away from them, his heart pounding. They didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Not yet. But he hoped, in time, they would.

It had been days since their last fight, and the final consensus seemed to be that Harry was an idiot who was bound to get hurt. Well, fine. They could think what they wanted.

Now, sitting in Transfiguration, Harry found his mind drifting again. Tom had promised intensity—had told him he could handle it, that he wanted to know everything about Harry. It felt too perfect. Maybe too much. But Harry wasn’t one to tread lightly. 

It was Wednesday, and as Harry left class, he spotted Tom talking to a wide-eyed first-year. The younger student nodded as Tom spoke, clearly hanging onto every word.

“...then take a left turn, and it’s by the portrait of Madam Agnes,” Tom instructed smoothly. “She’s the one with the cat on her lap.”

“Thank you, Tom!” The kid ran off, beaming.

Harry approached, nerves fluttering but excitement bubbling just beneath. “Hello.”

Tom turned, a smirk already forming. “Hello yourself.”

Harry hesitated, then grinned. “Can I steal you away, or are you busy?”

Tom’s eyes lit up as he stepped closer. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere away from...” Harry glanced around at the students still milling about. “Children, I guess.”

The smirk widened, turning wicked. “Are you planning to have your way with me, Potter?”

Harry blushed, but his grin didn’t falter. “Not yet. I just want to kiss you.”

Tom’s expression softened, and he took Harry’s hands in his. “We could do that here.”

Harry shook his head, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “No. I...”  I don’t want them to see you like this. “PDA isn’t exactly polite,” Harry finally mumbled.

Tom laughed, eyes glinting with amusement. “I doubt that’s the real reason, but I’ll let you off the hook—for now.”

“So... Room?” Harry suggested.

Without another word, Tom tugged him down the hallway. They walked briskly, Tom finally stopping at a quiet, unused Transfiguration classroom. He closed the door behind them, then pulled Harry close, pressing their bodies together. “We won’t be bothered here.”

Harry chuckled, his heart racing as he leaned in. The moment their lips met, it felt as special as the first time. He threaded his fingers through Tom’s hair, messing it up.

Tom tsked against his mouth. “It takes time to fix my hair, you know.”

“I don’t care,” Harry murmured, tugging gently at the soft locks. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping past Tom’s lips.

Tom groaned, spinning them around until Harry’s back hit the cool stone wall. Their knees bumped, but Harry hardly noticed, lost in the heat of the moment. He let his hands roam, hesitating slightly before sliding one leg between Tom’s. Slowly, he raised his knee, pressing gently.

Tom’s sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through Harry. The tension, the connection—it was electric. “God... Harry,” Tom exhaled, his voice rough.

Harry’s own breathing quickened. He could feel Tom’s cock pressed against his thigh, “Tom,” he whispered, his voice shaky but eager.

Tom didn’t answer, just pulled him closer. Harry kisses him, harder than before and is risking it all as he closes his mouth, teeth on Tom’s bottom lip, biting. 

Tom gasped, and Harry tasted the faint tang of blood. But instead of pulling away, Tom’s hands slid down, gripping Harry’s ass. Warmth flooded Harry, and a thrill shot through him as Tom’s fingers kneaded the flesh.

“You’re driving me insane,” Tom panted, eyes dark with intensity. “Taking me to an empty classroom, messing up my hair, biting me... You’ll be my ruin, Potter.”

Harry gasps, pressing his knee up again, drawing a low groan from Tom. 

“What would they think?” 

Harry’s eyes narrowed, a challenge in them. “Yes, what would they think?” He switches them, their positions turned till Tom’s pressed against the wall. “What would they say if they saw what I’ve done to you?” He whispered, pressing a line of kisses down Tom’s neck. “They’ll think you’re no angel.”

Tom’s breath hitched. “Yet you’re the one corrupting here.”

“Oh, Saint Riddle?” Harry teased, his voice low and dangerous. Trails up till that point under the jaw he knew would make him- there it is! He hears Tom cry out in reward. “Think they’ll burn me at the stake for this?”

Tom’s reply was a breathless, “Keep going, precious.”

Harry complied, pressing his knee harder, the friction between them intensifying. He lapped at the wound he’d made on Tom’s lip, savoring the sharp tang of blood. The soft, beautiful sound he’d been waiting for—a mix of a groan and a gasp—finally escaped Tom’s lips. It sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, and he gasped in response, breath catching as heat pooled low in his stomach.

He became sharply aware of the dampness in his own trousers and flushed, but a proud, almost mischievous grin broke across his face as he looked up at Tom.

Then, reality sank in, and he let out a half-frustrated cry. “Not fair!”

Tom blinked, confusion flickering in his dark, blown-out eyes as he caught his breath. “What’s not fair?” he rasped, trying to compose himself, though his smirk was already making its way back.

“I was going to surprise you!” Harry hisses, cheeks flaming.

Tom’s lips twitched with amusement as he pulled Harry closer, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re adorable,” he teased, voice still low and velvety. “I couldn’t resist you.”

Harry squirmed slightly. “But... how did you know?”

Tom’s eyes glimmered with that familiar, cunning spark. “That you spoke Parseltongue?” He arched an eyebrow. “You write little notes to yourself in Parselscript and expect me not to read them?”

Harry’s eyes widened, scandalized. “That’s a violation of privacy!” he spat, though the heat in his voice was all for show.

Tom chuckled, tilting Harry’s chin up to brush soft kisses along his jaw. “True,” he murmured against his skin. “But I was starving for anything connected to you. And you left that lovely note, saying, and I quote, ‘I gotta stay away from him.’”

Harry’s face turned scarlet. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Oh, darling thing,” he teased, smirking down at him but his voice warm with affection. “You just revealed it like that, so anticlimactic.”

Harry bit his lip, eyes darting away. “I... I was going to surprise you later,” he mumbled.

Tom’s smirk softened into something deeper, more intense. “Surprise me, hmm?” His gaze searched Harry’s face, and as understanding dawned, his eyes darkened again. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

Harry’s breath hitched, realizing how his words must have sounded. The plan he’d been forming—not just to show Tom but to completely unravel him—flashed in his mind. Tom’s eyes promised he was ready for whatever Harry had been planning, and the anticipation made Harry’s heart race all over again.

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Harry whispered, voice laced with both promise and challenge.

Tom’s chuckle was low, almost predatory. “I look forward to it.”

Harry finally stared at Tom, reality settling in like a slow, creeping tide.

“Oh.”

Tom tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “Hm?” He pressed soft kisses along Harry’s cheek, each one a gentle reminder of their closeness.

“I bit you.”

Tom blinked, then a small, amused smile played at his lips. “Yeah?”

Harry’s eyes fixed on the mark under Tom’s jaw—a shallow bite, barely deep enough to break the skin, but fresh blood still trickled from the small wound. His gaze traveled up to the faint bruise on Tom’s lower lip, and instinctively, Harry reached out, pressing a fingertip to it. He fought the urge to trace his nail over the tender spot, resisting the strange pull of curiosity.

“Does it hurt?”

Tom’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something intense behind them. “It burns,” he murmured, then, seeing Harry’s alarmed look, added with a sly smile, “But I like it. It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?” Harry’s voice was soft, almost uncertain.

Tom’s hands reached for him, wrapping around him in a way that felt both possessive and comforting. One arm circled his waist, fingers digging into the curve of his hip. The other hand slid up his back, fingers weaving into his hair, gently pressing Harry’s head towards him. The soothing pressure of those fingers sent a shiver down Harry’s spine, his eyes fluttering closed as he leaned in, resting his face against Tom’s neck.

“If I ever go too far, just tell me,” Harry whispered, his voice muffled against Tom’s skin.

Tom’s response was immediate, his tone steady and reassuring. “I will.”

The tension that had lingered in Harry’s chest began to dissipate, replaced by a comforting sense of calm. The words, the touch—it all felt grounding, even after the wild intensity of moments before.

Their breathing synchronized, the room settling into a quiet hum of shared understanding.

Harry stared at the parchment in front of him, the half-written essay on Circe barely holding his attention. He was supposed to be analyzing her significance to modern magical practices, but the words blurred together. He couldn’t bring himself to care about Circe—not when his mind was tangled with more pressing thoughts.

Like what to get Tom.

Maybe it’s too early for gifts, he thought, tapping his quill against his chin. But then again… I had my tongue in his mouth. I think we know each other well enough.

With Cedric, it had been simple. He’d given him a book on magical creatures, knowing how excited he was about working at the Ministry. Tom, though— What did Tom want?

An idea sparked. Harry hastily scribbled a rough outline of his essay, barely enough to finish it later, and then he set off on his hunt.

And by “hunt,” he meant unfolding the Marauder’s Map and looking for one particular name.

He found him by lounging in a deserted corridor, perched on a cobblestone window ledge with a book in hand.

“Hello, Draco,” Harry greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.

The blond glanced up, his expression immediately shifting to exasperation. “Oh, no.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Harry grinned, his tone far too cheerful.

Draco snapped his book shut and started to lower his legs to the ground, but Harry reached out to stop him. “No, no, please! It’ll only take a minute.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You sat down. You always talk longer than a minute. Don’t lie to me.”

“Hey, be nice!” Harry sighed dramatically, settling cross-legged as Draco reluctantly kept one leg dangling. “I want to ask about Tom.”

Draco made a dismissive gesture. “No. You two have been unbearable.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you!” Draco snapped. “Stalking me for information like a lovesick puppy.”

Harry paused, then admitted, “Fair. But you said ‘both.’ Did he ask about me?”

Draco groaned, tilting his head back to look at the sky. Harry followed his gaze, seeing nothing unusual. “Are you praying to God?”

“I’m praying for anything that can kill me now.”

“Don’t be like that!”

With an exaggerated sigh, Draco set his book aside. “Fine. What do you want?”

“I want to get Tom a gift.”

Draco stared, unimpressed. “And?”

“I don’t know what to get him.”

Draco smirked. “Your ass.”

Harry considered it for a second before shaking his head. “Something else?”

“What have you been thinking about?”

“A book.”

“How creative.”

“Draco,” Harry frowned, narrowing his eyes.

“I get it. You want to get him a book because he reads.”

“Yeah,” he admits and ignores the mockery, “but it has to be the right one. That’s why I need your help.”

Draco sighed, clearly resigned. “Fine. Shoot.”

“What has he said about his future?”

For a moment, Draco’s expression went blank—completely unreadable.

“Why?”

“I want to get him something useful.”

Draco looked away, the silence stretching longer than Harry liked.

“Draco?”

“Yeah, uh… I don’t think it’s my place to talk about that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to deal with the fallout.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. What wasn’t he saying? “Fine,” he relented. “So… how have you been?”

Draco blinked. “What?”

“We’re cousins, right? Let’s act like family, cousin.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Draco stood up.

“You’re scaring me. I’m leaving.”

“No brotherly love?” Harry called after him, grinning.

“Goodbye.” Draco’s retreating figure disappeared down the hall, leaving Harry chuckling to himself.

Chapter Text

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, the class was engrossed in an exercise requiring them to manipulate a ceramic bust with wordless magic as they passed it to their working partner. Tom's lazy smile made Harry's heart flutter as they exchanged playful glances, their magic effortlessly dancing around the enchanted object. They took turns showing off, casting spells without speaking, and laughing when the other succeeded in a particularly tricky maneuver.

Harry cackled when Tom levitated the bust into a dramatic spiral, releasing it at the last second only to catch it in midair an inch from the floor. Harry cheered.

“Keep it down,” Remus said, walking by with a stern but gentle tone. Harry did a double-take, his grin faltering momentarily. But his spirits lifted again when Tom raised the bust once more and transfigured it into a cascade of delicate feathers. They floated down like soft snowflakes.

“Show-off,” Harry muttered, but the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.

Remus clapped his hands, signaling the end of the lesson. “That’s it for today. Thank you for your hard work.” The students began packing up, dispersing from their spots. Tom walked over to Harry, smirking as he knocked their shoulders together lightly. The casual touch sent a thrill through Harry’s chest.

“Next week, we’ll be focusing on concealment charms,” Remus announced. “Make sure to prepare by doing some reading.”

As the classroom emptied, Harry noticed Tom heading to their bags, retrieving both and handing Harry his.

“Harry, a word?” Remus’s voice cut through the moment, making Harry sigh. He waved goodbye to Tom, who flashed him a quick smile before leaving.

Once the door closed, Remus’s expression softened. “So, I’ll let you start.”

“Start what?” Harry frowned.

Remus waited patiently, arms crossed.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m dating Tom.”

Remus’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Since when?”

Harry opened his mouth, then hesitated. He was about to say ‘since the Hogsmeade trip,’ but the realization hit—Tom had never actually asked him to be in a relationship. Does that even matter?

“Well… we went on a date during the first Hogsmeade weekend,” he finally said.

“Alright.”

“So… since then, I guess.”

“Got it.”

Harry blinked, suspicious. “Are you mad?”

Remus looked away for a moment, considering his words carefully. “I’m not mad. I’m just… concerned.”

“Ugh, not you too?” Harry groaned. “Hermione and Ron already gave me their opinions.”

Remus’s expression softened. “Harry, the only thing I want is for you to be happy.”

Harry braced himself for the inevitable “but”—but it didn’t come.

“What?” he asked, incredulous.

“I want you to be happy. If you’re happy with Riddle, then I’m glad.”

Harry tilted his head, surprised. “Really?”

Remus nodded. “Riddle is one of our best students. He’s Head Boy, has an internship offer here at Hogwarts, and another from the Ministry-”

“Already?”

Remus smiled. “Sometimes, exceptional students with consistent performance receive early offers. And Tom has been… consistent, to say the least. Not to mention his academic essays.”

“Essays?” Harry echoed, intrigued.

Remus hesitated. “He’s been publishing original work in academic journals for quite some time.”

Harry’s eyes widened. What was Tom writing about?

“I still have some of the journals,” Remus continued, a small smile playing on his lips. “I can lend them to you if you’re interested.”

“Thank you!” Harry followed him to his office, watching as Remus rummaged through a crowded bookshelf. He gasped as Remus pulled out a hefty stack of magazines with boring bland colours.

“Oh, crap,” Harry muttered, staring at the pile.

Remus chuckled, setting them down with a heavy thud. “Yeah. Quite a lot.”

“Just give me a few for now,” Harry said, slipping some into his bag. “I’ll come back for the rest later.”

“Of course.” Remus paused, his tone growing serious. “Oh, and Harry?”

Harry looked up from the door, eyebrows raised.

“If this is still a thing by Christmas… Riddle has to meet Sirius.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue about the “still a thing” comment but froze, horror dawning on his face.

“Oh no…”

Remus’s smirk turned devilish, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh yes.”

“Did you know Tom submitted an essay on the significance of the number seven in magical theory to Modern Numerology ?” Harry asked, setting down his chess piece with a distracted air.

Luna blinked, her serene smile unfaltering. “What did it say?”

He recited, his voice adopting an academic tone: “ ‘The number seven recurs in the most potent spells and arithmantic theories. Seven is a symbol of power and infinity, a constant in magical frameworks. In metaphysical numerology, it signifies insight, intuition, and wisdom—attributes linked to Athena and Minerva, goddesses of war and protection. Those aligned with seven are introspective, intellectual, and seekers of truth.’ Then it goes on but I frankly don’t understand most of it. Something about numbers or something.” 

“Wow.” Luna’s eyes sparkled with genuine admiration. “It’s your turn, by the way.”

“Oh.” Harry glanced at the board, moved a knight without much thought, and watched as Luna deftly slid her queen into place.

“Checkmate,” she declared softly.

“Darn it.”

Luna tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eye. “You’re distracted.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

From his corner, Neville looked up, his legs curled beneath him in an armchair, a Herbology book in hand. “You shouldn’t play chess with Harry when he’s dating.”

“You’re right. I should know better,” Luna chimed, her voice light and airy.

“Har, har, har,” Harry mocked, flopping onto the floor dramatically.

Neville smirked. “Out of curiosity—how long has this been going on?”

“Why is everyone asking me that?!” Harry exclaimed, exasperated. Luna leaned forward, waving her hand over his head, “I’m not infested, Luna.”

“You sound silly now.”

Neville pressed, unrelenting. “So?”

Harry sighed. “Fine… since the Hogsmeade weekend.” The words hung in the air, heavier than he intended. Memories of secret meetings in empty classrooms and quiet gardens surfaced—soft touches, lingering kisses, moments that felt stolen from time. Yet, the unspoken nature of their relationship nagged at him. Had they ever really talked about exclusivity?

Neville’s voice pulled him back. “Well, that’s… great.”

“I can sense your sarcasm.”

“I just wish you’d wait before jump—”

“If you finish that sentence, I’ll hex you.”

Neville shrugged. “Fair enough. Just one question.”

“No, thank you.”

Neville made a series of vague hand gestures, trying to find the right words. “Is he, like…?”

Harry squinted. “What?”

“Never mind,” Neville sighed. “Forget it. I’m too drunk.”

“You’re drinking?!” Harry pounced towards him searching around. He gasped, snatching the bottle from behind the chair. “Selfish bastard.”

“Whatever.” Harry takes a gulp of the bottle sitting next to Neville forcing him to move, then gives back the bottle.

Luna’s voice chimed in, light and cheerful. “I think it’s cute.”

Harry looked at her, half-smiling. “You do?”

“Yeah! Just maybe tone down the mauling.”

Neville choked on his drink, sputtering with laughter. “The mauling!”

“There’s no mauling! They’re just hickeys!” Harry protested, his face turning scarlet.

Luna tilted her head, thoughtful. “Hickeys aren’t usually that deep, are they?” She looked at Neville, who was still laughing.

“No, Luna. Hickeys are pink, then they can turn purple. What Harry’s doing is something else...” He trailed off, grinning mischievously.

Harry’s blush deepened. 

He’s not accustomed to people talking about him in this way. Cedric had always kept any marks hidden—scarves, turtlenecks, concealment charms. But Tom… Tom wore them like badges of honor, flaunting them openly, sometimes even dressing lightly to let the marks show. It made Harry feel warm, proud.

