Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

As June drew to a close and the bill for his flat arrived, Tom understood he could no longer delay the search for another golden goose.

“Thank you. You’ve been such a help, handsome.” The woman rose onto her tiptoes to meet his gaze.

Tom smiled warmly, bending just enough to spare her the effort. “A smile on your face is a smile on mine.” 

The moment she giggled and turned away, Tom began his customary assessment. He studied her clothes first—predominantly cotton, though the scarf hinted at something pricier—before shifting his attention to her jewelry. Pearls, yes, but their luster suggested they were imitation.

Then he turned to the finer details—whether her nails were painted, if there was dirt beneath them, how grown out they were. Each time she smiled, he assessed her teeth, noting their straightness and the shade of white.

As she reached for her wallet, he completed his evaluation by estimating the volume of notes tucked inside.

That is when he reached the conclusion that she was, to his dismay, middle class at best. 

Once again, Tom had failed. 

The bell above Borgin and Burkes chimed as the customer departed. When she suggested meeting outside the shop, Tom politely declined. She became the fifth this week, and therefore his fifth failure.

Five prospects in seven days, and five inadequate returns. Surely, this was a sign.

Ambition, Tom had learned, was expensive. The tools he required were not merely rare but costly, and he possessed neither the funds nor the time. Even after weeks at Borgin and Burkes, he struggled to cover the rent on his decrepit room, let alone acquire the volumes of Dark magic he sought.

Which is why he needs to find them—his Golden Goose.

The day ended with two more customers. One was clearly dependent on something far stronger than anything sold in the shop. The other was too devoted to her husband to so much as glance his way. That could have been fixed with enough time, but she lacked the wealth required to make the effort worthwhile.

After locking the shop, Tom set off down the familiar path he had walked every night since summer started. In one month, he would return to Hogwarts for his last year. In a year, he will graduate, and he refuses to do so empty handed. At least one Dark artifact would be his by then. How he would manage that was still in question.

Tom pushed open the café door and walked in. The same girl was behind the counter, as she was most evenings at this time. It was her parents’ place, she’d told him before, and they only kept it open this late because she insisted. Most other cafés had already shut their doors.

“H-Hi, Tom! Welcome back! The usual?” she managed, cheeks burning and words stumbling over each other. He was used to this by now, fluent in half formed words and flustered attempts at speech.

“Please, Annie,” Tom offered her a smile, though she only squeaked in response and kept her head bowed too low to notice it.

He waited by the counter while she prepared his sandwich, the cheapest item on the menu and, frankly, in the entire area. Once it was ready, she told him the price. As expected, it was lower than listed—but only for Tom.

When he took the sandwich, Tom made sure their fingers brushed for just a moment. “Thank you,” he said softly.

He reached into his pocket for the money, but—

Ah. It seemed he had even less than he’d anticipated.

He stared at the coins in his palm and considered what it would take to persuade her to let him have it for free, or at least for what he could afford. Tom was not above selling his face or his charm for coin, but his body was another matter entirely. This girl, however, was soft. A few compliments, a heart felt story, and surely she would—

“Here you go.”

The scent of forest air reached Tom before he fully registered the voice. A hand extended from behind him, placing additional coins into the girl’s palm. Tom turned at once.

Standing beside him was a man a few years older. Dark, jet black hair fell messily across his face, and behind a pair of glasses were large green eyes. Yet calling them merely green felt inaccurate. They were the exact shade of his favorite curse. 

“That’s enough, right?” The man tilted his head and smiled up at him, snapping Tom out of whatever daze had taken hold. Only then did it occur to him—

“How long have you been standing there?”

Tom had been certain the café was empty when he arrived.

“Only for a minute or so,” the man replied.

The man had been here for a minute, and Tom hadn’t noticed? Impossible. Tom was attuned to everyone. He always knew when someone was eavesdropping, when eyes lingered on him, and from what direction. Yet he hadn’t heard this person enter? 

A sandwich was pressed into his hand, and Tom accepted it without looking away from the man. He watched, blank faced, as the stranger ordered a cup of coffee, paid, and left. It was the sound of the door shutting that finally pulled Tom back to himself.

That man’s wallet—it was full of bills. He looked unkempt and sloppy, but the fabric of his clothes were expensive. They only appeared shabby from neglect. The glasses alone were enough; Rosier owned the same brand. 

Tom had found it. His golden goose.

