Chapter Text
“But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”
-Matthew 8:12
Harry wakes with a scream lodged in his throat.
Even after days, his mind still tricks him into thinking he’s still in the forest as he drifts into consciousness. He feels the biting chill, smells the pine and smoke.
Yet, when he opens his eyes fully, he sees there is no smoke, no trees above his head. The chill in the air is the standard coolness of the hospital, the optimal temperature to prevent the spread of disease. His nose wrinkles at the scent of antiseptic. Harry does not hear the crackle of burning wood, the buzzing of insects, or distant growls and howls, just the steady beeps coming from his heart monitor. Proof that he is alive.
Harry climbs out of his bed, dragging his IV bag along with him to the bathroom. It is strangely novel seeing his urine collect in the toilet after spending over a year pissing behind trees. He wonders how long it had been tinged with blood without him noticing it.
There are no clocks in his room and the curtains are drawn tight, blocking out all light. He has no idea what time it is. For so long, Harry’s only conception of the time of day has been whether the sun is visible in the sky. Now, he has spent days in the dark. Maybe even weeks. He wonders when he will start feeling grateful for being alive.
Tom Riddle spent weeks in this very hospital when he was eight. He nearly died then. Harry hadn't visited him but sometimes he imagined what Tom might have looked like then: small, vulnerable, tucked in his blankets, trembling with fever, and crying out. Harry thought about Tom’s mother, hunched by his bedside and holding his hand. Harry thought about their hands together, Tom's tiny and frail one and Merope’s withered one marked with fat blue veins.
Which room had Tom been in? Was it this one? Had he slept in this bed?
Harry considers calling the nurse for a cup of ice chips or some Jell-O but feels immediately repulsed by the idea of any sort of company. He turns on the TV instead.
When he clicks the remote, the TV buzzes and crackles before coming to life. Immediately on the screen, Harry sees himself.
It’s the last team photo taken of the Walpurgis Academy Knight’s Soccer Team before the crash.
Harry, smiling in the center, is alive. Yet, many of the boys surrounding him are gone now.
The scene shifts to show the front of the Godric's Hollow courthouse. Mayor Fudge stands at a podium flanked by a number of faces Harry recognizes. Father Dumbledore looks as if he has aged many years since Harry last saw him. There are some of the parents of Harry’s teammates, some who are celebrating, others who are mourning.
“Miracles and tragedies can often go hand in hand,” Mayor Fudge begins.
Harry doubts the mayor has written his own speech.
“Today we both mourn the loss of young lives and praise God for the young lives returned to us. We applaud and admire those who had the strength to survive.”
Harry inhales sharply through his nose. Strength means nothing. He is no better than the ones who had died on impact. Often, he faintly thinks that he should have been one of them.
Fleeting panic followed by the release, the snap of his neck against a window or a pole impaled through his chest. Simple.
“Now, I would like to turn the microphone over to one of the strongest advocates for these boys over the past year and a half. She has encouraged all of us to hold on to our faith and lobbied extensively to ensure that the search continued. Please welcome, Petunia Dursley!”
The polite applause morphs to buzzing in Harry’s ears as he watches his aunt walk towards the podium. Unlike the many behind her, who appear so altered, Aunt Petunia looks the same as Harry had seen her last. Her pinched, heavily made-up face fills the screen. She clears her throat, the crucifix around her neck bobbing with the motion. Before she can get a word out, Harry switches off the TV.
Briefly, the image of her horse-like face with thin pastel pink lips opened to speak remains frozen upon the screen before it turns black.
Harry is alone in his room. There is no sign of anyone who has been sitting anxiously by his bedside, no blankets or bags left behind by someone who just left the room while Harry was sleeping to get something to eat from the cafeteria before returning. There are no flowers, stuffed animals, or cards sitting on the windowsill.
Harry throws back his head and laughs.