He sighed. “Can we change the subject, please?”

Luna nodded, hopping onto Neville’s lap with surprising agility. She pulled a necklace from her pocket, its charm an intricate arrangement of feathers, beads, and tiny crystals. “I made you this.”

Harry took it, eyes widening. “What’s it for?”

“Protection.”

“Thank you, Luna.” She remained smiling without blinking and he felt he was meant to do something. With doubt he presses a kiss on her cheek and that's when she stopped looking down at him to lay back on Neville’s chest.

“Hey, that’s my girlfriend, Potter,” Neville said in a deadpan voice, eyes betraying his amusement.

“Not for long,” Harry shot back, teasing. Then, more seriously, “I can’t believe you were drinking.”

Neville rolled his eyes. “Had to. You wouldn’t stop talking about Tom. It was driving me insane.”

“Yeah, sorry. I just can’t talk to Hermione and Ron about this.”

“Why not?”

“They think I’m moving too fast.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. “Well… you kind of are.”

“Lies.”

“Think about it. Most people here have known each other for years. And their relationships were built slowly. Yours included.” Neville’s eyes softened. 

Harry nodded, the memory bittersweet. He’d pined for Cedric since third year and hadn’t acted on it until fifth. That relationship had been a slow burn, a quiet yearning that took years to ignite.

“With Tom, it’s different. You weren’t even into him until recently. Now, suddenly you’re dating. All this in four months.”

“Three!” Luna corrected (the traitor).

“Exactly. Three.” Neville’s voice was gentle but firm. “Can you see why people talk?”

Harry fell silent, staring at the floor. “So what? I wasn’t going to wait around and pine for him. We’re graduating soon.”

“And then?” Neville’s question hung in the air, unanswered.

He didn't know.

“Am I supposed to grade that?” Snape sneered, eyeing the small vial in Harry’s hand with disdain.

“What, did you want the whole cauldron?” Harry muttered under his breath, hastily adding a belated, “Sir,” as Snape’s eyes narrowed.

Before Snape could retaliate, Tom approached, carrying a jar—large, perfectly sealed, and unmistakably what Snape had actually wanted. His name and the potion’s title were written in elegant cursive on the label.

“Sir, my potion.” Tom handed it over smoothly, then glanced at Harry’s meager vial. “Oh, that’s Veritaserum?”

“Yes!” Harry declared, a little defensive but mostly eager for Tom’s approval.

Tom’s lips curved into a faint, appreciative smile. “Impressive.”

Harry tried to suppress his grin, especially under Snape’s glare.

Snape’s voice was ice-cold. “Frankly, Riddle, your comments are unnecessary. I doubt in your current state you’re impartial when it comes to Potter.”

Harry scoffed, “Tom would never be anything less than fair.” He felt Tom subtly preening beside him.

Snape snatched Harry’s vial with a muttered, “Fucking teenagers.”

“Thank you, Professor!” Harry’s sarcasm dripped, but Snape ignored it, already turning away to examine something on his desk.

Uncertain whether he was dismissed, Harry turned to Tom, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Is that Amortentia?”

Tom nodded.

Harry smiled. “Can I smell it?”

Tom’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he uncorked the jar. Harry leaned in, immediately enveloped by the intoxicating scent of dark chocolate, old parchment, musk, and honey. His eyes fluttered closed, a lazy giggle escaping as he snapped the jar shut.

“Well?” Tom’s voice was soft, expectant.

Harry pretended to consider, then leaned in close, pressing his face against Tom’s neck. Tom shivered at the touch of Harry’s cold nose, humming softly as Harry breathed him in.

Harry leaned back, fixing Tom with a playful stare. “It changed.”

Tom chuckled, his gaze darkening. He leaned in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to Harry’s lips. There was no need for more—they both knew what the other was saying without words.

“Fifteen points from Slytherin and thirty from Gryffindor.”

They broke apart, but their hands remained intertwined as they turned to face Snape. He had returned, Harry’s vial now marked with ‘POTTER’ in violent, jagged script.

“Leave now, or I’ll deduct more,” Snape growled.

Tom handed over the jar, tugging Harry towards the door. As it closed behind them, they heard a faint, exasperated “Ugh.”

Once in the corridor, Harry grinned. “Thanks for the save.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You do know he rejected your potion just because he could, right?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“I brought the jar because I can’t attend next week. He didn’t need it today.”

“So, he rejected my vial for no reason?”

“Pretty much.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “That bastard. My potion was perfect, and he still had to screw me over.”

Tom’s hum was more amused than sympathetic.

Then Harry processed what Tom had said. “Wait—you’re not going to be here? Where are you going?”

Tom paused. “Family obligation on Friday. But I’ll be back that night.”

“Oh.” Harry wanted to ask more but knew it was too soon. Instead, he forced a smile. “Well, Transfiguration will be a lot less interesting without you.”

Tom smirked. “I know. That’s why I’m giving you permission to terrorize Draco.”

Harry laughed. “You know me so well!”

Tom’s eyes softened. “Better than anyone.”

They walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. Harry glanced at Tom, curiosity gnawing at him. “So... what kind of family thing?” He tried to keep his tone casual, but the words carried a weight he couldn’t hide.

Tom’s expression flickered for a moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes before he masked it with a faint smile. “Just some... obligations.”

Harry frowned but decided not to press. Instead, he nudged Tom playfully with his shoulder. “Fine, keep your secrets. Just know I’ll be practicing my best pranks on Malfoy.”

Tom chuckled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Make me proud, Potter.”

They rounded a corner, and Harry couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at Tom. The way the dim torchlight played over his sharp features made Harry’s heart flutter. 

They emerged from the alcove.Students bustled past, and the sounds of Hogwarts life resumed. But the connection between them lingered, a thread of warmth and promise.

As they approached the Great Hall, Tom glanced at Harry. “Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

Harry grinned. “No promises.”

Tom’s eyes softened. “Good.”

They separated, each heading to their respective tables. Harry felt a pang of longing but pushed it aside. He knew Tom would be back—he always kept his word.

Across the hall, Luna waved him over, her eyes bright. “How’s the terrorizing going?”

“Just getting started,” Harry replied, slipping into a seat next to her, not even asking how she knew about it. 

Neville smirked from across the table. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Harry shrugged, his eyes drifting to the Slytherin table where Tom was sitting, already deep in conversation. “Maybe. But it’s worth it.”

Tom always heard there was something wrong with him. At first, he believed them—the whispers in the orphanage, the taunts about the devil hiding behind his eyes. A small, vulnerable part of him accepted their scorn, swallowed it whole, and let it gnaw at his insides. But as he grew older, he saw the truth. His power set him apart, made him capable of things they couldn’t even dream of. While they cowered in fear or clung to petty hopes, he carved out his own path, a relentless climb fueled by ambition and sheer will.

Tonight, he was on a different kind of mission. The streets of the small town were quiet under the cover of darkness, the only sounds the distant hum of life and the occasional rustle of leaves. He moved with purpose, his hood pulled low to shield his face. Midnight was his curfew; Hogwarts wouldn’t wait for his personal vendettas. But this… this was something he needed to see for himself.

He knew where his father lived, knew every detail of his movements. Yet, when he finally spotted the man, a flicker of surprise shot through him. The resemblance was uncanny—the same dark hair, styled in a way Tom recognized from his own reflection, the same graceful stride that exuded confidence without effort. Even the smile, all polished charm and concealed malice, felt like a reflection of his own. The five agonizing hours of hidden anticipation had led to this confrontation, this mirror image moving through the world, oblivious to the monster in the shadows.

His father emerged from a corner inn, laughing with a woman, lifting her hand to his lips with a practiced ease that made Tom’s stomach churn. The way he tilted his head, the calculated glint in his eye as he held her gaze, it was all too familiar. She giggled, completely unaware of the predator watching them both, unseen and uninvited.

Tom clenched his fists, the fury in him boiling hotter. This man—so similar in appearance, yet so alien in his freedom and unburdened life—had no idea of the legacy he had left behind, the chaos and emptiness that simmered in his son’s blood

Enough.

Tom’s thoughts wandered to Morfin, the (deranged) uncle Draco had mentioned, freshly released and back to his secluded life in the woods. There were stories there, pieces of a past Tom didn’t fully understand. Morfin might know the truth about his mother—about the way she lived and died, about the man who had abandoned her and the child she bore. He could fill in the gaps of the meager information Tom had scraped together in the orphanage, where the most they ever told him was that his mother “wasn’t a looker” and died in childbirth after giving him a name she’d whispered with her last breath.

But confronting his father was more immediate. This man who walked free, untouched by grief or guilt, oblivious to the suffering he’d left behind. Watching him now, happy and unburdened, Tom felt a rage so pure it almost burned.

But he let him go.

When he returned to Hogwarts, the Slytheri n common room was alive with a low hum of activity. Most of his “knights” were there, lounging in the shadows, their conversations ceasing the moment he entered. Only Draco and Theodore knew where he’d been, their eyes locking onto him with silent questions. Tom ignored them, settling into his usual chair by the fire. The warmth did nothing to thaw the icy fury still coiled in his chest.

“How did it go?” Draco asked, feigning disinterest. His eyes flicked around the room, a habit that betrayed his true feelings.

“He wasn’t there. The keeper said they’d gone to the sea.” Tom’s voice was flat, giving nothing away.

Draco nodded, as if satisfied with the lie he assumed. “You could send a letter. Arrange a meeting.”

The suggestion made Tom’s teeth clench. “No. I’m done with this.”

Draco opened his mouth as if to argue but thought better of it. “Potter asked for you.”

The rage twisted into something else. “Did he?”

Draco shifted, uncomfortable. “Well, today he was… distracting. But a few days ago, he came to me, asking about your future.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “And what did you tell him?”

The blond shrugged. “I suggested you’d tell him yourself. Maybe something about your plans with the Ministry.”

The Ministry. The word hung heavy in the air. At the beginning of this… endeavor, he’d seen it as the ultimate goal—a career, influence, power. It seemed obvious. But now? After seeing the way his knights looked at him, after understanding the weight of expectations and traditions, it felt… hollow. He’d sort that out later.

“Knights,” he called, the room falling silent as heads turned towards him. “Meeting soon. I’ll send the time.”

They nodded, and Tom left, knowing better than to expect gossip in his wake.

In the solitude of his private room—one of the perks of being Head Boy—Tom let the façade slip. His robes were folded neatly, dirty clothes discarded in the basket. He moved to his desk, the weight of the evening still pressing down on him.

Then he saw it.

A box of chocolate cauldrons sat beside his papers, a small note attached. A snake, crudely doodled, with a speech bubble: Misssss you in Parseltongue.

He felt his lips curve into a rare smile as he sank into his chair, picking up one of the chocolates and savoring the bitter richness.

A thought struck him mid-bite.

How did Harry manage to get into my room?

He chuckled, the sound low and genuine. 

Chapter Text

"You can't just walk in!"

Tom raised his head at the sudden shout, his steps slowing as he entered the Slytherin common room. He’d made it clear to his housemates that shouting was uncouth, unbecoming of their stature, but none of them seemed to remember that now.

He walked in with his usual poise, his gaze sharp and assessing. “I thought I made myself clear about keeping decorum—”

His words stalled.

Harry was there. Clad in Gryffindor red, leaning casually against the arm of a leather armchair, an infuriatingly wide smile on his face. It wasn’t just a smile; it was a challenge, a warning, a promise. Tom’s eyes narrowed.

“Harry,” he said, his voice low, attempting to hide the familiar softness that had begun to slip in whenever he spoke that name.

“Hi, Tom!” Harry chirped, his grin only widening. "Thought I'd come see you."

The Slytherins stirred. Tension laced the air like a tightrope about to snap.

“Riddle,” Nott spoke up, his eyes darting between Harry and Tom, suspicion clear on his face. “How does he know the password?”

Tom arched an elegant brow, turning his head slowly toward him. “You think I told him?”

Nott didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“Tom wouldn’t tell me the password,” Harry answered for him, his gaze locked firmly on Tom, his voice light but sure.

“Then how did you get in?” Malfoy asked, his tone far less composed.

Harry tilted his head, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I have my ways.” He pushed off the armchair and strode toward Tom, not even glancing at the Slytherins watching them like hawks. He stopped just short of Tom, standing close enough that Tom could count the faint freckles scattered across his nose.

“Could we…?” Harry didn’t finish the question. Didn’t need to.

Tom didn’t care if it was a request to talk, fight, or anything in between. He took Harry’s hand without hesitation and pulled him toward his private room. He heard the hushed whispers of his housemates as the door shut behind them, sealing them off from prying eyes.

Tom cast a nonverbal locking charm on the door. When he turned, Harry was already sprawled on his bed, one arm behind his head, legs lazily crossed. His eyes tracked Tom like a hunter watching his prey.

“Being Head Boy sure has its perks,” Harry said, stretching like a lounging cat.

Tom stuffed his hands into his pockets, if only to stop himself from reaching out. He stayed by the door, watching Harry with guarded focus. “It does.”

Harry’s smirk grew. “You get to boss around all your little minions, have them scurrying around at your feet.” He uncrossed his legs, letting his knees part as he leaned back. “And you get a private room. No prying eyes. Just you and me.”

Tom’s throat felt dry.

“Granger has one too, right?” he asked, his voice rougher than he liked. He cleared his throat to steady it.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, his eyes still on him. “Ron spends a lot of time there.”

“Perks of being in the same house,” Tom muttered, glancing away, though his eyes flickered back to Harry.

Harry tilted his head like a curious bird. “Only reason I regret rejecting Slytherin.”

Tom froze, his eyes snapping back to Harry. “You were going to be a Slytherin?”

Harry shrugged, grinning like it was no big deal. “The Hat considered it, yeah. But I’d just met Malfoy, and he was a prat to Ron, so I begged for anything else.”

Malfoy is going to pay for that, Tom thought with grim satisfaction.

“It fits,” he admitted, letting his eyes trace over Harry. “You’re cunning, ambitious, dangerous. And you speak Parseltongue.”

Harry hummed. “Yeah.”

“I never asked—how do you?” Tom stepped forward, his curiosity genuine this time.

“On my dad’s side,” Harry said, his eyes flicking upward like he was recalling some old memory. “We had family from India, and there are a few old bloodlines there with the gift. Not common, but it happens.”

Tom blinked. It made sense. He’d always found it arrogant to think Britain was the only place with Parseltongue. “It skips generations, I assume?”

Harry nodded. “My great-great-grandmother had it. Then me.”

Then Harry arched his back in a long stretch, his shirt riding up just enough to expose the sharp dip of his hip bones. His legs spread wider, and Tom’s resolve crumbled like sand under a tide.

“You’re making it very hard to focus,” he muttered, gaze flicking anywhere but Harry’s exposed skin.

Harry tilted his head, his eyes half-lidded, dangerously pretty. “Then don’t focus.” 

Tom’s restraint snapped like a thread pulled too tight at the sudden parseltongue. He crossed the room in a heartbeat, kicking off his shoes before bracing himself over Harry. One knee pressed into the mattress near Harry’s hip, the other slotted between his legs. His breath came short, his gaze wild and sharp.

"That's it," Harry murmured, his voice a breathy taunt.

“Don’t mock me,” Tom said, his lips already pressing into the soft warmth of Harry's neck.

“I’m not mocking you,” Harry's hands trailed up into his hair, threading his fingers through the strands. His nails scraped gently against Tom’s scalp, making his eyes roll shut. "It's a praise, darling."

Tom’s lips paused against Harry’s throat. For a second, he just stayed there, breathing him in. Then his hips shifted down, pressing into Harry’s. Harry gasped.

“You like that?” Harry's voice was just as teasing as before, but there was a rasp to it now. “I knew you would.”

Tom didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His breath hitched as Harry’s nails scraped down his spine.

“Come on,” Harry said, voice like velvet. “Lay down for me.”

Tom’s eyes flicked up, a flash of rebellion in them, but Harry just smiled. Slowly, Tom let himself be moved, his back hitting the mattress. His hands hovered at his sides, unsure of what to do with them.

Harry shifted on top of him, straddling his waist like a king on his throne. He grabbed Tom’s wrists and raised them above his head, pinning them to the mattress. Tom’s breath hitched.

"Leave them here for me," Harry whispered, his voice like honey dripping slow and sweet.

Tom bit his lip, his eyes dark with defiance. But he left them there. For him.

Harry leaned down, lips brushing against his ear. "I’ve been thinking about you lately," he murmured.

“Just lately?” Tom rasped, and Harry laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re impossible,” Harry muttered, his gaze shifting to Tom's face, his eyes tracing every inch like he was memorizing it.

Tom felt exposed in a way he never had before. No mask. No composure. Just him.

Harry’s fingers ran down his arms, pressing in at the crook of his elbows, his forearms, the sensitive spots that made Tom twitch. He knew exactly where to touch, how to make him feel every inch of it. Hours of Quidditch training had made Harry strong, his grip firm and unyielding.

Tom couldn’t stop himself from arching up into him, his back curving off the bed. This was power. He wanted it. Needed it.

“Don’t move your hands,” Harry murmured, his voice lower, thicker. His teeth grazed the shell of Tom’s ear, sending a shudder down his spine. “I won't play how I want to play with you just yet.” 

“When?” Tom gasped, breathless.

“Soon,” Harry answered, his grin sharp against Tom’s skin.

Tom could barely hear his own voice, lost in the frantic pace of their movements, the push and pull. He could hear himself hissing, his words slurring as if his mind had come undone.

“Close,” Tom panted.

“Me too,” Harry gasped.

Their movements turned frantic, their rhythm breaking as they both careened toward that sharp, bright edge. Tom’s hands twitched, but Harry shoved them back down with a firm, "Don't."

Tom came apart, light exploding behind his eyes. He could feel Harry's weight pressing down on him, his warmth, his breath on his neck.

"Would you believe me," Harry said after a moment, still catching his breath, "if I told you I didn’t come here for this?”