He broke into a sprint after the man. Outside the café, he glanced to the right—empty. Then to the left, just in time to catch sight of him turning a corner. Tom quickened his pace and closed the distance.

“Sir—” He caught the man’s arm as gently as he could. The stranger turned, surprise across his face.

“You dropped this.”

Tom held out the badge he had managed to steal during the brief moment his hand had closed around the man’s jacket. He hadn’t known what he’d taken, so he was just as startled as the stranger when he saw that it was an Auror badge.

“Oh, thanks.” The man slipped the badge back into his jacket. “What comes around goes around, huh?”

“Yes,” Tom said with a nod. “It seems it does. I missed my opportunity to thank you earlier.”

“The sandwich? Don’t worry about it. It was a few measly coins at best.”

Measly to him, perhaps. To Tom, it had been everything in his pocket.

“Nonsense. May I know the name of my savior?” Tom asked, offering his best smile. His parents had left him little of value, but at least they had given him a face worth using.

To his utter delight, the man blushed slightly, confirming to Tom that one of his greatest weapons remains unstoppable.

“Harry.” Said the—Harry.

Tom grabbed his hand, raising it to brush his lips over the knuckle. There is no wedding ring. “It’s a pleasure, Harry. My name is Tom.”

The blush deepened, a promising sign. Yet the man withdrew his hand and regarded Tom with sudden suspicion, color still high in his cheeks.

“How old are you?” he asked.

Ah. The troublesome part. Something told Tom that this man had principles, and worse, he seemed intent on honoring them.

“Old.” 

“Okay, how old?”

“Old enough.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “I want an actual number.”

“Twenty-two,” Tom lies immediately.

In truth, Tom was seventeen, with his eighteenth birthday still months away. But lying about his age was nothing new. He had done so since securing his position at Borgin and Burkes, which required employees to be twenty or older. It was a minor detail, and not one Harry needed to know.

“I’m twenty-seven,” Harry said, in the tone of an adult disappointing a child. “And I’m not interested in children.”

Tom frowned. “I assure you, I am quite grown.”

“What could a twenty-seven-year-old possibly have in common with a twenty-two-year-old?”

“More than you may think.”

“There is no way we would work. I’m sorry, but the final answer is no.” 

Harry moved to leave, but Tom’s hand closed around his arm before he could take more than a step.

“Please, wait,” Tom said, arranging his features into something wounded. “It isn’t often I meet someone like you. You’re gorgeous, and your heart is kind. If I let you walk away, I would feel like a fool.”

Tom gathered both of Harry’s hands in his own, almost as though in prayer, and lowered his lashes.

“I know I am young—younger than you, at least, but there is nothing someone your age or older can offer you that I cannot,” Except for money, a detail Tom wisely withheld. “How can you be certain we won’t work if you refuse to try?”

Harry worried his lower lip between his teeth, gaze fixed on Tom’s features. He looked almost flustered, uncertain where to rest his eyes. That was when Tom understood—Harry liked his face. Very much.

“If you get to know me and still decide it’s a no, I’ll leave you alone. But until then…” Tom met Harry’s eyes, “won’t you give me a chance?”

Tom saw the exact moment Harry gave in.

“Okay—okay, fine. You win,” Harry muttered, sounding as though he’d been struck over the head. “Just…don’t be surprised if this goes nowhere. I’m not as interesting as you think.”

Hardly relevant, as Tom’s interest lay solely in the man’s wallet. To obtain what he needed, he would tailor himself accordingly. Tom smiled. 

“I like you, Harry. Soon, you’ll like me too.”

To Tom’s astonishment, they got along. And with far less effort than he had anticipated.

Tom had expected it to be like tending to his previous golden geese—feigning interest in their passions, indulging their whims, allowing himself to be displayed like a trophy or an accessory.

But Harry…Harry just—

“Alright, which one’s better? This mug, or this one?”

Tom found himself staring at two nearly identical mugs on a Tuesday afternoon, a situation he had not encountered since…ever.

“Hermione’s last mug was a little rounder, so maybe this one?” Harry lifted one cup slightly higher than the other.

Tom continued to stare.

They were shopping for Harry’s friend—Hermione, was her name—for her birthday. In hindsight, it was not particularly romantic. (And Harry had not once asked Tom to please him in any way. Did he not wish to be pleased?) Tom found the situation puzzling, though he did not allow it to show.

“You said the previous mug broke, yes?” Tom asked. Harry nodded. “And she usually used it for tea?”

Another nod.