There are certainly many more prestigious events in the world of soccer than the American Association of Catholic Schools National Soccer Championship but for the Walpurgis Academy Knights, it means everything.
The team had been dismal when Harry first joined as a freshman, the worst in the league. It wasn’t just Harry who took a team of losers and turned them into champions. It had taken long practices, teamwork, blood, sweat, and tears. At least, Harry will say all of that in the diplomatic speech he’s planning on giving the team after they win.
Privately, Harry allows himself to feel some measure of pride for making this possible. He’s the team captain this year, after all. The first captain to take his team all the way to Nationals. That means something.
Even if Harry accomplishes nothing with his life afterwards, maybe he will be remembered for this.
Since the championship game is taking place in California, the team has to fly there. It's Harry’s first time on an airplane and it gave him a bit of a thrill to casually mention that the team would be traveling via the Malfoy family's private jet in front of Dudley, who immediately threw a tantrum about how he had never flown privately before.
“Why does Harry get to fly on a private jet? It's not fair!”
Harry really tries his best not to purposely set his cousin off these days, but sometimes it's just too difficult to resist. Now that Dudley is eighteen years old and built like a brick shithouse, his whining and blubbering takes on an edge of surreality.
However, what thrills Harry the most is the knowledge that his relatives cannot take this away from him. If they forbade him from going to the championship, half of the town would show up to their house with pitchforks. Harry’s life has shifted significantly since his talent at soccer was unveiled. Growing up, he was the disturbed nephew that his charitable relatives were forced to take in. Now, he's a hometown hero.
While the citizens of Godric’s Hollow and the majority of his classmates see Harry in a new light, the Dursleys despise him as much as ever. Thankfully, Harry is already secure with the knowledge that his relatives will never love him, no matter what he does. It's strangely comforting. Still, it's quite satisfying to watch his uncle turn beet red and babble when someone compliments Harry in front of him.
Boarding the private plane makes Harry feel rather like a movie star, though he’s trying his best not to gawk at everything around him. By the time everyone is on the plane, however, it's clear that most of his teammates are finding his experience as novel as he is. Seamus and Dean are chattering excitedly, opening and closing the overhead luggage compartments. Oliver Wood has chosen a seat to luxuriate in, stretching his legs out like a king.
Beside him, Ron’s eyes are like saucers, taking in every detail. Right now, it seems that even his general hatred of the Malfoy twins isn't enough to tamper down his awe.
The Malfoys are the richest family in Godric’s Hollow. Lucius Malfoy probably owns close to half of the town and seems to be constantly in Mayor Fudge’s ear. The family has also donated millions in endowments to Walpurgis Academy. Draco in particular is fond of telling every student with a scholarship that they’re only allowed to attend the school through the goodwill of his family. Along with that is the not so subtle threat that crossing him would make that financial aid conveniently slip away.
Draco and his twin Abraxas are already seated, treating this whole ordeal as nothing notable. Draco is making a show of rolling his eyes and sneering in the direction of anyone being overly exuberant.
Of the twins, Harry vastly prefers Abraxas. He benefits from the same privileges as his brother but manages to not be obnoxious about it. Harry thinks they could even be friends, if Abraxas wasn't so loyal to his brother. Sure, Harry has seen the apologetic glances sent his way when Draco is questioning Harry's leadership abilities, but he never actually opens his mouth to tell Draco to stop being such a brat. Instead, he coddles him, just as Harry imagines their parents do.
Harry supposes that he might just not understand that sacred bond of brotherhood. Harry has a vague sort of familial loyalty to his dead parents but he certainly doesn't have an ounce of it for the Dursleys. Either way, Harry likes to believe that he would be brave enough to call someone out who’s clearly in the wrong, no matter how much he loved them.
“I call dibs on the window seat,” Ron tells Harry after they’ve both stuffed their duffel bags in the overhead compartment.
“Alright,” Harry says easily. He was planning on sitting close to the aisle anyway.