Tom arched a brow, looking up through his lashes. “Not even for a second.”

Harry chuckled, his eyes fond. “Wanted to ask you for a duel.”

“Why?”

“To make you sweat,” Harry grinned.

" Mission accomplished. " Tom said, lips curling into a lazy smirk as he lay beneath Harry, his breath still uneven.

Tom preened under him, his eyes bright with pride, savoring the way Harry's weight pressed him into the mattress. His fingers curled against the sheets, satisfaction warm in his chest. But then, slowly, his eyes narrowed, his brows pulling together.

“Wait,” he muttered, blinking up at Harry like he’d just solved a puzzle too late. "How did you actually get here? Who told you the password?"

Harry's grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew more smug. He dipped his head, pressing soft, unhurried kisses to Tom’s cheeks, then his temple, then the sharp line of his jaw. Each press of his lips was deliberate, like punctuation in a sentence. Tom swore he felt himself melt.

“No password needed,” Harry murmured between kisses, his voice smooth, low, and maddeningly pleased with himself. His lips brushed the shell of Tom's ear, soft but searing. “I can just open it.”

Tom froze for half a second before tilting his head back to stare at him, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "How?"

Harry leaned in closer, lips brushing over his ear like a secret too delicious to say out loud.

“ Parseltongue, darling. ”

Tom inhaled sharply, his breath catching in his throat and his pulse thrumming in his ears. His gaze snapped back to Harry’s, and his eyes were a dangerous shade of sharp, brilliant blue. His hand shot up, tangling into the mess of Harry’s hair, tugging hard enough to get a gasp from him.

He didn’t know whether to be furious, impressed, or infatuated. Probably all three.

Harry hissed through his teeth, his eyes shutting briefly before fluttering open with a glassy glow.

“Cheeky,” Tom muttered, his voice thick with something that wasn't quite anger. His grip stayed firm in Harry's hair, watching the way his mouth parted with a soft, breathy noise.

“Always,” Harry shot back, lips quirking into a lopsided grin even as his breath hitched.

“Careful, darling,” he whispered, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a knife. His fingers gave another sharp tug. “You’re making me reconsider who’s in charge here.”

Harry just laughed, wild and free. “I would hate to break it to you, love, so just keep going,” he said, tilting his head back just enough to give Tom more access to his neck.

—

Tom moved like a shadow, his feet gliding effortlessly across the floor, each step calculated and fluid. His wand danced in his hand, sending precise jets of light that sliced through the air like silver arrows. Harry, on the other hand, was a storm of motion—crouching low, leaping to the side, narrowly dodging curses with an instinctive agility. Each spell left a faint shimmer, a residue of magic crackling like static between them.

“Try without doing that,” Tom called, eyes glinting with challenge.

Harry cackled, breathless but exhilarated. “You want me to stand still and get hexed? Brilliant.”

Tom smirked, and Harry reluctantly complied, planting his feet within the chalk-drawn boundaries Tom had meticulously outlined. Each step was deliberate now, a wide, sweeping move to evade the jinxes flashing towards him. His body yearned to leap, to dodge, but he forced himself to mimic Tom’s precision.

A shimmering hex soared toward him; Harry deflected it clumsily, sending it ricocheting off to the side. It slammed into a bookshelf, splintering wood and scattering pages like a burst of feathers. Harry winced, eyes darting to the destruction, but Tom's expression remained unfazed, his focus razor-sharp.

They intensified the duel, shifting seamlessly to wordless magic. Tom’s spells came faster—hexes, stunning spells, even a light version of Fiendfyre that danced like serpentine flames before fading. Harry countered with a barrage of his own: shimmering barriers, slicing arcs of light, a disarming charm. He was getting better, but Tom’s technique was like art, each movement graceful and exact.

Finally, Harry sent an Expelliarmus that caught Tom off guard. Their wands locked in a dazzling convergence of energy, a golden orb forming at the point where their spells collided. It hovered, vibrating in the air between them, a miniature sun of clashing forces. They fought for control, each trying to force the orb into the other’s wand. Harry’s muscles strained, magic pushing back against him with relentless force, but he held on. With a final surge, he twisted the energy and shouted a silent, powerful Expelliarmus.

Tom’s wand flew from his hand, landing neatly in Harry’s grasp. The room fell silent, the crackle of dissipating magic leaving a ringing in their ears.

Tom stared at Harry, eyes wide, an unreadable expression on his face. Harry, equally confused, held the wand out between them. “What was that?”

Tom's brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen our magic do that before.”

“Have we ever dueled for real?” Harry asked, voice softer, contemplative. “Without the flirting. Just… pure dueling?”

Tom smirked, but there was a hint of something deeper behind it. “Maybe once? You’ve never really paid attention to me before.”

Harry’s face scrunched like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Don’t make that face, darling. It’s the truth,” Tom added with a teasing lilt.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine. Maybe I was distracted.” That was always a given. “But why now? Why did that happen?” He turned the wand over in his hands, feeling the pulse of magic beneath the polished wood. “What’s your core?”

“Phoenix feather.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing back to that shopping spree. “Did your wand have a brother?”

Tom tilted his head, curiosity blooming. “Yes. The phoenix that gave my wand’s feather provided a second one.”

Harry’s gaze fixed on the wand, the weight of realization settling like stones in his chest. The magic thrummed, not just powerful but familiar, like a pulse synchronized with his own. He handed Tom his wand back, watching the flash of recognition in Tom’s eyes as their magic seemed to resonate, reaching out to each other like old friends reunited.

“Oh, Merlin,” Harry whispered, the pieces fitting together with an almost painful clarity.

Soul ties. No, more than that. Soulmates.

He looked up at Tom, who mirrored his expression, a slow, knowing smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

Harry’s breath hitched. 

He was about to be unbearable.

—--------

The Gryffindor common room was warm and bustling, though the far corner where Harry, Hermione, and Ron sat felt like their own secluded world. A discreet Muffliato spell shielded their conversation, ensuring privacy. Hermione was surrounded by a towering stack of books, methodically flipping through pages. Ron skimmed a single book at lightning speed, his eyes darting across the text, searching for keywords. Harry, meanwhile, had given up entirely, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, glaring at his untouched pile.

“Sorry, Harry. I can’t find anything about it,” Hermione finally admitted, slumping back with a sigh. “These books aren’t correct. Maybe ask Sirius about it?”

“There has to be something,” Harry muttered, ignoring the suggestion.

“What happened again?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed.

“We were dueling, and then our wands just… connected. It was—” He hesitated, a word lingering unspoken: beautiful. “—new.”

“I’ve never seen or heard of anything like that,” Hermione replied, eyes glinting with curiosity and frustration.

Harry hummed in agreement, lost in thought.

“I could keep looking it up,” she offered, though they both knew she had already spent hours searching.

“Thanks, ‘Mione.” He met her eyes, sincerity softening his expression. “I’m sorry, by the way…”

She sighed, her voice tinged with regret. “You have nothing to apologize for. I became overbearing. I should never have talked to you that way.”

“You were right, though. I’ve been—”

“Obsessive?” Ron chimed in, grinning sheepishly.

Harry chuckled, “Yeah, actually. Yes.”

Ron moved closer, sitting beside Hermione, and stretched a hand toward her. She took it without hesitation. “I’m really sorry for saying I didn’t need your approval. I actually do.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You don’t. Friends shouldn’t be like that. I’m sorry for acting like I was mothering you.”

Ron muttered, “Ginny pointed out she sounded like my mum, and we both just died. To be fair.”

Harry almost joked about Ron dating his mum but decided not to ruin the moment. “You’re all fine. I’ve been acting…” He searched for the right word. Crazy. “Silly. But I have my reasons. It’s like… we’re meant for each other. Like we’re the same person in a different font.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a glance but said nothing.

“Our wands are connected,” Harry continued, leaning forward. “Somehow, we have the same core. We’re linked.”

“Phoenix feathers aren’t that—”

“No,” Harry interrupted. “The same one. When I bought my wand, Ollivander said there was another wand with a feather from the same phoenix. He said it was rare—phoenixes never give two feathers. But this one did. The brother wand hadn’t been sold when I got mine, but…”

“Did Riddle say the same thing about his?” Hermione asked, eyes widening.

“Yes. But that the brother had already been sold by the time he got his. Apparently, Ollivander was ecstatic about the ‘brothers’ being sold so close together.”

Ron and Hermione shared another look.

“What?” Harry demanded, eyebrows raised.

“So, Tom knew… about the connection?” Hermione ventured.

Harry frowned. “How would he have known?”

“Ollivander—”

“—said he sold the wand. Nothing else.”

“Maybe he told Tom your name?” Ron suggested.

Harry scoffed. “That’s a clear violation of client privacy. And why would he do that?”

Ron shrugged. “Why not?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Let’s entertain that idea. Why now? Why would he reveal it now? If he’s known since he was eleven, why wait?”

Before they could answer, he continued, “Besides, he’s just as confused as I am about what happened.”

“Pretend,” Ron muttered darkly.

A flicker of anger stirred in Harry, a burning flame crawling up his spine. “It’s not. If he knew, he’d love to show me up.”

Ron leaned back casually, eyes glinting. “You do have Veritaserum,” he said, his voice soft but laced with dangerous suggestions.

The words hung in the air like a challenge, an unspoken threat.

—------------

Hermione's eyes narrowed, and she turned sharply to face Ron. “Are you serious right now? Veritaserum? That’s completely unethical!”

Ron raised his hands defensively. “It was just an idea! I didn’t mean we actually—”

“You can’t just drug someone because you’re suspicious!” she snapped, her voice rising. “And we’re talking about Tom, someone Harry—” She stopped herself.

Harry leaned forward, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Someone I… what, Hermione?”

She crossed her arms, clearly torn. “Someone you trust . But that doesn’t justify—”

“I do trust him,” Harry interrupted, his voice firm but calm. “Tom wouldn’t lie to me about this. He doesn’t play games like that.”

Hermione’s eyes softened, skepticism battling with the earnestness in Harry’s voice. “Harry, he’s… complex. You know that. You’ve said it yourself.”

Harry nodded, his gaze steady. “He is. But he’s also honest, in his own way. If he knew about the wand connection all along, he’d tell me. Not hide it.”

Ron muttered, “Or he’d use it to mess with you.”

Harry shot him a look. “He wouldn’t.”

Hermione hesitated, chewing her lip. “Harry… This is important. If there’s something deeper going on, we need to know. You can’t let—”

“I’m not letting anything blind me,” Harry said, his voice softening. “I know him. If he’s confused, it’s real. He doesn't look like the type to fake ignorance.”

Hermione’s eyes flickered with doubt, but she was listening now. “You sound so certain.”

Harry leaned back, a distant look in his eyes. “Because I am.” Even if there’s some doubt now clinging to his side.

There was a pause. Hermione glanced at Ron, who shrugged, clearly out of his depth. “So… you really think there’s nothing more to it?”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I think there’s something to it. But not deception. Maybe he doesn’t even understand it all yet.”

Hermione’s shoulders slumped. “It’s just… hard to trust. After everything.”

“I know,” Harry said gently. “But I do. And maybe you will too. Eventually.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “I’ll reconsider. But no Veritaserum. Promise me that. Both of you.”

Harry smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. “Promise.”

Ron muttered under his breath, “Still think it’d be faster.”

—--------

Christmas is near. It means family and parties. It means food, mead, and flickering lights that glow like warmth given shape.

It also means introducing Sirius and Tom officially.

“What worries you?” 

How is he supposed to tell Tom that Sirius loved Cedric? That he’d once sat Harry down, eyes soft with nostalgia, and rambled about all the ways he’d help them plan their wedding. He'd joked about dusting off James and Lily’s old wedding album, pointing to grainy photographs and saying, “We’ll just recreate it—no, no, better than that. We’ll make it perfect.”

Then what happened… happened.

“Well… many things,” Harry mutters, voice tight in his throat. He hasn’t told Tom that Remus is going to make him introduce them.

Tom tilts his head, eyes narrowing with quiet scrutiny. "Care to tell me what those 'many things' are?"

Harry shakes his head. “Not right now. But what about you? Since our duel, you’ve been…” he hesitates, searching for the right word. "Distracted . "

Tom doesn’t answer right away, and that silence drives Harry mad. They’re on the Astronomy Tower, wrapped in heavy robes and scarves. The air bites at any skin left uncovered. It’s the only place Harry could bring him that didn’t feel suffocating like the Room of Requirement.

“I have a lot on my mind,” Tom says, voice calm, distant. It feels like a jab.

Harry doesn’t answer either. He knows how it feels to sit with too many thoughts and no way to shape them into words.

“I’ve been researching the connection,” Tom admits, eyes flickering toward him.

“And?”

“I don’t have an answer. Yet . ”

Harry hums, leaning back until the cold stone presses against his back. He tilts his head to stare at the clouds swirling in the night sky, like someone’s breath fogging up glass.

“Me neither,” he says quietly. But he knows something. He knows it in his bones. It’s fated. He doesn’t know how he knows, only that he does.

“It…” Harry starts, his voice faltering like he’s chasing something he can’t quite catch.

Tom waits, his gaze steady, watching Harry with that unnervingly patient kind of focus. “Yes?”

Harry sighs, breath fogging the air. “It has to do with our…” He pauses. Souls. The word rises to the back of his throat, too raw and intimate to say out loud. “…our cores,” he says instead, glancing at Tom to see how he takes it. "Not just the material. Not just the phoenix feather. It’s… more than that. We’re not just alike, Tom. We’re—”

He stops himself short, heart thudding a little too fast.

“We’re what? ” Tom presses, voice sharp as a blade edge.

“…I don’t know,” Harry says at last.

Tom goes still. His face stays blank, but something shifts behind his eyes like the crack of distant thunder.

“I wish you'd be honest,” Tom says flatly, gaze narrowing in disappointment.

The words feel like a blade to the ribs. Harry winces, blinking hard like he can will away the ache. “You’d think I’m silly,” he mutters, low and defensive.

“I wouldn’t.”

“You would.”

“Try me.”

Harry drags in a breath, heart pounding with the weight of his next words. “I think it has to do with our souls.”

There. He’s said it. He braces for it— the ridicule, the skepticism, the smirk.

But Tom’s face doesn’t shift. Not anger, not laughter, not anything. Just still, watching him.

“Maybe,” Harry presses on, “we’re… fated. We have the same core—not just the substance, but from the same provider. We both speak Parseltongue. We both…” he trails off, fingers clenching into fists.

“Are weird ? ” Tom says, voice laced with dry humor.

Harry scoffs, shaking his head. “Not weird. Intense.”

A soft sound escapes Tom—a short, breathy exhale, like a laugh caught halfway. But his face doesn’t move. Not a smile, not a grin, just that ever-present watchfulness, sharp as glass.

“Can I try something?” Harry asks suddenly, turning to face him.

Tom’s gaze narrows, cautious, but he doesn’t say yes or no. He tilts his head, silent permission written on the set of his shoulders.

Harry steps in close, reaching for Tom’s arm. His fingers curl firmly around Tom’s wrist, wrapping fully around it, thumb pressed to the steady thrum of his pulse. His magic is dancing in his veins. He gives Tom one last glance—then he pulls.

Tom’s sharp inhale echoes in the cold air. His eyes go wide, breath hitched like a gasp.

Harry feels it. Feels it. The push-pull of it, like unspooling thread from a knotted ball. His magic curls into Tom’s like fishing line cast deep into water, snagging something strong. He tugs harder, not soft or gentle, and something shifts under his grip.

Tom's magic fights him. It's wild, raw, coiling like a serpent, but Harry doesn’t let go. He twists his own magic into it, wraps it around Tom’s, lets it knot itself into something unbreakable. He pulls it closer, closer, until he feels it at Tom’s core—deep in his chest where magic beats alongside the heart.

Another sharp sound from Tom’s throat— not a gasp, not a cry, but something deeper. His eyes snap shut, brows knitting tight as he feels it too. His fingers twitch at his sides, clenching and releasing.

Harry twists harder, sinking his magic deeper into the swell of Tom's power, his fingers tightening on his wrist. He feels it—raw and bright—like two wires sparking when touched. A snap of something electric, the thrum of power bleeding between them.

Tom's lips part with a soft, unsteady exhale. His eyes open slowly, and they're darker than usual. Wide, searching. Breathless.

" Harry. " His voice comes out hoarse, strained like he'd been holding back a scream.

Harry doesn’t answer, his eyes focused on where their hands are joined. He can feel it, a low vibration in the air between them, humming like a struck bell. It’s not just magic anymore. It’s something deeper. Closer. Like a live wire stretched taut between them, impossible to sever.

"Do you feel it?" Harry asks, his voice low, rough with strain.

Tom swallows thickly, nodding once. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

Their eyes meet.

We’re the same.

Harry knows it now—not just in his head, but in his bones. Their cores, their magic, their souls. Everything about them pulls toward each other like magnets.

He lets go of Tom’s wrist. Their magic doesn't untangle. It stays, twisted together like threads in a rope.

"Yeah," Tom mutters, flexing his fingers like he’s still feeling the burn. His eyes are locked on Harry, sharp and focused. His gaze trails from his hand to his face, searching him, like he’s trying to read a prophecy written in his features.

“ Yeah, ” he says again, quieter this time, like he’s only just realized it too.

Tom looks up . His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide like he's been hit with a hex. His mouth is open, frozen mid-gasp, his chest rising and falling like he’s chasing air.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He shoves Tom down, his movements sharp and sure. He straddles him, each knee pressing firmly against Tom’s sides. The shift draws a startled sound from Tom, barely a breath, and Harry feels it — him — the heat of it, hard and unyielding against the seam of his own trousers.

His hands slide up, fingers brushing over the smooth fabric of Tom’s robes until they press flat against his chest. Harry’s palm settles right over his heart, feeling the fast, frantic beat beneath. There it is. The core. Right where it’s supposed to be.