Tom’s gaze shifted to the rest of the display. “What is her favorite color?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. 

“What color predominates among her belongings?”

“Purple.” 

Tom selected a teacup with purple detailing and held it up for Harry to see.

“Then this would be your safest choice. The one you’re holding is a coffee mug, which makes tea slightly less pleasant to drink from. And Hermione is a lady. She would appreciate something more refined than that.”

Harry accepted the cup and examined it carefully. When he looked up, a wide smile spread across his face, practically glittering.

“This actually looks like something she’d love. Thank you, Tom.”

“…You’re welcome.”

Tom found himself uncertain what to do with someone so easily pleased, and so transparent about it as well. He had not known a person could be this earnest.

Well, they were only just getting to know one another. In time, Harry would reveal who he truly was. And as the saying goes, not all that glitters is gold. 

“…Your place is a mess,” Tom said as he stepped inside. He nearly cursed himself for the bluntness. Lately, he’d been letting his guard slip around Harry, saying what he truly thought instead of what he should.

Rather than being surprised or calling Tom out on it, Harry simply groaned as he kicked off his shoes.

“I know, but it’s not like I was expecting you to come over. And my job keeps me busy, alright? I barely manage a proper meal these days.”

Tom said nothing as he surveyed the house. If he were to describe it the way others might, he supposed the word would be cozy. But to him, it was simply hideous.

Tom knew full well that Harry could afford a glass table there, a chandelier here. He could replace those curtains with silk—or be rid of that hideous coat rack entirely. And yet, with all that wealth at his disposal, Harry chose to surround himself with this.

It was almost insulting.

“Here, let me dry you off.” A spell washed over Tom, stripping away the rainwater that had soaked him through.

When they’d met that morning for their date, the weather had been perfect—sunny, with just enough breeze to feel refreshing. But halfway through, after they’d left their lunch spot, the skies had opened without warning, rain pouring down in heavy sheets. It was then that Harry told Tom his place was nearby. 

Which brought them here.

A hand came up to cradle Tom’s cheek, and he stilled at the contact. Harry studied him closely, brows drawn in concern.

“Your skin is as cold as ice,” he murmured. “Do you want to shower first? You should warm up properly.”

He withheld the fact that his skin rarely held warmth to begin with. Instead, he recognized the opportunity and gave a shake of his head. “I’m alright, you first.”

“But you’re my guest…” 

“Harry.” Tom lifted his hand and covered Harry’s where it still rested against his cheek. His voice softened just slightly without losing any of its firmness. “Go shower.”

Harry disappeared down the hall to shower.

When Tom heard the water start, he began to move through the living room. It was simple, furnished with only what was necessary. Nothing extravagant, and everything bore signs of use. In one corner stood a display case containing a broom that looked nearly ancient, and behind it, several medals were mounted neatly against the back panel.

One of the first things Tom learned about Harry was how deeply he loved Quidditch, a sport Tom personally found unremarkable. Yet whenever Harry spoke about flying—the wind and the freedom of it all—his eyes would ignite with something fierce and alive. These medals and brooms must come from those days. 

Photographs lined the shelves and walls. Tom studied the faces within them. There were many different people, but two appeared again and again, a red haired boy and a girl with untamable brown curls. If he had to assume, they were Ron and Hermione.

In the photograph Tom lingered on, the three of them were pressed close together in their Hogwarts uniforms, smiling brightly at the camera. Harry’s younger self was not so different from the current one, though there was a certain softness to him then. Something almost boyishly sweet.

Next to that frame was one of Harry surrounded by his teammates, all of them gripping a trophy nearly too large for their hands. The expressions alone made it obvious, they had taken the title that year.

He reached out and brushed a finger lightly over Harry’s face in the photograph. It seems that no matter the age, Harry has been quite loved. Always surrounded by friends, adored by his family…

Tom did not recognize the tight churning in his stomach.

“Are you interested in Quidditch?” A voice asked from behind him. 

Tom turned. Harry had changed into something comfortable, rubbing a towel through his wet hair.

“I’m interested in you,” Tom replied, his gaze drifting back to the younger Harry smiling brightly. “How old were you here?”

“Seventeen.” Ah, the same age as him, then. 

“Rather small for seventeen, weren’t you?” 

“I was perfectly normal,” Harry huffed. “Fine, then how did you look at seventeen?”

“Exactly as I do now.” That meaning is not lost on Tom, but entirely on Harry.