He settles in his seat and tries to push away the wave of nervousness that has crept in. Harry has dreamed of flying since he was a kid, though back then he mostly envisioned soaring through the air like a bird or riding a boom like a witch. While Harry does his best to tune out Uncle Vernon’s unhinged rants about terrorist hijackers, he must have absorbed some of it because his mind keeps being assaulted by images of the plane descending from the sky in a fiery blaze.
“Safety first,” says a soft voice near his ear, startling him out of the gruesome daydream.
Harry looks up to see Tom Riddle, the equipment manager, leaning over him to click his seatbelt into place. Harry swallows tightly, feeling his face heat at the other boy’s proximity.
Once Tom stands back up, his expression smooths to something imperceptible. He nods, a jerky little bob of his head, then makes his way up to the aisle.
“He's so fucking weird,” Ron comments.
“Huh?”
Harry watches Tom walk away, unable to stop himself from admiring the sway of his hips and how pert his ass looks in pleated khakis. Who else can make khakis look good? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…
“Tom,” Ron says with a huff. “He's creepy as hell. Reminds me of one of those haunted dolls.” He shudders. “And why is he wearing his school uniform on the plane?”
It’s a bit odd, admittedly. Still, Harry isn't sure why Ron cares so much. What does it matter what Tom wears? Besides, Ron maybe shouldn't be calling other people haunted dolls when he, himself, bears a passing resemblance to Chucky.
“He's fine,” Harry says, accepting a sour gummy worm from the bag in Ron's outstretched hand.
Tom stops in the aisle, reaching up to help Xenophilius Lovegood put his luggage away. As he stretches, Tom’s polo shirt becomes untucked, revealing just the barest sliver of soft pale skin.
Tom and Xeno sit down next to each other. Xeno starts reading one of his odd magazines, while Tom busies himself with a Rubik’s Cube. They're often designated seat mates due to their shared outcast status, though they don't have enough in common to be friendly with each other. Tom is a very vocal atheist while Xeno’s favorite topic of conversation is the prophesized end of days.
Harry was once like them: a person few wanted to bother with. Those who were interested in his existence were people like Dudley and his friends, who enjoyed chasing him and beating him up. He had also kept to himself, choosing to sit alone at lunch rather than take the seat next to where Tom was also sitting alone at another table. He's not even sure why he did that. Wouldn't it have made him feel less lonely? Harry wonders how his life would be different if he had tried befriending Tom when they were kids.
He had reached out once, albeit tentatively. He wonders if Tom even remembers it.
Oftentimes, Harry feels like he's still the kid sitting by himself with his head bent down, shoveling his meal into his mouth as fast as he can before Dudley smashes the tray into his face. He feels like he's wearing someone else’s skin.
Harry tears his eyes away from Tom and instead turns his attention to the book Ron is pulling out of his backpack. It's thick and not like anything Harry would imagine Ron choosing on his own.
“It's something Hermione wanted me to read,” Ron says sheepishly. “Something about Russians, I think?”
Ron met Hermione at a mixer with Walpurgis Academy’s sister school Rowena Academy. Harry has only met her a handful of times. It's still difficult for Harry to convince the Dursleys to allow him to spend time with his friends after school and on the weekends. Lately, when Harry has been allowed to come home a little later, he's been preoccupied with other pursuits.
Harry likes Hermione, though. She's smart- far more worldly than most of the people trapped in Godric’s Hallow. Her family only moved to town a year ago to open up their own Dentistry Practice. Hermione isn't even religious but goes to Rowena Academy because of the high education standards. He never pictured Ron being interested in someone so nerdy but he's happy for him all the same.
Once everyone is settled, Coach Ludo Bagman lumbers to the front of the plane to address the team.