He breathes in deeply, magic coiling in his lungs like smoke before he lets it out in a slow, controlled exhale. His fingers twitch, then press harder. His magic twists down, threads of it sliding through Tom’s skin and muscle until it hooks into the core. There.

Tom's breath falters. His eyes go wide for a heartbeat before they snap shut, his head tipping back against the stone with a quiet, bitten-off gasp. His face goes pale — so pale it looks like all the blood has been drained out of him.

"Does it hurt?" Harry asks, voice tight but not unkind.

Tom nods once, quick and jerky, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Harry’s eyes narrow. He doesn't fully let go, but he softens the pull, loosening his grip just enough.

His magic shifts, going from sharp and cutting to smooth and steady. He pushes it deeper into Tom’s core, circling it slowly, and is rewarded with a different sound—a sharp, shaky exhale that melts into something softer. Not pain. Relief.

"See?" Harry murmurs, tilting his head. His eyes stay fixed on Tom’s face, watching every shift, every tremble, every tiny change in his breathing. " See? "

Tom’s breathing evens out, but his gaze stays locked on Harry. His lips part, breath hitching slightly.

"You thought I was being silly," Harry says, his voice low but pointed. His fingers flex against Tom’s chest, and he presses just a bit harder.

“No, I—”

" You did. " Harry’s gaze sharpens. " But it’s okay. " His eyes flicker down to Tom’s mouth, then his throat, watching how it bobs with every hard swallow. He leans forward, voice pitched like a secret meant for only them. "Do you think anyone else could make you feel like this?"

Tom says nothing. His lips press together, stubborn, but his body betrays him. His breath comes fast and shallow, chest heaving under Harry's hand.

Wrong answer.

Harry’s magic tightens around Tom’s core, gripping it like a fist, squeezing until he can feel the strain. Tom’s eyes snap wide open, and he chokes on a sound that’s not quite a sob but not quite anything else. His head tips back, face twisted in something like agony, something like pleasure. His eyes turn glassy, and he blinks rapidly like he's trying not to cry.

" Answer me, " Harry says, voice a low growl. He leans in close, his breath warm against the curve of Tom’s ear. “Do you think anyone else could make you feel like this?”

Tom’s fingers dig into Harry’s thighs, clutching like he’s on the edge of falling. He gasps, " No! "

Harry hums, a low, pleased sound deep in his chest. His magic unwinds slowly, letting Tom’s core breathe, but he doesn’t release it. Not yet.

“Good boy,” Harry murmurs, watching as Tom's head tilts back, neck exposed, skin flushed with the aftershock of it all.

There’s sweat on his face now, little beads of it rolling down his temples, down the sharp slope of his cheekbones. His chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His hips keep shifting, pushing upward in short, desperate movements. Harry feels it, every brush, every grind beneath him, and his grin sharpens.

"Our souls are tied," Harry says slowly, like he’s tasting the words as he speaks them. “Our magic is one. I don’t know what we did, but I know this—” He presses down harder with his hips, and Tom gasps, the sound bitten off and hoarse. “ We’re perfect together. ”

Tom doesn’t answer, his throat working to swallow down whatever noise is threatening to escape. His eyes are half-closed, lashes fluttering like he’s caught between awareness and something deeper. His hands are still on Harry’s thighs, fingers squeezing hard enough to ache, but Harry doesn't mind.

He looks down at him — really looks. The sweat on his brow, the flushed glow of his skin, the way his breathing never quite settles.

“You know it too,” Harry says quietly. His thumb strokes once over Tom’s chest, right over the core. "Don’t you?"

Tom’s lips part, his gaze flickering to Harry’s face. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. It’s all there in his eyes — the hunger, the certainty, the way he’s looking at Harry like there’s nothing else in the world.

Yeah, Harry thinks. He knows.

Chapter Text

Harry throws a few things into his trunk, eyes flicking to the mess of clothes still draped over his bed. His fingers hover over a pair of mismatched socks before flicking them aside. No point packing everything, he reasons. There’s more than enough at Grimmauld Place, and it’s not like he’ll be doing much besides lounging around anyway. He folds a jumper with little care, creasing it more than smoothing it.

The thought comes back and he grimaces.

He still hasn’t invited Tom for Christmas.

The thought sits heavy in his mind, heavier than it should be. Usually, he has a plan for these things — a script, a reason, something solid to lean on. But this time, he’s got nothing. No angle, no strategy, just the looming reality of Sirius and Tom in the same house for days. He can already picture them circling the other like wary feral cats.

He zips his bag halfway, pushing it aside in every sense of the word. Later. I’ll deal with it later.

“Harry! Wanna fly?”

Ron’s voice echoes from the stairwell below. Harry glances at the half-packed trunk, then shrugs. It can wait.

“Yeah, alright!” he calls back, tugging on his cloak and grabbing his broom.

When he reaches the landing, Ron’s already bounding down the stairs, his footsteps loud and reckless. Harry jogs to catch up, the familiar rush of movement settling something in him.

“You coming to the Burrow?” Ron asks as they head toward the pitch, his hands stuffed into his cloak pockets to keep them warm.

“Probably,” Harry says, hopping the last two steps. “Sirius won’t shut up about your mum’s pie.”

Ron glances at him. “Please tell me that’s about food.”

Harry barks a laugh, shoving him lightly. “Yeah, it’s about food.”

“Good to know.” Ron rubs his hands together like he’s planning something. “I can’t wait for Christmas. Got Hermione this—” He stops himself, his eyes widening like he’s just remembered something urgent. “Wait, no, not telling you. It’s a surprise.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, his face a perfect picture of mock devastation. “Oh no, how will I survive without knowing?” He presses a hand to his chest as if wounded. “How could you foil my evil scheme to find out?”

Ron rolls his eyes but grins, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s been so hard keeping it a secret. You’ll see, though. It’s brilliant.”

Half of Harry expects it’ll be something overly sentimental that Ron thinks is more impressive than it is — maybe a hand-knitted scarf or a collection of notes on their best memories together. But a quieter, more thoughtful part of him wonders if it’s something more. His mind drifts. He pictures Ron and Hermione married, living in a little house tucked in some quiet woods. Hermione in sharp professional robes, heading off to work, while Ron chases kids around the garden with a broom.

“She’ll love it, whatever it is,” Harry says, more honestly than he expected to.

Ron’s grin softens, a quiet kind of pride sneaking onto his face. “Thanks, mate. You’ll love yours too.”

Harry perks up, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s—” Ron gasps suddenly, his eyes darting toward Harry like he’s being hexed. “ FUCK, POTTER, STOP! ”

Harry flinches, only to see Ron staring at him like he’s just been accused of murder. It takes a second before Harry realizes. He thinks I’m trying to Legilimize him.

“I didn’t do anything!” Harry cackles, darting ahead with quick, light steps. “So sorry, Weasley, my powers are just too great. ”

“Shut up,” Ron mutters, trudging after him with an over-the-top scowl that doesn’t quite hide the grin tugging at his mouth. He bumps Harry’s arm as they walk, and Harry bumps him back, jostling him.

Their breath fogs the cold air as they step onto the pitch. Ron tilts his head back, his grin splitting wider, his eyes scanning the open sky like it’s a long-lost friend.

It’s good, Harry thinks. This. The teasing, the warmth, the easy way everything fits. For once, he’s not thinking about tomorrow or Sirius or Tom or how to bridge two worlds that may never fit together. It’s just this — cold air, open sky, and Ron’s laugh catching on the breeze.

The field is already in use. Three Hufflepuffs and two Ravenclaws hover on broomsticks, tossing a Quaffle back and forth. The air is sharp with cold, the faint crunch of frost touching the grass underfoot.

“Mind if we join?” Ron calls, hands cupped around his mouth.

The Hufflepuffs glance at each other, unsure, until one of the Ravenclaws swoops down. “Sure!” he says, eyes locking onto Harry.

Harry raises his hands in a show of politeness. “Only if you’re alright with it. We’re just flying laps.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” He replies, his smile too easy, too wide. He pushes a hand through his hair, clearly trying too hard. His gaze doesn’t shift from Harry.

Harry feels his face twitch but forces a smile. “Thanks, mate.”

“Why, thank you, Oliver, so generous of you,” Ron drawls, his tone dripping with mockery. He’ll thank Ron later for calling his name out loud.

The Hufflepuffs snicker. Harry walks over to the bench, leaving his bag and cloak behind. He casts a warming charm on himself before strapping on his elbow pads. His fingers tug the buckles tighter than necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Oliver glancing his way — again. His gaze isn’t subtle. His eyes drag slowly over Harry, flicking away just as quickly when caught.

Harry’s jaw tightens. Great.

They split into teams: three Hufflepuffs against two Ravenclaws, with Harry and Ron joining the Ravenclaws. No Snitch today, so it’s a simple game of scoring goals with the Quaffle. The air fills with the hum of broomsticks and the distant crackle of frost underfoot.

Harry flies like a knife through water, weaving through defenders like he’s built for it. He’s fast — faster than anyone on the pitch — but his aim isn’t perfect, and his throws lack power. Ron makes up for it, blocking goal after goal like he’s born for the position. Each time he saves one, he flashes Harry a grin, smug as ever.

They play short rounds to ten points. By the end, Harry’s arms feel like lead, and his breath clouds the air in steady bursts.

“I'm out,” he says, circling down to the ground.

The others wave him off, reworking teams now that they’re even again. Harry strips off his elbow pads, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. He drapes it over the back of his neck, catching his breath.

“You’re a good flier.”

Harry looks up to find Oliver standing there, too close, his hands shoved into his cloak pockets like he’s trying to seem casual.

“Thanks,” Harry replied coolly. “You are too.” His gaze flicks to the sky, where the others are still playing. “Shouldn’t you be up there? It’s three against two.”

“They’ll manage,” Oliver says, stepping forward. His eyes don’t leave Harry’s face. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

Harry tenses. He keeps his face blank, carefully neutral. “Make it fast, then. They’re waiting for you.”

Oliver’s grin widens, his eyes scanning Harry like he’s sizing him up. “You’re kind of legendary, you know. On the field, in duels — no one’s like you.”

“Hmm.” Harry doesn’t bite.

Oliver shifts closer, his foot crunching softly against the frost. “Have you ever thought about—”

“I’m dating someone,” Harry cuts in flatly, eyes locked on his.

Oliver chuckles, leaning in like it’s a joke they’re both in on. “We all know that’s not real.”

The rage comes quick, sharp as lightning. Harry’s fingers curl into fists. Not real. His heart thuds harder, louder. His breath fogs in front of him, steady, but his eyes narrow into twin points of green ice.

“It is,” he says quietly, voice low like a warning bell. “And even if it wasn’t, I still wouldn’t like you.”

Oliver’s grin doesn’t slip. In fact, it sharpens. “You sure?” He steps forward, too close now, his breath curling in the cold air between them. “You’ve got that look, you know. Like you’re just waiting for someone to—”

Harry doesn’t let him finish. His magic surges, raw and wild, like a rope snapping under pressure. It slams into Oliver, unseen but undeniable, knocking him clean off his feet. He hits the frost-covered ground with a grunt, eyes wide with shock.

“Hey!” Another Ravenclaw drops from his broom and runs toward them. “What’s wrong with you?”

Harry doesn’t even flinch. His arms fold over his chest, gaze sharp as broken glass. “He doesn’t know what no means, so I taught him what fuck off means.”

Ron appears at his side, gaze darting between Harry and Oliver. “Problem?” Ron asks, his tone deceptively light but his eyes sharp, glaring at Oliver like he’s daring him to say something stupid.

“Nothing,” Harry says, his smile small but razor-sharp. His voice carries that too-calm tone that means trouble. “It’s sorted.”

“Sorted?” the other Ravenclaw sneers. “You’re not his doormat, Weasley. You don’t have to back up every shitty thing he does.”

Ron snorts, tugging his gloves tighter like he’s ready for a fight. “Be grateful you caught Harry on a good day.”

Harry flicks his wand without looking, summoning his bag and cloak. They fly to him with a sharp snap , and he swings them over his shoulders in one smooth motion. His eyes are on Oliver the entire time.

“Sorry I ruined it for you,” he says to Ron, voice smooth as silk. “Stay if you want.”

Ron shakes his head, grabbing his bag. “Nah, I’m coming with you.”

“Yeah, run away, Potter, ” Justin sneers from the air, his voice carrying over the pitch. “You’re always a fucking dick to everyone.”

Harry stops dead in his tracks. His head tilts slowly, not unlike a predator spotting prey. He turns his gaze toward Justin, his eyes cold and bright and wrong.

“Am I?” Harry’s voice is quiet, but it cuts like a curse. “Or do you just have the habit of getting on my nerves?” His gaze shifts back to Oliver. “Don’t come near me again.”

He turns and walks away, Ron falling into step beside him. Neither of them speaks until they’re past the pitch and halfway to the castle.

“You okay?” Ron asks, glancing at him from the side.

Harry’s fists clench and unclench at his sides, his jaw tight. He’s still seething, heat and cold burning under his skin. “He said it was obvious I wasn’t with Tom,” he says through his teeth. “Like he knows me.” His fingers flex, twitching like he’s gripping something invisible. “Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Ron snorts, tugging his hat down over his ears. “He’s a dickhead, mate. We all knew it.”

Harry hums low in his throat, his mind replaying Oliver’s smug grin and the way he’d stepped closer, talking like he was owed something. It burns.

“I could kill that bastard,” Harry mutters, voice quiet.

“Maybe don’t,” Ron says, glancing at him with a side-eye. “Let’s get some cake.”

Harry huffs a laugh despite himself, and the tension in his shoulders slowly unwinds. “Yeah,” he says, still half-muttering, “cake sounds good.”

His mind doesn’t fully let it go, though. He can still see the shock on Oliver’s face when the magic hit him. The way he fell. The disbelief. Part of Harry thinks he should feel guilty.

But he doesn’t.

They head towards the kitchens, the distant echo of laughter and broomsticks fading behind them. Ron walks close, close enough that their arms bump now and then. He doesn’t say anything about it, just mutters, “Cake’ll fix it,” like it’s a promise.

Harry doesn’t answer. His eyes are ahead, his fists in his pockets. His mind is quieter now, but the ember of rage still simmers low, warm and steady.

He won’t try it again, Harry thinks, eyes forward, unblinking. He won’t dare.

But then Tom appears at the end of the corridor, his presence like the first gust of warm air after stepping in from the cold. His robes are perfect as always, his Head-Boy badge gleaming like freshly polished silver. Ron notices too and, with the self-awareness of someone who's been around this dynamic for too long, claps Harry on the shoulder.

“I’m gonna get the cake. You get yours,” he says with a wink, already walking off.

Harry snorts, shaking his head, his gaze shifting back to Tom. The moment feels quieter now, like the stillness after fresh snowfall.

“Hello,” Tom says, his voice soft but sure, filling the space between them. His eyes are steady, expectant, like he’s waiting for something. Harry likes it best when that voice sounds less controlled — breathier, raspier — but even now, it pulls at something deep in his chest.

“Hi.” The leftover frustration from earlier still simmers like a low-burning coal, but Tom's presence shifts it, turning it into something warmer, more bearable. “Far from your little den, aren’t you?”

Tom’s brow quirks, faint amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. “The common room is just around the corner.”

“I meant the library,” Harry says, his grin lopsided.

That earns him a sharp snort of laughter, the kind that escapes before you can catch it. Tom presses his lips together, regaining his composure with a slow lift of his chin. “I was patrolling,” he says, as if that explains everything. “With the holidays coming up, students tend to get... frisky.”

Harry’s grin widens. “I understand them completely.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, but his steps carry him closer anyway. He moves with his usual precision — every inch calculated — but there’s something less rigid about him now, his gaze too focused on Harry to be anything but deliberate.

Their shoulders brush first, a soft, natural touch as Tom stops just half a step closer than he needs to. He looks at Harry like he’s something more interesting than prefect duties or Quidditch scores, like he’s studying every shift of his expression for something only he can see.

There’s a pause, just long enough to feel it settle into place. Then Tom leans in and presses a kiss to Harry’s lips. It’s gentle, like he’s testing the temperature of water, but the warmth spreads all the same.

“Hi there,” Tom murmurs against his mouth, like he didn’t just greet him.

Harry’s grin is lazy and crooked as he pulls back. “You already said that.”

“Did I?” Tom tilts his head, his gaze tracing over Harry’s face like he’s following a map he’s never quite finished. It’s a look that makes Harry feel seen in a way that’s a little too raw. He shifts, rolling his shoulders like he can shake it off, but Tom’s eyes stay on him.

The situation with Oliver still nags at him at the back of his mind.

Harry clears his throat. “It’s been a while since we started this... And I just wanted to ask—” He huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want to, you know, actually date?”

Tom’s eyes widened, surprise flickering through his face so quickly it might have been missed if Harry wasn’t watching so closely. His lips part like he’s about to ask for clarification, but then he closes them. He blinks, slow and deliberate, and his head tilts just slightly to the side.

“I thought we were dating,” Tom says, his tone too matter-of-fact to be anything but sincere.

“Oh.” Harry blinks, lips parting. “I mean, yeah, I thought so too, but we never really said it out loud, and I figured... you know, just to be sure.” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, but his ears flush red.

Tom’s gaze sharpens with slow realization, and his mouth curls into something caught between smug and satisfied. His eyes lower, half-lidded with lazy amusement. “So you were worried.”

Harry rolls his eyes, trying for exasperation but failing to hide the embarrassment in his voice. “I wasn’t worried,” he mutters, rubbing his neck again, but the red on his ears betrays him.

“Hmm,” Tom hums, his eyes half-lidded, gaze heavy. His hand rises slowly, and his fingers graze Harry’s jaw in a slow, steady drag of warmth. Harry stills under the touch, eyes darting to Tom’s like he’s not sure where this is going. But Tom’s eyes stay on him, unwavering.

His fingers slide from Harry’s jaw to the back of his neck, resting there like he’s claimed the space. “It’s sweet that you worried, though,” Tom says, his voice a soft murmur, the words too close to Harry’s ear.