In another world, Coach Bagman would have been one of soccer’s greats, his name spoken in the same breath as Beckham and Pele. Instead, his career was cut tragically short by a torn ACL. In the past, he had coached much more promising teams but his addiction to drinking and gambling eventually landed him at Walpurgis Academy. His laissez faire approach to coaching hasn't done the team well. In truth, Harry and the assistant coach Oliver Wood do the majority of the work whipping everyone into shape. However, Coach Bagman certainly enjoyed taking the credit for their success.
Bagman clears his throat, the sticky phlegmy noise reverberating throughout the cabin. “Well, boys, this is it,” he says, fixing the group with a lopsided grin. “I just wanted to let you all know how proud I am to be your coach. When I look at you all, I see a group of winners.”
Bagman then gestures to a stern looking flight attendant. “Now, you boys listen to this nice young woman who’s going to tell us all about plane safety.”
Harry does his best to pay attention to the flight attendant’s monotone speech. After all, he really does need to know what to do in case of an emergency. Harry crosses and uncrosses his legs, already feeling fidgety.
He's lost in a daydream about being lifted in the air by his teammates as he holds the championship trophy in his hands, when he hears the flight attendant ask, “Does anyone have any questions?”
Shit, Harry doesn't know if he has any questions.
Cormac McLaggen raises his hand. “I have a question,” he says, leering at her. “Are you single?”
A few boys burst into laughter. The flight attendant only looks bored.
“Now, simmer down boys!” Bagman shouts, but he's grinning.
Harry’s hands clench where they lay in his lap. Besides Draco, Cormac is the other member of the team Harry likes least. He’s a decent player but not especially noteworthy. He's most well known for being quick to anger on the field and fouling out. If it was up to Harry, Cormac would have been cut from the team long ago just for that. It reflects poorly on all of them.
Once the laughter dies down, the flight attendant gives a few more instructions as the team prepares for lift off. Bubbles of anticipation rise in Harry’s stomach and he finds himself gripping his armrests rather tightly.
“Seamus said he swiped some of his mom’s Xanax if anyone needs some,” Ron comments.
Harry shakes his head. “I'll be fine.”
Harry doesn't even want to think of all the jokes that the other boys would make about him if they found out he drugged himself for the plane ride. Besides, he's certain once the plane is up in the air, he'll be fine.
The pilot’s voice over the intercom gently guides him as the plane begins moving and eventually lifts off. Harry’s stomach swoops with the motion but feels a spark of exhilaration along with it. He flashes a grin at Ron, who is looking a little green but happy as well.
Looking out the window, Harry sees fat fluffy clouds that look close enough to touch. He lets out an adrenaline-fueled laugh. What had he even been worried about? This is incredible!
“Maybe I could be a pilot,” Harry says, stealing another gummy worm out of Ron’s bag.
“Nah,” Ron replies.
“I could be!” Harry protests.
“Yeah, maybe.” Ron shrugs. “But out of everyone on this plane, you're the one who’s most likely to make it as a professional soccer player. You should focus on that.”
A little later, Harry’s seatbelt is unbuckled and he is leaning back in his seat, watching the clouds pass by. Ron had attempted to read a few pages of his book but is now snoring softly next to him.
Harry takes a peek at his digital watch and stands up. He walks purposely toward the bathroom, accepting a few fist bumps along the way but declining further conversation with an apologetic wince. Once inside the bathroom, Harry immediately begins unbuttoning his jeans.
“We’re up much higher than a mile, you know,” Tom says. “Approximately, six to seven miles, actually, though I suppose calling it the six-mile high club wouldn't have-”
Harry shoves two fingers in his mouth to shut him up.
Tom smiles around his fingers and immediately begins to suck on them greedily. The sight is mesmerizing- Tom is always mesmerizing like this. He stares at Harry with his big brown doll-like eyes, eyelashes fluttering, and Harry’s cock is already almost embarrassingly hard.
Harry slides his fingers out of Tom’s mouth and Tom’s head bobs, chasing after them.
“We have to be quiet,” Harry murmurs. “You can be quiet, can’t you?”