Harry breathes out a laugh, more a huff of disbelief than amusement. “You’re insufferable.”

“Am I?” Tom’s thumb brushes the edge of Harry’s pulse, slow, steady, as if he’s measuring it.

The heat simmers in Harry’s chest again, but it’s not the anger from earlier. This is something hotter, sharper, more focused. He grabs Tom’s wrist, pulling it away but not letting go. His fingers curl around Tom’s, firm but not rough, his grip warmer than he intends.

“We are dating,” Harry says, his voice low and certain, like a vow. His eyes meet Tom’s with the weight of it. “Got it?”

Tom raises a single brow, unimpressed in that way only he can manage, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers shift slightly, curling against Harry’s palm like he’s testing the fit of it. “Crystal clear.”

“Good.” Harry doesn’t give him a chance to be smug about it. He pulls him in and kisses him harder this time, nothing soft or tentative about it. It’s full of bite and certainty, and he hears it — the small, sharp sound Tom makes when caught off guard. It’s barely a noise, just a hitch of breath, but it makes Harry grin against his mouth.

When Harry pulls away, Tom’s eyes are darker, his breath shallow. His fingers are still curled around Harry’s, gripping tight. He doesn’t let go.

“Since we’re official now,” Harry says, feeling bolder, his grin sharp with it, “do you want to come over for Christmas?”

It happens quickly, so quickly that if Harry wasn’t watching, he would have missed it. Tom’s face stills in that way only he can manage — like everything is fine, perfect, under control. But his eyes flick to Harry’s, then away, just for a heartbeat. It’s fast. Barely a twitch.

He covers it up smoothly, a light shrug of his shoulders that’s too deliberate to be casual. “Who’s going to be there?” he asks, his voice even, but Harry feels it — the slightest shift in the way Tom's fingers tighten against his.

“Just Sirius, Remus, and me,” Harry says, studying him closely. “No one else.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening. “It’ll be quiet. No fuss.”

Tom exhales slowly, his eyes flicking to the side like he’s running through every possible scenario. His gaze returns, sharper now, more focused. His mouth pulls into a small, quiet smile, not smug, not calculated — something honest.

“I’d love to,” he says.

Harry beams, warmth spreading from his chest to his fingertips. His grip on Tom’s hand tightens once before letting go. “Great! I’ll send you the details later.” He kisses him one more time — just because he can — and spins on his heel, striding toward the kitchens with a spring in his step.

Tom stays where he is, eyes fixed on Harry’s back with that same unreadable, calculating look. He lingers for a moment longer before turning on his heel, his face set in something calm and composed. But if anyone were to look closely, they might see the faintest trace of nerves in the way he runs his thumb over his palm.

The rhythmic clatter of the train echoed softly in the background, filling the quiet moments between conversation. A steady warmth radiated from the enchanted heating charms, turning the compartment into a cosy bubble against the frost-coated world outside. The window was fogged with condensation, the distant blur of snow-dusted fields rushing past.

Ron was sprawled across one side of the seat, his legs stretched out like he owned the place. Hermione sat primly next to him, knees tucked together, a book balanced on her lap, though she hadn’t flipped the page in a while. Her attention had shifted to their conversation. Harry leaned on the window, his arms crossed, watching frost swirl against the glass. His trunk was stowed above them, along with the rest of their bags, tucked away but not forgotten.

“First few days, I’ll be in Muggle London with my parents,” Hermione was saying, tapping a finger lightly on her book. “We’re visiting some of my extended family — the ones I barely see. I think Mum feels guilty since we haven’t gone in so long.” She sighed, wrinkling her nose. “I’m going to have to answer a lot of questions about school.”

“Like what?” Ron asked.

“Like what I’m studying, what I want to do after school, why I don’t have a boyfriend,” Hermione said flatly, flicking her gaze to him. “The usual.”

“Oh, that last one’s easy,” Ron grinned, sitting up straighter. “Just tell them you’re holding out for Krum.”

Hermione shot him a withering look. “I’ll be sure to mention that my boyfriend suggested finding a lover.”

Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. His breath left a faint fog on the glass.

“Then,” Hermione continued, ignoring Ron, “I’m heading to the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley invited me again, and I didn’t want to refuse.” She tilted her head, looking thoughtful. “I’ll probably get roped into helping with dinner prep, but I don’t mind.”

“Don’t make it sound so nice,” Ron groaned, letting his head fall back against the seat. “She’s making all of us help. I’m already bracing for it. First, it’ll be cleaning, then the decorating, then Dad’ll start pulling out his Muggle lights that don’t work, and next thing you know, I’m untangling them for two hours while Fred and George disappear 'mysteriously.'”

Harry chuckled, watching Ron gesture like it was all a personal attack.

“I bet it’ll still be fun,” Hermione said, smiling softly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron muttered, folding his arms behind his head. “I’ll survive. Barely.”

Harry pressed his lips together for a moment, heart drumming a little faster than usual. His eyes lingered on the foggy window. He could see his own reflection faintly, his brow just barely creased.

“Tom’s coming over for Christmas,” he said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. His eyes flicked back to them.

There was a pause. Hermione and Ron both froze like they hadn’t heard him correctly. Then, slowly, Ron sat forward, squinting like Harry had suddenly started speaking Parseltongue.

“… Riddle ?” he asked, his voice pitched with disbelief.

“Yeah,” Harry said, keeping his voice even, like it wasn’t a thing. “He’s coming for a few days.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ron sputtered, leaning forward like he had to see Harry properly to make sense of it. “ Tom Riddle is coming to your house ? For Christmas ?” He barked out a laugh, looking between Harry and Hermione like it was a joke that he was somehow just now understanding. “And you’re telling us this now ?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, gaze dropping. 

“Harry,” Hermione said slowly, putting her book aside. Her face was a mix of concern and wariness, her hands folded tightly in her lap. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” She hesitated like she was measuring her words. “I just… I hope it goes well. Truly. And I wish you good luck.” Her eyes lingered on him, searching for cracks.

He shrugged like it was nothing, but his fingers tugged at his sleeve. “I’m not worried or anything,” he said, his voice only half-convincing. “I’m just… maybe a bit… cautious.”

“Cautious,” Ron repeated, his grin gone. His eyes narrowed at him. “Does Sirius know?”

Silence.

Harry’s lips twitched into a forced smile, his eyes darting toward the window.

“… Harry, ” Hermione said, sharp and scolding.

“Only Remus,” he admitted with a wince.

“What?!” Ron nearly shot out of his seat, eyes wide with something between shock and horror. “You didn’t tell Sirius?! Do you have a death wish? ”

“ Ron— ”

“No, don’t ‘Ron’ me!” he shot back, hands flying up in exasperation. “You’re just gonna walk in there with Tom Riddle at your side and expect Sirius to what , bake him a mince pie?!”

“Remus is going to help me handle it,” Harry muttered, slouching lower in his seat.

“ Oh, brilliant, ” Ron said, his voice going high and loud in mock praise. “Yeah, I’m sure Sirius is going to be real calm about you bringing in a boyfriend like it’s a normal Sunday.” He ran a hand over his face, groaning. “Mate, you’re gonna need all the luck you can get.”

“Thank you, Ron,” Harry deadpanned.

“Seriously.” Ron pointed at him like it was a warning. “ All the luck. ”

“Ron’s right,” Hermione said, much gentler but no less firm. “Just… be prepared, okay? If Sirius reacts badly, try to stay calm. He’s just—” She trailed off, lips pressed together like she didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “He’s protective.”

“I know ,” Harry said, sighing deeply. His fingers drummed against his knee. “Tom’s only staying a few days. Just three days. It’ll be fine.”

“ Three days? ” Ron’s eyes were huge again. “You’re braver than me, mate. I’d never last three days with Sirius on a rampage.”

“I’m not scared of Sirius.”

“You’re braver and dumber than me, too,” Ron muttered, shaking his head like it was already a disaster.

Hermione gave him a small smile, her eyes still watchful, careful. "I hope it goes smoothly,” she said softly. Her hand reached for Harry’s sleeve, giving it a light squeeze. “If anyone can manage it, you can."

Harry leaned his head back against the window, letting his eyes close for a moment. His heart had calmed, but his nerves hadn’t. "Yeah,” he muttered, half to himself. “It’ll be fine.”

It had to be.

The platform was bustling with the familiar chaos of students reuniting with their families. Trunks clattered against the stone, owls hooted indignantly from their cages, and the chill of December air slipped through the gaps in the station's walls. Harry weaved through the crowd, scanning the sea of faces. He didn’t have to look for long.

There they were.

Remus spotted him first, his face breaking into a smile so warm it might as well have been summer. Sirius was right beside him, hands in his coat pockets, shifting on his heels like he was barely containing the urge to run forward. When Harry got close, he grinned and called, "Long time no see."

Remus huffed a laugh, eyes crinkling in that tired, fond way of his. “Feels like years,” he replied dryly.

Harry barely had time to grin before Sirius swept forward and engulfed him in a hug so tight it knocked the air from his lungs. He stumbled a bit, laughing into Sirius’s shoulder, and Sirius didn’t let go. Didn’t even loosen his grip. His arms were solid, steady, and warm in a way that made Harry feel like maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

“Pup,” Sirius muttered against his hair, patting his face with both hands like Harry was still five years old. His thumb brushed over Harry’s cheek, checking, inspecting, like he was making sure he was really there.

Harry didn’t complain, not this time. Didn’t even duck away.

A burst of laughter rang out behind them — sharp, sneering, the kind that curled at the edges. A pack of Slytherins strolled by, their gazes flicking toward them with matching grins. One of them nudged the other with his elbow.

Harry’s face went hot, his ears prickling as if they’d all shouted his name at once. Sirius must’ve felt the shift, his grip going firm again as he pulled back, just enough to look him in the eye. His thumb pressed briefly against Harry’s cheek, grounding. His face was serious in that wild, fierce way he had sometimes, the one that made it clear he didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought.

“Come on,” Sirius said, nudging him forward with an arm slung around his shoulders. “Let's get out of here.”

Harry nodded, letting himself be steered forward, and Remus fell into step beside them.

"Got everything?" Remus asked, glancing at Harry's trunk hovering obediently behind them.

"Yeah," Harry said, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. "Not much to bring."

Sirius drapes his arm over Harry. His grin was sharp, his eyes brighter than usual. “Place is spotless. I cleaned everything this time. Took me two days, and I swear it’s never looked better.”

“Really?” Harry said, his brows raised. “You even got rid of the portrait?”

The effect was immediate. Sirius’s face scrunched like he’d bitten into a lemon. His eyes darted ahead, jaw clenching. “No ," he muttered like the word physically hurt him. “Blasted thing’s stuck there. I’ve tried everything. Spells, muggle solvents, even—” He gestured vaguely, clearly reliving some desperate attempt he didn’t want to admit to.

“I can give it a go,” Harry offered, his voice light but his smile teasing. “I’m sure she’ll love to see me.”

Remus snorted softly, hiding it behind his hand.

“Oh, yeah,” Sirius said, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “You can try, pup, but don’t hold your breath. That hag’s clinging on like she’s got nothing else to do in the afterlife.” He shook his head, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. “But you’ll be my guest of honor if you manage it. Full feast in your name, goblet of fire, the works.”

“I’ll get started on my speech,” Harry grinned.

They reached the apparition point just outside the station, and Sirius pulled his arm back, giving Harry space. “You know the drill,” he said. "On three.”

Harry braced himself, hands stuffed in his coat, his feet firmly planted. Apparition always felt like being pulled through a narrow tube, and he’d never quite managed to land without a wobble.

"One," Remus said, tapping his wand against his sleeve.

"Two," Sirius said, flashing him a grin.

"Three."

The world yanked itself sideways. Cold air shoved against him, and the sensation of being dragged through a pinhole hit hard. It ended just as fast as it started. His feet hit solid ground, and the cobblestone street of Grimmauld Place appeared around them in a whirl of gray and white. Harry swayed, his head spinning.

“Whoa—”

“Gotcha,” Sirius said, steadying him with both hands on his shoulders. He let out a bark of a laugh, his hands firm but gentle. “Still the worst part, huh?”

“Only bit of magic I hate,” Harry muttered, blinking the world back into focus. He glanced up at the row of dark, looming houses, one of them still squeezed tight like it didn’t belong. His gaze settled on it, heart giving a small, familiar thump.

Sirius clapped him on the back. “Come on, home sweet home.”

They stepped inside, and the familiar dimness of 12 Grimmauld Place greeted them. The scent of old wood and something faintly herbal hit him immediately. Dust lingered in the corners, but it was clear Sirius had cleaned. It didn’t smell so stale anymore. The warmth from a lit fire drifted through the air, and in the corner of the main room — bright, loud, and impossible to miss — stood the tree.

It was...

Harry tilted his head, squinting. “Is that…”

“Yes,” Sirius said, practically bouncing as he dropped his coat on a chair. His hands went to his hips, beaming like he’d crafted the tree himself. “Good, right?”

The tree was—well, it was something. Covered top to bottom in an assortment of mismatched ornaments. Tiny dogs, wolves, moons, and stars hung from the branches, some glittering, others plain. Strings of lights wound around it haphazardly, flickering like they’d been shoved on in a rush.

“It’s…” Harry’s eyes tracked the mess of decorations, lips twitching. “It’s you.”

“Right?!” Sirius’s grin grew impossibly wider. “It’s brilliant.” He glanced at Remus like he needed confirmation. "It’s brilliant, yeah?”

Remus sighed, tilting his head. “It’s certainly something.”

“Shut it, Moony, it’s art.” Sirius pointed at him, then turned back to Harry. 

“Only thing it’s missing is a lion.” Remus quips.

Harry quirked a brow. "Yeah, where's the lion, Black?”

“Wait—you’re right. I’ll have to—” his eyes darted as if something had gone horribly wrong. 

"And,” Harry said, his grin turning slow and sly, "you could add a few snakes.”

Sirius froze. His gaze snapped to Harry, narrowing like he wasn’t sure if he was joking.

"Snakes, huh?" he said slowly.

Harry kept his face neutral, but his eyes flicked to Remus just as the older man quirked an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Yeah,” Harry said casually, tugging off his coat. “I think they’d suit it.”

Sirius’s mouth opened like he was about to argue, but then his face split into a grin so wide it crinkled his eyes. He threw his head back, barking out a laugh. “Snakes on my tree. I’ll think about it, pup. I’ll think about it.”

Harry shrugged, waving a hand and sending the suitcase flying before him. “I’ll get my room set up.” He didn’t miss the way Sirius and Remus exchanged glances at the thoughtless display of magic.

The tree lights flickered behind them, little stars winking on and off like they were in on the joke.

The soft creak of his door opening barely registered at first. Harry stayed curled up in his cocoon of blankets, warm and half-dreaming, the weight of sleep still tugging him down. It wasn’t until the smell hit him — sweet, buttery pancakes with just a hint of melting chocolate — that he stirred. His stomach gave a low, greedy rumble.

Five more minutes, he thought, burying his face deeper into the pillow. His eyes stayed firmly shut. Food can wait.

Then came the singing.

Loud, shameless, and terribly off-key. Sirius’ voice echoed through the house like it had no walls to contain it. He was belting something old, loud, and triumphant — some song that might have once been fit for battle but had clearly been twisted into a kitchen anthem. Harry could hear the clang of pots and the unmistakable crash of something falling.

Harry groaned like he’d been hit with a Bludger. He shoved the pillow over his head, jamming it down hard to block out the noise. It didn’t work. Not even close. His lips pressed into a tired, wry line as he listened to the chaos below.

“- WHO NEEDS AN OVERCOAT I'M BURNING WITH LOVE- ” Sirius howled, his voice cracking midway. 

Crash.

Harry’s eyes cracked open, just barely, enough to see the thin stripe of golden morning light slipping through his curtains. Why is he like this?

There was another crash, followed by a muffled “ I’m fine! ” in Sirius's voice.

Harry exhaled slowly, pressing his face against the pillow with a soft groan. He could practically hear Remus's long-suffering sigh from downstairs, the one that always followed Sirius’s more "creative" outbursts. For a moment, he debated ignoring it all, letting sleep drag him back down. But the smell of pancakes didn’t help. It lingered, warm and rich, weaving through his sleepy brain like an invitation he couldn’t quite refuse.

He peeled the pillow off his head, eyes squinting against the morning light. His hair was a wild mess, sticking up at all angles, and the cold air prickled against his skin as he sat up. His blankets pooled around his waist, and he rubbed at his face, groggy but awake now.

Downstairs, Sirius’s war song continued.

“ —YOU OUGHT TO KNOW MY HEART’S ON FIRE— ”

“Merlin, please,” Harry muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "I'm too young for this."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet meeting the cool wooden floor. His suitcase sat by the wall, still half-open from the night before, his clothes spilling out in an unorganized heap. His wand lay on the nightstand, and he considered pointing it at the floor just to send a Silencio downstairs. But that would only encourage Sirius.

The smell of pancakes grew stronger.

“I’VE GOT MY LOVE. TO KEEP MY WARM. I’VE GOT MY LOVE TO KEEP ME WARM—” Sirius’s voice went higher, louder, absolutely fearless.

Harry snorted, scrubbing his hands through his hair. Absolute menace.

He stood, his joints popping from sleep, and shuffled toward the door. If he didn’t show up soon, he’d come downstairs to find Sirius doing some kind of bizarre pancake ritual over the stove, and no one deserved to witness that before breakfast.

His feet padded softly against the wooden floor, his mind still sluggish as the sounds of home filled his ears — the clang of plates, the hum of morning magic, Sirius's joyful racket. Somewhere in the distance, there was the familiar low murmur of Remus's voice, probably telling Sirius to calm down or put the spatula down before you hurt yourself, Padfoot.

Harry let out a breath, his lips quirking into a smile as he made his way downstairs.

Harry sat at the long wooden table, hands curled around a mug of hot tea, letting the heat seep into his fingers. Sirius sat across from him, his plate still stacked high with pancakes drowning in syrup. His fork waved in the air as he spoke, mouth halfway full, his words spilling out like he’d been holding them in for hours.