Tom mimes zipping his lips and winks. Harry has to cover his mouth to keep from laughing.
This thing with Tom has been happening far longer than Harry thought it would. It's a miracle they haven't gotten caught yet, especially with how much they tempt fate. This is definitely the stupidest place they've decided to hook up but when Tom had brought up the idea, Harry’s cock had overwritten his brain.
Tom meets Harry’s kiss eagerly. He's always so eager for it, greedy even. Harry finds himself thinking it's a privilege to see Tom like no one else is allowed to see him. To everyone else Tom is quiet and strange, certainly not wanton and willing.
When he was a child, Tom had been prone to outbursts. While Harry had run away from the bullies, sometimes even climbing up a tree to postpone a beating, Tom had met them head on, often digging his teeth into their flesh and laughing with blood dripping from his lips. He’s more subdued these days. Ivy League schools generally don't accept students that interrupt their classes to incite religious debates or tussle out in the schoolyard.
Harry sees hints of Tom’s younger self sometimes. It’s usually a curl of his lip when someone says something stupid in class or a clench in his jaw when someone insults him. Harry doubts others notice it at all but something about Tom Riddle has always made him want to pay attention.
It’s moments like these, though, when Tom is pressed against him, kissing the air out of his lungs and grinding against him, when Harry is most reminded of the child Tom once was- feral and a bit dangerous.
Harry hastily untucks Tom’s polo so he can sneak a hand underneath to touch the warm skin there. Lips locked together, it's a bit cumbersome to work at unzipping Tom’s pants but Harry manages. He hasn't planned on what exactly they’ll be doing here. Hasty handjobs would be the quickest option, although sucking each other off would make clean up easier.
Then, Tom breaks the kiss and whispers something that steals Harry’s breath.
“I’ve already prepared myself.”
Tom wants Harry to fuck him? Here?
Harry squeezes his eyes shut as arousal floods through him. It’s risky. Stupid, really. But, if Tom already prepared himself, it would be silly not to take advantage of that, right?
They've already been on the plane for over an hour, though. Will Tom even still be loose? The question is on the tip of Harry’s tongue when Tom smiles, sharp and mischievous, and proceeds to bend over, arms bracing against the sink.
Harry settles behind him, slipping a hand under the waistband of Tom’s underwear to tug them down along with Tom’s khakis. Once Tom’s hole is exposed, his question is answered. There's something already in there. A butt plug.
“Oh,” Harry whispers.
He wonders where Tom got it but figures it's a question best saved for later. Harry places a hand against Tom’s ass, kneading softly at the globe, as he takes in the sight of the strange object nestled between Tom’s cheeks. It looks to be made of metal but has a magenta heart-shaped plastic jewel encrusted in the center.
“There's lube in my back pocket,” Tom says softly.
Harry tears his eyes away from Tom’s ass momentarily in order to bend down and retrieve a packet of lube from where Tom’s pants are pooled around his ankles. Harry shucks off his own jeans and boxers, letting out a slight hiss of relief when his throbbing cock is finally freed.
Harry pushes up the hem of Tom’s polo, exposing a bit of his back as he runs his fingers across his spine. Tom’s skinny- always too fucking skinny- Harry can feel the knobs of his spine as his hand travels up.
Harry wants to take Tom’s shirt off completely. He wants to take his time with him. It’ll have to wait until they're safely in their hotel room later. One of the many perks of fucking the equipment manager is that Tom is the one responsible for booking hotels and creating the rooming arrangements.
Gingerly, Harry pulls the plug from Tom’s ass. He sets it down in the sink and rips open the lube packet, squeezing out a bit to coat his fingers.
“There's no need,” Tom murmurs as Harry’s fingers trace his puffy hole. “I'm ready.”
“Don't wanna hurt you,” Harry replies.