“—and after dinner, we’ll do the carols! I’ve got the songbook ready. You’re doing the singing this year, pup, no excuses!” Sirius jabbed his fork at Harry, eyes wide with the excitement of someone trying very hard to mask nerves. “We’ll do all of them — even the Muggle ones. Especially the Muggle ones. Jingle Bells is a classic.”

Harry raised a brow. “You just like making Remus do the falsetto for All I Want for Christmas Is You .”

Remus, seated next to Sirius with a mug of tea in hand, snorted softly but didn’t deny it.

“And after that, we’ll open the first round of presents, and then we’ll play cards until midnight. I’ve got Gobstones, Exploding Snap, Wizard’s Chess—”

“Is this a Christmas or a tournament?” Harry muttered, grinning faintly as he reached for his own fork.

“Both,” Sirius said, dead serious. “It’s the last one you’ll have in Hogwarts, so it’s got to be perfect. No half-measures, no shortcuts.”

Remus gave Harry a small look over his tea, eyes crinkling at the edges in quiet amusement. He didn’t say a word, just sipped calmly, letting Sirius burn through his list of holiday plans.

Harry watched Sirius's eyes dart back and forth, never landing on one thing for too long. He saw it for what it was. All the talking, the planning, the insistence on "perfection" — it wasn’t just excitement. It was anxiety. Their last Christmas with Harry as a Hogwarts student. Maybe their last Christmas before something bigger, something harder. Sirius was bracing himself. They all were.

And maybe that was why Harry felt brave enough to do this now.

“About the 23rd,” Harry said, cutting in when Sirius took a breath. “I, um — I wanted to ask if someone could be here.”

“Of course!” Sirius said immediately, not even pausing. “Just tell me who so I can sort their present.”

Harry glanced down at his plate, tapping his fork once against the edge. He breathed in, deep and slow. Just say it.

“Tom Riddle,” he said clearly, eyes lifting to meet Sirius'.

The fork in Sirius's hand stopped mid-air. Slowly, his head tilted, brow furrowed. “Isn’t he a Slytherin?”

Harry nodded, his pulse quick but steady. “Yeah.”

Sirius blinked. Once. Twice. His face stayed carefully blank. “Didn’t know you were friends with Slytherins.” His voice was even, but there was an edge to it.

Harry shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “Yeah, well... He doesn’t have anyone else for Christmas, so I figured…” He glanced at Sirius’s face, searching for a shift. 

That did it. Sirius’s gaze softened, his mouth pulling into a tight, thoughtful line. He set his fork down. His fingers tapped against the table once, twice. His eyes flicked to Harry, then to Remus, then back to Harry.

“Of course,” he said, his voice quieter now, less sharp. “Any friend of yours is welcome.” His lips tugged into a faint smile. 

Harry pressed his lips together, heart thumping in his chest. He could leave it there. He could. But that wasn’t fair. He had to say it. So he did.

“Actually… He’s not just my friend,” Harry said slowly, each word dropping into the air like a weight. His eyes stayed on Sirius. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Silence.

Sirius didn’t blink. He didn’t move. It was like his whole mind had frozen over, his face stuck in an expression that wasn’t shock but wasn’t quite understanding either. Like Harry had just said something in another language.

Remus set down his tea with a soft clink . He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowed as he glanced between Harry and Sirius. He opened his mouth, his voice careful, measured. “You alright, Pads?”

Sirius blinked — slowly, like he was coming back into his body — and then he turned to Remus. His eyes narrowed into slits. "You knew, didn't you?"

Remus leaned back. "Yes."

“You knew?! ” Sirius’s voice was sharp now, his eyes darting back to Harry like he’d been betrayed twice over.

“Yeah, and I told him not to hide it from you,” Remus replied calmly, still leaning back as if Sirius might actually lunge at him.

“You told me nothing!” Sirius jabbed a finger at him. “Not one word!”

“Harry’s business, not mine,” Remus said simply, picking his tea back up. He took a slow sip, his eyes flicking to Harry in silent support.

Sirius turned back to Harry, eyes narrowed, lips pulled into a hard, thin line. “You. With a Slytherin . ”

Harry clenched his jaw, fingers twitching against the table. He sat up straighter, meeting Sirius’s stare head-on. “Yeah.”

“That’s just not a good idea, Harry,” Sirius said, his voice firm, that ‘I’m older, I know better’ tone that Harry hated. “Slytherins—. You think he’s being honest with you, but people like that—”

“I like him,” Harry snapped, his chest tight with frustration.

“Yeah, well, you also liked Cedric,” Sirius shot back, the words like a hex straight to the gut.

Harry froze, throat tight. That’s not fair.

Sirius must have seen it, because he looked away, jaw tight, eyes downcast.

For a moment, no one spoke. Remus didn’t intervene. He just watched them both carefully, letting the tension sit.

“Tom’s not Cedric,” Harry said, his voice quieter now, but firm. “And not all Slytherins are evil.”

His Slytherin was, but that was unnecessary to mention. Tom definitely had some dark affiliations, his magic reeked of it.

Sirius rubbed at his face with both hands, dragging them down slowly like he was trying to wipe the whole conversation away. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a breath, long and deep.

“Look,” Harry pressed on, his tone gentler now, leaning forward. “I’m not asking you to love him. I’m just asking you to try and trust me.”

That did it. Sirius stopped rubbing his face and glanced up. His eyes lingered on Harry for a long moment, like he was seeing something in him that wasn’t quite a boy anymore.

“Alright,” Sirius muttered finally, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. I trust you, pup. I do.” His mouth twitched into a weak, tired grin. “Doesn’t mean I have to like him, though.”

Harry nodded, his heart easing just a bit. “Fair enough.”

There was still tension in the air, but it wasn’t as sharp. It settled into something quieter, less dangerous. Sirius leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face again, groaning. “A bloody Slytherin. What a nightmare.”

Remus snorted softly, taking another sip of his tea. “Welcome to parenting, Padfoot.”

Sirius dropped his hands and glared at him, but even he couldn’t fight the small, begrudging grin on his face. “Shut it, Moony.”

“Never,” Remus replied, utterly content.

Harry leaned back too, his eyes flicking to the Christmas tree in the corner, the little twinkling lights casting soft colors on the wall. It still smelled like pancakes and chocolate, and he felt it now — home.

The Christmas tree stood in the corner of the living room, bathed in the glow of enchanted fairy lights that flickered gold and silver. The air smelled faintly of pine and the lingering sweetness of breakfast pancakes. Harry balanced on his toes, carefully hanging a small green glass snake on one of the branches, tilting his head to make sure it sat just right. The soft crackle of the fire filled the quiet moments between conversation.

“See, this is exactly why you don’t need a boyfriend,” Sirius said from the armchair behind him, legs stretched out like a king on his throne. His eyes were half-lidded, but his smirk was sharp. “Unnecessary stress. You’re already decorating a tree, you don’t need to be entertaining suitors on top of it.”

“Ouch,” Remus muttered over his cup of tea, lips quirking. He leaned against the arm of the couch, gaze flicking to Sirius. “Interesting philosophy for a married man . ”

“That’s different,” Sirius shot back, eyes cutting toward him. “Marriage is stability. Boyfriends are chaos. Totally different beasts.”

“Didn’t seem so stable when you made me chase you across two countries before you proposed,” Remus murmured into his tea, too soft to be innocent.

“That was strategy,” Sirius replied, jabbing a finger at him. “Kept you interested.”

“Mm-hm.” Remus raised his mug like he was toasting that nonsense.

Harry snorted, still hanging ornaments. "Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think you're the best source of 'responsible dating advice,' Sirius."

Sirius gasped like Harry had just stabbed him. "How dare you, I am a font of wisdom. I’m just saying you’re too young to be dating anyone seriously.” He pointed at Harry with a kind of mock-righteousness, like he was delivering a decree from on high. "No boyfriends until you’re at least twenty.”

“Twenty?” Harry spun around, an incredulous look on his face. He glanced at Remus. “He can’t be serious.”

“Unfortunately, he is.” Remus tilted his head toward Sirius. "You do remember you started dating when you were fourteen, right?"

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Sirius said quickly, tossing an arm over the back of the chair. “I’m me. I know how to handle people.” He crossed one ankle over the other like that explained everything. “Plus, you should’ve given yourself more time. Stay far away from stupid little boys.”

Harry felt something twist in his chest, but he kept his face steady as he slid another glass snake onto a branch. He focused on getting it to hang right, his voice quiet but firm. "Cedric broke up with me because he knew it was the best course of action. He wasn’t stupid.” He turned slightly, glancing back at Sirius. “And I didn’t start with Tom until months after that.”

“Still should’ve waited,” Sirius muttered, crossing his arms. “Could’ve had a little time.. . Should’ve waited ‘til you were twenty.”

Remus lowered his tea just enough to give Harry a slow, knowing look. They both glanced at each other, shared the same weary exhale, and shook their heads. Twenty. Sure.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sirius said, pointing at them. “I’m right. Slytherins are—” He waved a hand, like the words wouldn’t form fast enough. “They’re all liars and schemers, that’s just how they’re built.”

Harry’s hands paused over the branch he was decorating. He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “So many of our family are Slytherins.” I was almost one.

“Untrue,” Sirius fired back.

“Andromeda,” Harry countered, hanging up a small glass magpie next to one of the snakes.

Sirius waved that off like it didn’t count. “That’s one.”

“Regulus,” Harry added, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius’s face twitched. “Alright, two.”

“Phineas,” Remus chimed in with a grin.

“Yeah, well, he’s a dickhead,” Sirius shot back without missing a beat.

Harry snorted.

“He is!” Sirius leaned forward, eyes darting toward the wall where Phineas’s portrait hung, currently empty. “He knows he’s a dickhead, too.”

Harry chuckled, his shoulders finally relaxing. He picked up a small silver star and turned it over in his hands before glancing at Sirius. “Tom’s… good, though.” He frowned as he tried to put it into words, fingers tapping the metal edges of the star. “He’s talented and strong, he broke a record at the international dueling competition.” Then he sighs and it sounds dreamy, “Did you know he writes for magazines?”

“Academic journals,” Remus corrects.

“Yeah! Smart magazines.” Remus sighs, “I also think you’ll find him fun. He’s all…” he gestures.

“Eccentric?” Remus offered, tilting his head.

Harry blinked, then nodded slowly. “Sure.” That wasn’t the word he wanted but remembering Tom insisting on following old tradition during Samhain (including the clothing) made him agree.

“Ugh,"Sirius groaned, flopping back against his chair. “I hate eccentric people.”

Remus cackled , his laugh sudden and sharp like a bark. He threw his head back, eyes crinkled with genuine delight. “Do you even hear yourself?” he wheezed, leaning against the armrest like he needed it for support. “ You’re eccentric!”

“What?!” Sirius sat up, jaw dropping in absolute mock betrayal. He clutched his chest as if he’d been personally wounded. “I am whimsical.”

“You’re a nightmare,” Remus corrected, still laughing, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Harry just shook his head, biting his lip to keep from grinning. He added another snake ornament to the tree, this one curling around one of the branches like it belonged there.

Behind him, the banter softened. Remus leaned back on the couch, setting his tea down. “He’s respectful, Sirius,” he said quietly, his eyes on the tree but his tone more serious now. “I’ve seen it. He’s not some untrustworthy upstart.”

Harry turned, glancing over his shoulder. “He’s also really smart.” His voice had a quiet, defensive pride to it. “Not just good at school. He’s quick. He sees things other people don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius grumbled, leaning his cheek on his fist. He made a lazy gesture at Harry with one hand. “You’re not impartial, shut your biased mouth.”

Harry’s grin widened, accepting it and remaining silent.

“I'm just saying,” Harry pressed on, shrugging lightly, “he’s not like you think he is.”

“None of them are, until they are,” Sirius muttered, still not looking up. His eyes flicked to the fire, thoughtful but a little distant.

Harry tilted his head, watching him carefully. “That’s not really fair, though, is it?”

Sirius glanced at him, his gaze lingering for a moment too long. His jaw worked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing at his face again. “I’m still not putting his name on a stocking, though.”

“Didn’t ask you to,” Harry said, smirking as he perched the last little snake on the tree. He glanced at Sirius from the corner of his eye. “Tom wouldn’t expect you to do it so fast. He knows he has to win your blessing.”

“See?” Sirius pointed at him like he'd just won. “Schemer .”

Harry shook his head, laughing softly to himself. The glow of the tree lights flickered against the glass snakes, wolves, dogs, magpies, and tiny stars, a reflection of their quiet, messy little family.

Chapter Text

Tom can’t tell them how much he’s freaking out. He’s a portrait of control on the outside, but his hands move with sharp, quick precision as he double-checks his luggage for the third time. Shirts folded, robes neatly pressed, gifts tucked into corners with methodical care. But it’s not methodical. It’s frantic. Precise the way a drowning man’s grip on driftwood is precise.

Nagini watches him from atop the enchanted carrier, her coils draped over it like a queen’s train. Her yellow eyes narrow with lazy disapproval. “I don't need this,” she hisses, tail flicking in irritation.

“You do,” Tom says, not even looking up as he smooths out a wrinkle in one of his robes.

“I don’t,” she counters, sliding down the side of the carrier in a slow, deliberate show of rebellion. Her body curls toward him, and her head lifts, eyeing him levelly. “I can stay on your shoulders.”

Tom’s fingers pause on the latch of his suitcase. His eyes flick to her, sharp but hesitant. “I’m not sure how they’d react.”

“Harry won’t mind,” she says pointedly. “Remember last time he was here? He likes me.” Her tongue flicks out.

Harry sprawled across his bed, his fingers idly tracing along Nagini’s scales, his eyes on Tom with that maddening smirk. His eyes were beautiful and dangerous. He knew how it made him feel watching him laying on his bed with a snake over him. He looked powerful and like a proper Slytherin.

“It’s not about Harry,” Tom says, snapping the latch shut with a little too much force. “It’s his guardians. They’re Gryffindors.” The word tastes sharp on his tongue, a flick of steel.

“Those red lions,” Nagini says with distaste, her scales shifting like water. “I don’t like them.”

“I’m aware,” Tom mutters.

“But I like Harry.”

“Yes, I know.”

He grabs the small, neatly wrapped package from his desk and tucks it into the suitcase’s side compartment. Harry had told him not to bring too much. “We have everything you’ll need here,” he’d said with those wide, earnest green eyes. “Just bring yourself.”

Bring yourself. As if that’s simple. As if that’s enough.

The only other Yule Tom’s ever spent outside the castle was with the Malfoys, and that had been about as warm as the hospital’s annual medical exam—clinical, quiet, and utterly necessary.

This is different.

This is Harry asking. Looking at him, with that strange weight in his eyes that Tom still doesn’t know what to name. And, somehow, Tom had agreed before he’d even processed the question.

When Harry asks, he doesn’t think. He’s moved like a chess piece, a bishop across the board, smooth and unthinking until it’s done. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d seen Harry with Diggory—the flushed cheeks, the laughter, the way he’d press against the Hufflepuff like he belonged there.

But now Harry’s got him. Pushing him down. Tearing him apart. Marking him.

Tom’s fingers drift to his collarbone, just under the edge of his robes, where the faint ridge of a bite mark still rests. It’s healed, but the phantom ache of it lingers. He’d stared at it too long in the mirror once, tracing its curve with his thumb. The first time his Knights saw it, they’d gone silent. Zabini’s eyes lingered too long before he’d said something stupid. Tom’s single glance had shut him up.

Belonging. It’s not the way he’d planned it—he’s supposed to own, not be owned—but he’s never felt fuller. Never felt this whole .

“I still don’t want the cage,” Nagini’s voice cuts in, and Tom flinches, yanking him out of his thoughts. Her gaze is on him, sharp and knowing. “I’m a free snake. I won’t be locked away like the big one.”

“You can be free in the bedroom,” he counters, his voice calm but firm.

“Still locked,” she says with a flick of her tongue.

“Do you want to stay in the castle, then?” he asks, arching a brow.

Her eyes narrow to slits. “No. Don’t go!” She’s on him in an instant, coiling around his shoulders like a living scarf, her head hovering close to his ear. “You don’t have to go.”

“I have to,” he says quietly.

“You don’t have to do anything, hatchling.” Her tone is soft but unyielding.

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, glaring at her.

She ignores him, looping herself tighter around him. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not,” he says too quickly.

“Yes, you are. ” Her tongue flicks out, tasting the air near his cheek. “If you don’t want to go, don’t.”

“I want to,” he says, his voice rising.

“You’re abandoning me,” she hisses, her voice going small, hurt.

“I’m not abandoning you,” he says firmly. “You’re coming with me, but you’ll be in the carrier until we see how they feel about a snake in their house.”

“Why would they mind?” she demands, as though it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “Your mate is a speaker.”

Mate. The word makes his heart stutter.

He’s grateful she’s too close to see his face.

Tom steps out of the chimney, unsteady on his feet as soot and ash scatter around him. He sways but catches himself just in time, straightening his robes with a sharp tug.

“Tom,” a voice calls.

He looks up to see Harry leaning against the doorframe, his signature smirk firmly in place, all casual confidence with his arms folded across his chest. For a moment, Tom forgets himself. His fingers twitch by his sides, eyes flicking to Harry’s lips, wondering if he’s allowed to kiss him here.

Before he can decide, Harry moves.

He lunges like a predator, closing the distance in a heartbeat. Tom barely has time to set down Nagini’s carrier before he’s pulled into him, chest-to-chest, breath stolen from his lungs. One of Harry’s hands grips his waist, firm and possessive, while the other buries itself in his hair, tilting his head just so.

Their mouths collide — not with a kiss, but a claim. Lips bruising, breath hot, and Tom's mind blanks with the sheer force of it. He lets out a soft, broken sound from the back of his throat, his hands finding their place around Harry's neck.

Harry presses him back, step by step, until Tom’s spine meets the wall. He feels the blunt drag of teeth against his bottom lip, a tug of pressure just shy of pain. The bite shocks him back into himself.

“Wait,” Tom mumbles into Harry’s mouth, but Harry doesn’t relent. “Wait,” he says again, more firmly this time, giving Harry’s hair a small tug.

Harry pulls back, eyes half-lidded and lips pink, breath heavy. His forehead presses lightly against Tom’s. “Please?” he mutters, his voice raw with something too close to need.

“Your parents,” Tom says, and that’s enough.

Harry exhales through his nose, frustrated but understanding. He drops his head against Tom’s shoulder, groaning like it physically pains him to stop. Tom feels him drag his hands down the wall on either side of him, like he’s bracing himself.

“I know, I know,” Harry says,his breath warm against Tom’s collar. He pulls back slowly, running a hand through his hair, making it even messier. There’s a pout on his face, childish in a way that makes Tom’s chest feel warm. “I’m glad you’re more controlled than me. I’d hate for them to see you all…” His eyes roam over Tom, and the pout vanishes, replaced with something more wicked.

“Composed,” Tom finishes, arching a brow. “Unlike you.”

“Careful,” Harry warns with a grin. “I’ll drag you right back.”

Tom snorts, pressing a palm against his chest and pushing him back a step. Harry allows it, though he keeps his eyes locked on him, gaze searing in its intensity.

“Harry!”

They both glance down.

Nagini’s long, sinuous form presses against the small vent holes, her tongue flicking rapidly. “Tom locked me up,” she hisses, voice sharp with indignation. “Tell him to let me out!”

Harry crouches, undoing the latch with a practiced hand. As soon as the door swings open, Nagini slides out like liquid shadow, her scales shimmering faintly in the warm glow of the room. She coils around Harry’s arm, looping herself until she drapes lazily around his shoulders like a living scarf.

“Poor Nagini,” Harry says, scratching under her chin. She tilts her head up, eyes fluttering shut like a cat basking in affection. “How dare he cage a free spirit?”

“That’s exactly what I told him!” Nagini says, tail thudding lightly against Harry’s back. “But he insisted your parents wouldn’t like it.”

“Mm.” Harry nods, fingers moving behind her head with ease, scratching just right. “He’s got a point, though. We should warn them.”

“Warn them?” she hisses, her head tilting with disbelief. “Why?”

“Because they’re afraid of snakes,” Harry says simply, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

Nagini lets out a sharp hiss that might be a laugh. “Why would anyone be afraid of snakes?”

“Because snakes have fangs full of venom and can strangle people,” Harry says, glancing up at Tom with an exaggerated shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Tom opens his mouth to correct him that not all snakes had venom or the power to cut the oxygen but when he sees Harry watching him, teasing and unrepentant, he stops himself.

Harry scratches under Nagini’s chin again, and she flicks her tongue out at him, tasting the air. She seems far too content, practically melting around him like warm silk.

“Traitor,” Tom mutters under his breath, glaring at Nagini, but she only hisses something smug and tightens her hold on Harry.

The sight of them together does something to his chest. Harry, unbothered by the weight of a large snake around his shoulders, and Nagini, curling into him like he’s home. 

Someone clears their throat.

The sound is sharp, deliberate, like a blade tapping against crystal. Tom turns toward it slowly, his heart already bracing for the sight.

Sirius Black looks exactly as he remembers. His long black hair falls in untamed waves over his shoulders, framing sharp features that are all the more striking in the glow of the hearth. His piercing blue eyes, so familiar from the train station, narrow in scrutiny. He’s draped in a dark-red cloak that swirls at his feet like smoke, open just enough to reveal a crisp white shirt tucked into black leather pants that fit a little too well. Around his neck, a series of necklaces clink softly as he moves, catching the dim light like faint stars. 

His stance is loose but commanding. Like a man too stubborn to bow even if the world demanded it.

A second figure steps in beside him, softer in every way.

“Professor Lupin,” Tom says, greeting the auburn-haired man, who offers a warm smile in return. Then Tom's gaze shifts back to Black, whose eyes have narrowed, appraising him. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Tom says, voice steady, every syllable perfectly placed.

“Mhm,” he finally mutters, his eyes raking Tom up and down with the intensity of a predator sizing up something caught in its trap. The leather of his pants creaks as he shifts his weight, folding his arms deliberately across his chest. Anxiety claws at Tom's chest, a slow, sinking pressure. Next to him, Harry — with Nagini draped lazily over his shoulders — shoots Sirius a look.

“Be nice,” Harry says, voice carrying a sharpness that makes Sirius shift his weight. His gaze flickers between Harry and Tom before he straightens, his expression smoothing into something that looks more like a smile if you squinted.

“Of course,” Sirius says, spreading his arms wide. “The pleasure’s ours. Glad you could make it.” It’s said with the kind of cheer that feels too polished, like glass with a crack running through it. The kind of welcome that says 'I’m watching you.'

Tom shifts his weight, not letting the unease show on his face. This was expected. It’s fine. He can work with this.

“Look, Siri!” Harry says suddenly, his tone bright as he tilts his head toward his shoulder. Black’s gaze flicks to him, and the shift is instant. His face goes soft, eyes warm and bright in a way that makes him look years younger. Tom feels it like a distant ache, like something he isn't allowed to have.

“This is Nagini!” Harry says, grinning. He tilts his head, giving the snake a small nudge with his cheek. She flicks her tongue at him, clearly content with her perch across his shoulders.

“Oh,” Black says, his voice dropping, “A snake. How... great.”

“She’s the sweetest, aren’t you? ” Harry says, rubbing a hand under her jaw where her smooth scales meet her head. She preens at the touch, curling tighter around him like she agrees.

“Sweetest, sure,” Sirius mutters, but it’s quiet, almost under his breath, the kind of thing someone says when they don’t want to be called out for it. He’s still staring at Nagini like he expects her to lunge at him.

Remus nudges him with his elbow. "Don't start," he murmurs under his breath, not quiet enough to be subtle.

Sirius grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like, "House full of snakes..." but says no more.

Tom doesn’t miss the way Black’s eyes flicker toward him then, sharp and assessing, before snapping back to Nagini. His expression is clear as day. 

He wants me here as much as he wants a snake on his son’s shoulders.

The next few hours are a blur. Harry drags Tom around the house with an enthusiasm that makes it hard to feel unwelcome, even when Sirius’s eyes linger a little too long on him like he’s trying to catch him slipping.

Tom is shown the bedroom he’ll occupy for the holidays. 

It’s small but cozy, with a bed pressed against the wall and a single enchanted window showing soft, drifting snow outside.

Harry slips behind him, leaning casually against the doorframe with a grin that should have been outlawed. “I’m only one hallway away,” he says, voice low and teasing. “We could be quiet.”

Tom’s heart skips a beat, and he shoots him a sharp look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Harry hums, stepping closer, his eyes half-lidded with mischief. He reaches up to adjust the scarf around Tom’s neck — a gesture that might seem innocent if it weren’t for the way he tugs it tighter, pulling Tom forward. Their faces are inches apart. Tom’s breath hitches, his hands darting to Harry’s wrists, but he doesn’t pull them away.

“Come on,” Harry murmurs, eyes flicking down to Tom’s lips for half a second. “They wouldn’t even hear us.”

Tom can tell it is’t the warmth of the room making him feel this feverish. He leans back, letting out a slow breath. “Control yourself, Potter,” he says, pushing him back with one hand on his chest.

Harry raises a brow, his grin splitting wider. “I’m just saying—”

“Control. Yourself,” Tom repeats, more firmly this time.

“Fine, fine,” Harry relents, hands raised in mock surrender. “No fun.” He steps back, still grinning like he’s already plotting.

They head downstairs together. Harry takes the lead, pointing out random things in the house — 'that clock tells you where everyone is. It was a gift from Mrs Weasley,' 'Ignore him, he’s a grump,' said towards a moving portrait, 'that rug was a mistake, but Sirius likes it.' Tom listens, eyes scanning every detail. He sees it all: the lived-in mess, the mismatched furniture, the warmth that soaks into every corner. It feels… safe. Not that he would say it aloud.

Harry finally takes him to the Christmas tree, and Tom pauses to take it in.

The tree is — something. Covered in mismatched ornaments. Tiny dogs, wolves, moons, and stars dangle from the branches, some glittering, others plain. Strings of lights wind around it in a haphazard zigzag, flickering like they’d been tossed on in a rush. But it’s the snakes that catch his attention. Hanging here and there, subtle but deliberate, are small green glass snakes. Their bodies curve like they’re mid-slither, and the glass catches the glow of the lights, casting green glints across the branches.

He chuckles, low and quiet, fingers brushing one of the little glass snakes.

“Something funny?” Harry asks, leaning closer to see what he’s looking at.

“Snakes,” Tom says, tapping the ornament lightly. It sways on its hook, catching the light. “Interesting choice.”

Harry’s grin turns sly. “I thought you’d like them.”

“Are you two done gazing at the tree, or should I leave you to it?” Sirius’s voice drips with that easy (passive-aggressive) charm, loud enough to be heard but just quiet enough to feign innocence. He’s sprawled on the couch, legs draped over one armrest, one hand swirling a cup of something steaming. His long dark-red cloak hangs loosely over the back of the couch, and without it, the sharp white of his shirt and black leather pants seem even more striking against the firelight.

Harry’s gaze flickers to him, but he responds with practiced ease. “Just showing Tom the tree.”

Tom clears his throat, trying to sound sure of himself. “It looks great,” he says, and it sounds as awkward as it feels.

Sirius raises an eyebrow, tilting his head as he takes a slow sip from his cup. “Not up to your standards?”

“I could never say that,” Tom replies, adjusting his stance. “I’ve never decorated a tree before. I do like it.” His gaze lingers on the ornaments.

Sirius hums, eyes sharp as they flick back to him. “How humble of you.”

“Tom’s being polite,” Harry cuts in, voice clipped but still light. “You could try it sometime.”

Sirius barks a short laugh, sharp as broken glass. “Polite, huh? That’s one word for it.” He gestures lazily in Tom’s direction, fingers loose around his cup. His eyes narrow just a bit, barely noticeable but impossible to miss. “Let’s hope he stays that way.”

“Tom’s always polite,” Harry says with the air of someone stating a fact, firm and unshakable. He steps closer to Tom, bumping their shoulders together, his grin lazy but unyielding. “You’d know that if you actually talked to him instead of lurking from the couch.”

Sirius tilts his head, eyes narrowing as his smile widens into something all teeth. “Talking’s overrated,” he says casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His gaze lands on Tom again, deliberate and unwavering. “I prefer to watch. See what people do when they think no one’s paying attention. More honest that way.”

Tom feels the weight of it, the quiet pressure. But he doesn't flinch. His lips curve, slow and deliberate, his eyes half-lidded like he’s already seen the end of this conversation. “Then I suppose you’ll be disappointed,” he says, voice even and smooth, like silk drawn over steel.

Sirius opens his mouth, clearly ready to say something with bite, but a voice calls from the kitchen.

“Pads, leave them alone,” comes Lupin’s mild, distant tone, like he’s seen this play out before.

Sirius leans back against the couch, lips still twisted into that half-smile. “For now,” he mutters into his cup, his eyes still on Tom.

As they walk away, Tom glances back once, catching Sirius watching them, his head tilted just slightly, eyes sharp behind all that practiced ease. It’s not the same look from before. It’s something heavier, quieter, more thoughtful. 

Tom’s nerves only worsen as the day drags on, the dull ache in his stomach settling in like it plans to stay. It doesn’t help that Harry keeps a hand on his waist as they sit on the sofa, fingers curling idly against his side like he belongs there. Every so often, Harry tilts his head to nudge his face into the curve of Tom's neck, lips too close to skin. Tom has to push him back each time, fingers pressing at his jaw with a muttered, “Not here.”

None of it goes unnoticed. Across from them, Sirius glares at him with such unyielding intensity it’s a miracle the couch hasn’t caught fire. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even pretend to look away. It’s like he’s waiting for Tom to crack.

When Harry offers, “Want some chocolate?” Tom’s first instinct is to say no, but Sirius perks up with a sharp, “I’ll have one,” eyes still locked on Tom.

Tom’s stomach twists tighter. Of course.

“Sure,” he says, forcing himself to stand. "I’ll get it.”

Harry hops up, and exits the room. Sirius stays on the couch, his grin just shy of smug. As soon as Harry disappears from view, that grin drops.

“Let’s chat,” Sirius says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

Tom stops at the edge of the room, his back stiff as stone. “Of course.”

“You’re with Harry.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is steady, polite. He knows better than to show cracks.

“For how long?”

“Since the first Hogsmeade trip.”

Sirius’s mouth twists, lips pulling into a scowl as he leans back with his arms crossed. “Incredible,” he mutters.

Tom raises a brow, unsure if he’s meant to respond. “Sir?”

“That boy sulked over a Hufflepuff,” Sirius says, bitterness dripping from each word. “A Hufflepuff. They’re like the puppies of Hogwarts. Kind, gentle, follow-the-rules types.” He shakes his head, incredulous. “Cedric Diggory, of all people. The type who’d blush if we caught him holding Harry’s hand.” He sighs, long and heavy like the weight of it all has settled on his chest. “And now he’s dating a Slytherin. It’s like going from the Sahara to Yakutsk. How have I failed?”

Tom freezes. The words dig under his skin, sharp and mean, not because they’re aimed at him but because they’re aimed at everything he’s supposed to be proud of. His house. His birthright. His blood. His chest swells with the urge to correct Sirius, to remind him that Slytherins are clever and ambitious, that cunning isn’t cowardice. He’s angry for himself—but more than that, he’s angry for Harry. Harry was supposed to be one too. The Hat saw it. Tom knows it. If anyone deserves to wear that green and silver, it’s him.

The perfect Slytherin.

But Tom swallows it down, biting his tongue until the taste of copper lingers at the back of his throat. Not now. Not here.

“You didn’t fail,” he says quietly, voice steadier than he feels.

Sirius’s glare sharpens. “Didn’t I?”

“Harry is…” Tom hesitates, glancing toward the doorway. Careful. Careful. Words claw at the back of his throat, too many of them too big for this moment. He settles on, “Harry is great. You did a great job.”

That makes Sirius pause. It’s subtle, but Tom sees it — the faint shift in his posture, the way his shoulders lower a fraction, the way his eyes dart away for just a second before he rights himself. He doesn’t smile, not really, but his body isn’t as tense as before.

“Who started it?” Sirius asks, voice quieter but no less pointed.

Tom hesitates, the pause long enough for Sirius to lean forward, eyes narrowing like he can see straight through him. “Well…” Tom tries to gauge what answer Sirius is looking for. Truth or reassurance? He’s never been great at guessing. “He invited me to Hogsmeade,” he says slowly, watching Sirius for a reaction.

Sirius groans immediately, dragging his hands over his face like the weight of the world has just tripled. His voice comes out muffled from behind his fingers. “Of course he did.”

“Stop tormenting him,” Harry’s voice cuts in, light but firm.

Both Tom and Sirius whip their heads toward him with matching “ Me? ” in unison. They glance at each other, faces scrunched in mild irritation.

Harry hums, clearly pleased with himself, handing Sirius a steaming cup before plopping down next to Tom. More on him than next to him, legs draped over Tom’s lap like it’s his seat too. He hands Tom a cup, his fingers brushing Tom’s in that deliberate way that makes Sirius roll his eyes.

“Comfortable, are we?” Sirius mutters into his cup, but his glare is softer now.

“Very,” he says with a smile that feels just a little sharper than it needs to be.

Harry tilts his head back against the couch, and Tom lets himself breathe. 

Chapter Text

Tom woke up to the sound of light footsteps nearing his bed. 

“Morning.”

Tom stiffened, instinctively reaching for his wand under the pillow before relaxing when he realized who it was. Harry stood at the edge of the bed, smiling, hair messier than usual.

“I was thinking,” Harry began, sliding onto the mattress with zero invitation, “that you’d want company. Christmas Eve and all.”

“Presumptuous of you,” Tom muttered, though there was no bite to his tone.

Harry laughed aloud, the sound echoing like sunlight breaking through heavy curtains. He wriggled his way under the blankets, wrapping himself around Tom with the ease of someone who belonged there. A leg pressed between Tom’s, a casual invasion of his personal space, while Harry’s face nestled into his neck.

“You’re warm,” Harry murmured, and Tom hissed as warm breath tickled his skin.

I’m about to get warmer.

“You should move,” Tom said tightly, his voice betraying his fraying composure.

“Why?” Harry’s tone was pure mischief.

“We can’t.”

“Who says?”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, but Harry didn’t wait. His lips brushed against Tom’s, soft and fleeting, pulling him into a cocoon of warmth and blankets that seemed to shut out the rest of the world.

“I may be comfortable,” Tom said, pulling away just enough to speak, “but you have to go.”

“Do I?”

“That’s not fair,” Tom muttered, his voice trembling between irritation and something softer.

Harry’s smirk widened, those vivid green eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why? Tell me about it.”

Instead of removing himself, Harry shifted lower under the blankets. Cold hands brushed against Tom’s hips, making him jump. He responded with a stinging hex that earned a startled yelp, stopping Harry when he felt his pants try to be tugged off.

“Stop it,” Tom hissed.

Harry pouted but reluctantly settled beside him. 

“How can you even think about doing this with your parents in the house?”

Harry sighed dramatically but nestled closer, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “When I’m with you, that's all I can think about.”

Tom stared at him, his chest tightening. The words were so genuine it made him swallow hard, glancing away before the question slipped out, unbidden.

“Did you...?” He paused, almost regretting it. “Were you ever with Diggory?”

Harry turned his head to face Tom, brows lifting in surprise.

Tom’s throat felt dry. He already knew the answer—he’d seen it. The glances across the Great Hall, the lingering moments by the lake. He’d seen Harry’s gaze roam over Diggory like a moth drawn to flame.