In the mirror’s reflection, Harry sees Tom roll his eyes. Then, when Harry’s finger presses inside him, Tom’s expression twists beautifully, a lovely flush creeping up his neck.
Harry’s finger slides in with barely any resistance. Tom is warm, slick, and so tight inside. Harry pumps his finger in and out as Tom lets out quiet huffs that shift to low moans when Harry slips another finger inside. Harry loves the sounds Tom makes. He wants to make him fall apart, really make him scream, but he can't with the entire team located just outside the door. Never any goddamn privacy. Part of him hates having to clap his hand over Tom’s mouth. Thankfully, Tom seems to love it, judging by the way he eagerly wiggles his hips to meet each thrust of Harry’s fingers.
Stretching Tom out is more of an indulgence than a necessity since Tom already put in the work to prepare himself. Harry takes his fingers out and squeezes out the rest of the lube, slathering it on his leaking cock.
Tom’s face is flushed. He already looks wrecked and Harry hasn't even fucked him properly yet. Their eyes meet in the mirror’s reflection as Harry braces a hand on Tom’s bony hip and slowly pushes in.
Harry bites back a moan. Tom feels like heaven, gripping so tightly around his cock. Harry knows he isn't going to last. He knows it's for the best since he can't stay in the bathroom with Tom all day but God if he doesn't want to fuck Tom forever.
Harry feels Tom’s hot insistent breath huffing against the meat of his palm followed by another impatient wriggle of his hips. Harry chuckles softly before fully pushing in, burying himself in Tom’s sweet heat. He sighs, allowing himself to luxuriate in the incredible feeling, before sliding out and slamming back inside.
Tom keeps a tight white-knuckled grip against the sides of the sink as Harry fucks him hard, just the way he likes it. It's impossible to fully muffle the moans Tom is letting out with Harry’s hand, but Harry is too lost in the sensation to care. Tom clenches around his cock, milks him, all while bucking back to meet each thrust, grinding Harry’s cock inside of him.
Harry leans down and mouths against Tom’s neck as he fucks him, muffling his cries against Tom’s feverish skin. Then, he feels it: a swoop in his belly and a spark of lightning hitting his spine before he’s coming inside Tom with a low groan.
Harry sloppily kisses Tom’s neck as he pulls out. Then, recklessly, he whirls Tom around before dropping to his knees. Harry opens his mouth and lunges towards Tom’s still hard cock, swallowing it down. He feels Tom’s slender fingers grab hold of his hair as he sucks Tom's cock eagerly, bobbing his head quickly and enjoying the sensation of Tom’s throbbing erection in his mouth.
It only takes moments for Tom to spill in Harry’s mouth, flooding his throat with salty spend.
“Fuck,” Tom says hoarsely as Harry swallows. “Fucking Christ.”
Harry pulls off of Tom’s cock and beams up at him. Tom smiles back, still idly playing with one of Harry’s curls.
When Harry gets back to his feet, he leans in to give Tom a quick kiss.
“You should probably go back out there first,” Tom says. “I still need to make myself presentable.”
Harry hums in agreement but his hands end up gripping Tom’s waist instead, his fingers trailing up his sides.
Harry has been told over and over that this is sin. Absently, he thinks he ought to feel guilty, but he never has. During confession with Father Dumbledore, Harry hasn’t ever felt this secret weighing on him. It's been easy to just admit to his ordinary flaws instead.
Being with Tom, like this, has never felt wrong.
What makes Harry actually feel guilty are these moments afterward, where he wants nothing more than to cling.
The first time Harry fucked Tom was in a hotel room some nowhere town in South Dakota. That's what Tom had called it anyway, when he had handed Harry a bottle of water as walked off the field, leaning close to whisper, “I want you to fuck me tonight.”
But it hadn't felt like fucking, what they did. For quite some time, they had only kissed. Then, Harry had sucked Tom’s cock while slowly and carefully working him open. After making Tom come on his tongue, Harry kissed him more, fingering him thoroughly until Tom became bossy and impatient and told Harry to get on with it.
Being inside of Tom had felt like more of a revelation than any of the passages from the Bible Harry had ever read. Harry watched Tom the entire time, cataloging each sound he made and each shift of his expression. When Tom climaxed, back arching off the bed with Harry still buried inside of him, it had to be the most beautiful thing Harry had ever witnessed.
Afterwards, Tom leaned against Harry as he helped him into the shower. Harry gently cleaned him off with a washcloth and Tom had tucked his head against the crook of Harry’s neck and sleepily murmured, “Wash my hair, will you?”
Harry obliged him, feeling strangely stilted in his movements. Then, Tom squirted shampoo on his own hand and washed Harry’s hair as well.
Standing there, feeling Tom’s fingers gently scrub through his curls and scratch at his scalp, Harry thought he had never felt more cared for, not in his whole life.
Harry had fallen asleep, tangled up in Tom and woke up in the same manner, around half an hour before his alarm was scheduled to go off. Tom was still sleeping and Harry considered waking him, maybe with his mouth, but instead leaned back against his pillow and studied him for a bit. Tom was so soft and vulnerable in his sleep and Harry could look his fill this way.
When Harry started to feel creepy, he nuzzled against Tom’s hair, breathing in the scent of the vaguely floral hotel shampoo. His next thought took him by surprise.
I want to wake up every morning, just like this.
The realization turned Harry’s veins to ice. He gently removed himself from Tom’s hold, stumbled into the bathroom, sat on the toilet seat, and bent down with his head between his knees until his breathing evened out.
As pleasant as it is, Harry’s entanglement with Tom has a clear expiration date. Harry plans to go to whichever college offers him the best scholarship and leave Godric’s Hollow far behind him. Tom has the lofty goal of attending a prestigious University, drinking coffee in an immaculate library and having intellectual conversations. People will understand Tom there. They’ll like him.
Harry, with his muddy cleats and impossible hair, would not fit in there. He does well enough in school but he isn't remarkable. He isn't a genius.
Harry doubts he would ever see Tom again after they leave the small town they were both raised in. Harry, maybe, will go to the class reunion in ten or twenty years, but he doubts Tom will. He’ll be too busy living in a large city with a highly successful career. He'll probably barely remember Harry by then.
Harry, however, isn't so sure he’ll ever forget about Tom Riddle. He's not sure how anyone could.
“Harry,” Tom says softly.
Harry realizes that he's holding Tom's waist rather tightly. His grip had been tighter, back when he had Tom bent over the sink, but now he feels self-conscious about it and lets go.
Turning back to the sink, Harry cleans himself off with a wet paper towel, pulls up his pants, and washes his hands. Before leaving, he dampens another paper towel and wipes the sweat off of Tom's brow as well. Tom’s wide eyes make something squirm in Harry’s gut and finally encourages him to hurry out of the bathroom.
He walks back to his seat, keeping his stride casual. The other passengers are either talking amongst themselves or sleeping. None are staring at him.
He’s unable to hold in his sigh of relief when he sits back down.
“You've been gone a while,” Seamus comments.
Harry opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
“Did you eat one of Coach's protein bars?” he asks, grinning mischievously. “Those always give me the squirts.”
Harry wrinkles his nose and then arranges his face into a good-natured grin. “Fiber’s good for you.”
“Yeah, okay. Nerd,” Seamus teases.
“Don't flights usually show movies?” Harry asks.
“Yeah,” Dean pipes up from where he's sitting next to Seamus. “You think we’ll get one?”
“They’d have to put it on quickly,” Seamus says. “We don't have much longer in the air.”
Harry lowers his voice. “Maybe Daddy Malfoy’s fancy airplane doesn't have movies.”
“Sacrifices must be made if darling Draco needs a third swimming pool,” Dean jokes, putting on a truly horrible accent.