And lately, the thought had festered. He imagined Harry with Diggory—soft, vulnerable, his . The idea was ridiculous and yet unbearably painful.

Harry shifted, pulling the blanket higher as though shielding himself from the weight of the question. “We were together a few times,” he admitted cautiously.

Jealousy burned in Tom’s stomach, dark and acrid.

“The first time was... underwhelming,” Harry added, surprising him.

“How?”

Harry shrugged, his cheeks tinged pink. “Maybe it’s because of my books. I was expecting something more.”

Tom hesitated. He didn’t want to ask but found himself speaking anyway. “How was it?”

Harry blinked, visibly taken aback. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m not sure,” Tom admitted quietly, unsure of what he hoped to hear.

“Well...” Harry shifted uncomfortably. “It was…- The room was warm and there were lots of pillows and candles.”

Tom’s jaw clenched. Of course, it was perfect.

“And?” he pressed.

Harry’s face flushed a deep red, his hands flying up to cover it. “He was careful. It took him so long to feel—okay, no. Tom, this is weird. I’m sorry. I can’t keep talking about this.”

Tom stared at him, his mind a whirlwind of envy, insecurity, and something bitter he couldn’t quite name.

“Right,” he muttered, turning away.

Harry shifted in place, visibly eager to steer the conversation away from Diggory. “What about you?”

“Me?” Tom asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, his tone light, though curiosity laced his gaze. “You ever been with anyone before?”

Tom hesitated. For a brief moment, he considered lying, but what was the point? He glanced at Harry, whose bright green eyes glimmered with unrelenting interest.

“No,” Tom admitted, voice steady despite the slight burn creeping up his neck. “I haven’t.”

Harry snapped upright, staring at him like he’d just confessed to never tasting chocolate.

“What?” Tom asked, frowning.

“You mean to say—” Harry’s voice broke into an incredulous laugh. “I was your first?”

The unmistakable glee in Harry’s tone made Tom’s cheeks burn brighter. He glanced away, his jaw tightening. “We haven’t even done much,” he muttered, half hoping it would temper the boy’s enthusiasm.

Harry’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened. “We’ve done enough.”

Before Tom could respond, Harry leaned in. His lips were soft, warm, and entirely familiar, yet the intensity behind the kiss made Tom’s heart stutter. Slowly, he let himself melt into it, his arms coming up to loop around Harry’s neck.

Harry’s hands began to roam, slipping under Tom’s shirt and pressing against the bare skin of his back. Tom shuddered at the sudden chill of Harry’s fingers, but it only made him cling tighter.

Harry deepened the kiss, tilting Tom back against the bed. A soft gasp escaped Tom as his legs moved on instinct, wrapping around Harry’s waist to anchor him closer.

The motion drew a pleased hum from Harry, who rolled his hips forward, the friction sending a jolt through Tom that made him break away with a sharp inhale.

“Stop,” Tom managed to say, pressing a hand against Harry’s chest. His heart thundered in his ears, and his face felt like it was on fire.

Harry, clearly reluctant, pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Why?” he asked, his lips curving into a mischievous smile.

Tom exhaled sharply, his composure fraying at the edges. “You need to leave,” he said, firm despite the shakiness in his voice.

Harry laughed, the sound low and affectionate. “You’re like a kettle, you know that? All heat and steam.”

Tom glared at him, though the effect was undercut by the flush still coloring his cheeks. “Out,” he insisted, untangling his legs from around Harry and pushing him back.

Harry rolled onto his side, throwing his arms up in mock surrender as he slid off the bed. “Alright, alright. But you know where to find me,” he teased, winking before sauntering out of the room.

Tom buried his face in his hands, trying to calm his erratic breathing. He couldn’t decide if he was more flustered or furious—but he knew one thing for certain: Harry Potter was insufferable.

Sirius was spinning Remus around the room, much to the professor’s feigned exasperation. The mismatched pair looked oddly graceful, Sirius’s wide grin and Remus’s small, indulgent smile softening the scene. Tom watched them for a moment, quietly amused, until Harry’s gaze shifted upward, drawing his attention.

Tom followed the stare and immediately spotted the mistletoe materializing above their heads. He clicked his tongue, his expression darkening.

Harry’s face lit up with a sweet, innocent smile that didn’t fool Tom for a second.

“No,” Tom said sharply, fixing his glare on the mistletoe. A moment later, it sizzled and turned to ash under his magic.

“Killjoy,” Harry muttered, leaning against Tom’s shoulder. His voice was low and teasing. “You’re usually so sweet. Why can’t you just be cute?”

“I’m not cute, Potter,” Tom retorted, his tone clipped. “Men aren’t cute.”

“Lies,” Harry said, grinning.

Tom took a long sip from his wine, catching Harry’s gaze drifting to his lips. He arched his brow. “Do you only think about one thing?”

“Yes,” Harry said without hesitation, his smile widening. “What else is there?”

The words hit Tom harder than they should have. A part of him wanted to believe Harry was joking, but another, quieter voice whispered doubts into his mind. Was that all Harry saw him as? He took a deep gulp of his wine, suddenly feeling the need for more. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the bottle and poured himself another glass.

“You won’t kiss me, and you won’t touch me. You’re being mean,” Harry whined softly, his pout exaggerated but his tone far too casual.

“That’s all you need from me, isn’t it?” Tom asked, his voice quieter now, an edge of something raw beneath it.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Sirius’s loud exclamation broke through the tension. “It’s midnight!”

The room shifted into a flurry of activity as everyone began exchanging gifts.

Harry had made it clear to his so-called “knights” that gifts should be sent to his house, and now the living room was full of wrapped boxes and parcels. Tom watched as Harry opened a gift from the Malfoys—a sleek, beautifully crafted bracelet with poison and serum detectors built into the charms. Tom admired it briefly, his eyes bright with interest, before his hand hesitated over the box’s second layer. He saw a gleaming statue. He pretended not to notice it and instead put the bracelet on in silence, closing the box.

Tom opened a small parcel from Harry next. His breath caught as he revealed an old book bound in dark green leather. The title on the cover was written in Parselscript—an incredibly rare find, even for someone as resourceful as Harry.

“It was so hard to find,” Harry said, watching him expectantly.

“Where did you—” Tom began, only to be interrupted by Sirius’s sharp glare.

“Harry, where the fuck did you get that?” Sirius demanded.

“I don’t know,” Harry said breezily, turning back to Tom. “Do you like it?”

Tom’s fingers ran reverently over the embossed title. “I love it,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could think to temper them.

Harry preened, his grin radiant. “I knew you would!”

As the gift-giving continued, Harry tore open another parcel. This time, it revealed a leather bag adorned with Quidditch motifs. He opened it to find a snitch inside, and his eyes widened in recognition.

“Wait!” Harry gasped, inspecting the carvings on the golden ball. “This is the snitch from the last World Cup!”

Sirius slumped down beside Harry, equally intrigued. “That’s a fingerprint there—it’s definitely Frazer’s!”

Tom barely heard their exchange. Remus leaned toward him and whispered, “I think it’s from them,” nodding toward the pair.

Tom nodded absently, his focus on Harry’s expression. Harry’s awe at the snitch burned in Tom’s chest like acid.

Finally, it was time for Harry to open Tom’s gift. The small box contained a delicate necklace with a faintly glowing bulb at its center. Inside the bulb was a fragment of Tom’s magic, attuned to Harry’s core so he could always sense it.

Harry unwrapped it, his expression shifting to one of quiet wonder. He didn’t say anything for a moment, simply holding the necklace up to the light.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry said softly. He put it on without hesitation, his fingers brushing the glowing bulb. Pressing it to his ear, he closed his eyes and let out a soft hum of satisfaction.

Tom felt a flicker of pride but couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the snitch on the table. The realization hit him with a sinking weight: it had been presumptuous of him to think Harry would treasure a fragment of his core over something as grand and universally admired as the World Cup snitch.

“Do you like it?” Tom asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Harry’s gaze snapped to him, bright and unguarded. “I love it,” he said, his tone earnest. He grinned, the same way he had when he’d seen the book, but Tom couldn’t help feeling it didn’t quite match the awe he’d had for the snitch.

Tom’s fingers curled into his palm as he forced himself to smile back.

The morning of the 25th found Tom attempting, and failing, to detach a very affectionate Harry from his side.

“You must stop,” Tom said, his voice sharp with exasperation as he squirmed in Harry’s ironclad grip.

“I don’t want to,” Harry replied stubbornly, his tone drowsy but resolute. His arms only tightened around Tom, the strength in them making Tom curse Quidditch under his breath.

His gaze drifted across the room, landing on Sirius, who was slumped lazily against Remus on the couch. Tom’s brow furrowed as he watched the scene unfold before him. Sirius murmured something, his words too quiet to catch, while his hands toyed with the fabric of Remus’s shirt. Tom’s eyes widened when Sirius’s fingers, almost innocently, undid two buttons.

Remus chuckled softly, entirely unbothered, and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Sirius’s temple. His hands, long and calloused, clasped Sirius’s and lifted them to his lips. There, he kissed the golden band on Sirius’s ring finger.

Tom tore his gaze away, his chest tightening with an emotion he couldn’t name. He focused instead on Harry, whose breathing had deepened, his face nuzzled against Tom’s neck. A flicker of amusement crossed Tom’s face as Harry’s fingers brushed against the bracelet on his wrist.

“What’s this?” Harry muttered, his voice muffled as he pressed a kiss to Tom’s ear.

“A poison detector,” Tom replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Harry leaned back, tilting his head curiously. “Oh. That’s a useful gift I think?”

“It is,” Tom said shortly, unwilling to delve into the memory of the poisoned chocolates laced with Amortentia he’d received months ago.

Harry’s gaze softened. “Did you like the book?”

Tom allowed himself a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I did.”

“Don’t tell Sirius,” Harry said with a conspiratorial grin, “but I got it in Knockturn Alley.”

Tom’s smile faltered, replaced by a frown. “Were you there alone?”

Harry sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. “You and Sirius act like I’m some fragile flower.”

Tom’s retort was sharp on his tongue—Harry was exactly the kind of person who shouldn’t be walking Knockturn Alley alone—but before he could voice it, Harry’s cold hands slipped under his shirt.

Tom hissed as those frozen fingers brushed over his chest, the tip of his fingers rubbing his nipples heating his whole body. He caught Harry’s wrists, tugging them away, but the damage was already done. His breath hitched, his pants noticeably tighter.

Before he could reprimand Harry, Sirius’s drunken voice cut through the room.

“Oi! Get your hands off each other!” Sirius slurred, his words accompanied by a pointed glare.

Harry, equally slurred in his speech, shot back without missing a beat. “Stop undressing Remus, then!”

Tom’s gaze snapped back to the couch. Sirius, seemingly unfazed by Harry’s accusation, had indeed pushed Remus’s shirt off his shoulders, though the professor appeared to be half-heartedly trying to cover himself.

“This is my house,” Sirius declared with a flourish, his words loud and slightly uneven. He looped an arm around Remus’s waist for emphasis, grinning mischievously. “And my husband.”

Harry, not one to back down, huffed dramatically. “Then stop looking at Tom!”

Tom’s cheeks flushed as Harry shifted in front of him, his hands moving to shield Tom from Sirius’s supposed gaze. The absurdity of the moment nearly made Tom laugh, but instead, he caught Harry’s wrists again, his grip firm but gentle.

“Potter,” Tom said evenly, his voice low enough to command attention. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Harry pouted, his drunken indignation morphing into something softer. “I’m just protecting you.”

Tom’s lips twitched despite himself. “From Sirius?”

Harry nodded solemnly, and Tom let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. Yet as he glanced back at Sirius and Remus, now wrapped in their own little world, a flicker of something flared in his chest.

“Come on,” Harry murmured, tugging on Tom’s wrist and leaning into him again. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Tom hesitated, his gaze lingering on the golden band around Sirius’s finger. Then he nodded, allowing Harry to pull him away even if his feet wanted to sink in. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see,” Harry replied, his voice still thick with amusement. His hand was warm and firm, and despite Tom’s protests, he didn’t let go.

“I don’t like surprises,” Tom muttered, though his resistance waned.

Harry glanced back at him, mischief glinting in his eyes. “Then you’ll hate this. I wasn’t allowed to show it to you before.”

Tom sighed but allowed himself to be led. They passed through a dim corridor before Harry pushed open a heavy wooden door.

Tom’s breath caught as he stepped inside. The room was vast, with towering bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, each crammed with volumes in every size and color. Artifacts of all shapes and purposes filled the spaces between: gilded globes, ancient wands in glass cases, and curious magical devices glowing faintly with forgotten enchantments.

Harry grinned at his reaction. “Sirius said most of this came from generations of Blacks. All passed down, and now they’re his.”

Tom approached one of the shelves, his fingers itching to trace the spines of the books. Some titles were in runes, others in languages long lost to common wizarding speech. “They’re extraordinary,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

“Yeah, yeah, books are great,” Harry said, clearly more interested in Tom than the treasures around them. He moved closer, his presence warm at Tom’s back. “But look at this.”

Harry gestured toward a golden cup displayed prominently on a nearby table. Its polished surface gleamed under the enchanted lights, and Tom noticed the intricate engraving of a badger on its side.

“Sirius won that in some ridiculous competition against his cousin,” Harry explained. “And now the Malfoys are trying to get it. It’s been a whole thing—arguments, letters, even bribes.”

Tom studied the cup, tilting his head. The badger caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but smirk. “How fitting. The symbol of a Hufflepuff victory.”

Harry laughed. “Badgers can be fierce, you know. Maybe not like lions or snakes, but they’ll fight when it counts.”

Tom didn’t reply, his gaze lingering on the cup. 

“You know,” Harry began, his tone shifting, “we’re alone now.”

Tom stiffened as he felt Harry’s hand slide around his waist. “Potter—”

“Hmm?” Harry’s voice was low and teasing, his breath brushing against Tom’s ear.

Tom turned sharply, stepping out of Harry’s grasp. “I have questions.”

“About what?” Harry asked, leaning lazily against a shelf. His eyes were bright with mischief, his lips quirked in a way that made Tom’s chest tighten.

“The books. The artifacts,” Tom said firmly, though his resolve wavered as Harry took a step closer.

“Boring,” Harry replied, his voice light and teasing. His fingers trailed along Tom’s sleeve.

Tom glared at him, determined to maintain his focus. “Who compiled this collection? Do you even know what half of these objects do?”

Harry chuckled. “You’re adorable when you’re trying to sound serious.”

“I am serious.”

“You’re also blushing,” Harry pointed out, his grin widening.

Tom felt the heat rise to his cheeks and cursed under his breath. “Stop distracting me.”

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. Ask your questions.”

Tom took a steadying breath, fixing his gaze on the shelves instead of Harry’s smirk. “How did Sirius' cousin even get the cup in the first place? Wouldn't it be with the direct descendants? And the books—how far back do they date? Are they—”

Harry stepped closer again, his fingers brushing against Tom’s wrist. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

Tom’s words faltered, his carefully constructed thoughts scattering under Harry’s gaze. “Potter—”

“Just thought you should know,” Harry murmured, his hand trailing up to Tom’s jaw, tilting his face up.

Tom swallowed hard, his resolve crumbling. “I… have questions,” he repeated weakly.

Harry’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Ask them later.”

And before Tom could argue, Harry kissed him, effectively silencing any further inquiries.

Tom lay still beneath Harry, his mind a storm despite the Gryffindor’s rhythmic thrusts, the heat of their bodies pressing together. Harry's gaze burned into his, unwavering, yet Tom couldn't shake the gnawing thoughts clawing at the back of his mind.

He had always wanted Harry Potter. He had sulked after him in secret, allowing his desire to fester in dark corners where no one could see. And yet, he had never been allowed to want him openly—not like this. Instead, he had focused on his future, carving out a life where he wouldn’t end up in a place like Borgin and Burkes, scrapping for galleons.

He’d written articles, networked relentlessly, sold whatever he could to build his own foundation. Every step had been deliberate, every decision calculated. He had clawed for every advantage, knowing that without them, the future would swallow him whole.

Harry didn’t have to fight with teeth and nails for his future. With his parents’ wealth, his name, and his power, Harry could glide through life, never worrying about where he would land.

And yet, here he was, pounding into Tom like Tom was the only thing in the world he needed.

But he couldn’t stop the doubts that whispered to him. 

Was he just another whim? Another indulgence Harry had claimed simply because he could?

Their relationship had started so suddenly—one moment, Tom had been watching Harry from afar, and the next, Harry had decided he wanted him. It had been as simple as that. Harry had chosen to have him, and now Tom was his.

Tom had known he wanted Harry since the third year, the day he saw Potter’s brilliance for what it truly was. The way his magic flowed so effortlessly, the way he wielded it nonchalantly, as though it were an extension of himself. Tom had watched him in awe, cast a non-verbal spell, not for any grand purpose, but to flirt with Diggory after a Quidditch match. Even then, Harry had been magnetic, pulling people toward him without even trying.

And now, Harry had him. But for how long?

Tom thought of the gift Diggory still sent, tokens of affection that refused to fade. The flame between them hadn’t died; it lingered, burning quietly in the shadows.

Tom’s chest tightened as Harry moved above him, his body alight with sweat, his lips parted in breathless focus. The weight of Harry’s magic pressed against his, their cores brushing in an intimate, possessive dance.

Harry had taken him apart, unraveled him thread by thread, and yet Tom couldn't shake the fear that he was disposable. Replaceable.

And yet, as Harry’s green eyes bore into his, Tom refused to let that happen.

When Harry leaned down, his breath hot against Tom’s ear, Tom’s hands shot to his back. His nails dragged down the smooth expanse of Harry’s skin, scratching deep enough to leave marks. Harry groaned, a low, satisfied sound, and smiled against Tom’s neck.

“Mine,” Harry murmured, his voice a mix of adoration and triumph.

Tom’s breath hitched. He dug his nails in deeper, refusing to let Harry have the last word.

If Harry wanted him, Tom would make damn sure he stayed.