“And Braxy dearest must have another pony!” Seamus joins in, grinning.
Then, Tom passes his seat and Harry does his best to appear unaffected.
“Hey Tommy!” Seamus says, the volume of his voice climbing enough that it draws the attention of several people around them. “Got the shits too?”
Tom stills. He fixes Seamus with a long blank-eyed stare before simply resuming his walk as if nothing had happened at all.
“Can't take a joke, that one,” Seamus says, shaking his head and snickering.
Harry bites his lip, watching as Tom sits back down next to Xeno. He’s filled with a certain feeling of warm contentment when he notices Tom wince slightly as he adjusts in his seat.
“Ah, leave him alone,” Harry says. “Not everyone here is still mentally twelve years old and thinks shitting and farting is the height of humor.”
The words might have come out more icy than Harry intended because a small unsure frown appears on Seamus’s face.
“I didn't mean me,” Harry amends and Seamus grins.
Soon, feeling sleepy and sated, Harry dozes off.
There's an old card table and two rusty chairs in Tom’s kitchen, but there's no room to sit there. The table is overflowing with papers, cardboard boxes and each chair is stacked with junk as well.
Harry tries his best not to let his eyes linger on any of it when he visits. He can tell Tom doesn't like it. Besides, whenever Harry looks too long at one of Merope’s numerous Precious Moments dolls, he starts to feel anxious.
Still, when Merope is away for a considerable length of time, Tom always insists on making Harry dinner, which they eat while leaning against the counters. As much as it's obvious that Tom hates being out in the main area of the house, he would never bring food into his bedroom.
The meal is always the same: peanut butter sandwiches and Lipton Noodle soup, made from a package of dry mix and hot water. Harry noticed the first time he visited that the refrigerator was unplugged, a heavy layer of dust on the plug.
“Does this mean anything to you?” Harry blurts out.
Tom turns to him, his face oddly vacant and his cheeks more hollow than usual. He opens his mouth and hisses like a snake, a long forked tongue sticking out and tasting the air.
“Do you like me?” Harry tries again.
Tom says something in a foreign language, French maybe.
“Can you speak English, please?” Harry asks, feeling strangely desperate.
“Harry,” Tom says tonelessly. Then, his eyes grow wider, practically bulging from his sockets. He lunges forward, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and shaking him. “Harry!” he screams. “Harry!”
“Harry! Wake the fuck up!”
Harry jerks into awareness. It's not a strangely serpentine Tom that's shaking him, it's Ron, who is hovering over him, pale and afraid.
“What's going on?” Harry asks, his voice coming out sleep-slurred. He reaches under his glasses to rub at his bleary eyes, still feeling foggy and unaware.
“Something’s gone wrong with the plane,” Ron tells him.
As the words register, Harry notices how the plane is erratically jostling and hears all the sounds of panic around him. Thinking back, he can't remember any of the flight attendant’s emergency instructions at all.
“What do we-” Harry gasps, “what do we do?”
“Oxygen masks,” Ron tells him, pointing up.
Harry yanks his down roughly. The printed instructions blur as he tries to read them but he manages to affix the mask to his face. Breathing comes easier, as does thinking, but along with his awareness panic creeps in.
Strangely, Harry doesn't think of his own impending doom. He thinks of Tom, who nearly died when he was younger and gets sullen and prickly whenever death is mentioned now.
Harry looks ahead to find Tom in his seat, oxygen mask on, hands gripping his arm rests and a look of pure terror overtaking his handsome face.
Harry doesn't realize he's reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt until he feels Ron forcefully pull his hand away.
Ron says something but it comes out muffled due to the mask he's wearing. He hasn't let go of Harry’s hand.
Harry thinks of Ron, his first true friend. He thinks of Tom, whose hand he badly wishes he could be holding as well.
The last thing Harry thinks of before the plane hits the ground is how disappointed he is that he's going to die before winning the Championship match.