Harry’s eyes widened. He crossed the room in a few quick steps and stopped in front of Tom, tipping his head back to look up at him.

“You were this tall at seventeen?” he asked, disbelief written plainly across his face.

“…Yes,” Tom said, suddenly far too aware of the line of Harry’s throat, of the droplets of water trailing slowly down his skin. He looked away at once. “Are you still in contact with many of your friends?”

“Yeah. We meet up for dinner sometimes,” Harry said as Tom gently tugged the towel from his fingers and began rubbing it through his damp hair. “What about you?”

“I didn’t have friends.”

“Now you’re just lying.” Harry replied.

“It is no lie.” 

To fit the definition of friends, you would have to view them as your equal, but there is no one equal to Tom.

“Your face doesn’t make it easy?”

Tom chuckled, “Physical appeal is a poor foundation for loyalty.”

“I guess so…” Harry murmured, sounding unconvinced. 

It might’ve been hard for Harry to believe, considering he only knew the version of Tom that had been curated for him, the attentive gentleman, indulgent and composed. If Harry ever saw the whole of him, he would come to understand.

“Well, you have me now.” Harry smiled up at him, too bright. “I’m your friend.”

Tom froze, his throat tightening.

“…I do not want to be your friend, Harry,” he whispered, bending down until only a breath separated them. His lips hovered just shy of Harry’s. “That would not be enough.”

Color bloomed across Harry’s cheeks, and Tom allowed himself a small smirk.

“I have been curious,” he continued, “whether you understand the implication of inviting a man into your home. Are you truly this—“ dense, is the word Tom wanted to use, but he quickly corrects himself, “innocent?”

“I only wanted to get you out of the rain,” Harry said. With anyone else, Tom would have questioned it. With Harry, he found he could not. “I don’t expect—anything from this.”

Tom frowned. When Harry said it like that, it almost felt like Tom had been…rejected. Which was absurd. Harry clearly found him attractive. Why would he refuse him?

…Did Tom want him to accept?

The reason his previous arrangements with his so-called golden geese had fallen apart was simple: Tom had never been willing to offer himself in return. He had always framed it as a final measure, something to consider only if every other avenue failed. In truth, he wasn’t certain it had ever been a real option. The desire required for such a transaction had never come easily to him. Really, he could almost admire the common prostitute. 

Because no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he willed it, he could never get aroused enough for his cock to harden when someone else wanted to lay with him. The desire simply wasn’t there. If anything, the touch of another person stirred nothing but disgust in him, rendering his body completely unresponsive.

But if Harry were to ask of him what others once had, would Tom be willing—and more importantly, capable—of giving it?

Tom lifted his hand, watching as Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, color rising along his cheekbones. He brushed his fingertips lightly across the warmth of his skin. The response was strangely endearing, and it stirred heat low in his chest.

Still, it seems neither of them were ready. 

“You can relax,” Tom said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. “I am not a monster. If you do not wish for it, I will not force you.”

That restraint, however, depended entirely on his own inclinations.

Harry blinked his eyes open, cheeks still flushed. He looked almost frustrated with himself as he murmured, barely audible, “It’s not that I don’t want it…”

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you,” Tom said, missing what Harry said entirely.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly, more forceful this time as he began steering Tom toward the bathroom. “Go wash up. You’re still freezing.”

Tom opened his mouth to protest again, but Harry’s hands pressed firmly against his back, urging him forward. Even through the fabric of his clothes, Tom felt the warmth of him.

It…was not bad.

Receiving money from Harry had been an easily done thing that it was almost concerning.

From the very beginning, Harry had been generous in his spending. Under normal circumstances, Tom would have needed to ease someone into that kind of arrangement. Harry, however, paid for their first dinner without hesitation, and then the next, and the one after that.

Harry started bringing him things Tom had only mentioned once, and then things Tom had lingered on a little too long in shop windows, to things Tom hadn’t asked for at all. He was used to being spoiled by his previous golden geese, but that usually required hints or direct requests. With Harry, none of that was necessary.

So it took almost nothing for Harry to start covering his rent, just one thing, and that was— 

“Ahh,” Harry groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “Your massages are ridiculous, Tom. How are you this good at it?”

Tom adjusted his grip and worked his fingers into the arch of Harry’s foot, applying pressure exactly the way he had learned Harry preferred.

“It is far less complicated than you imagine,” he replied.

Harry exhaled, eyes slipping shut as his body melted into the cushions. “It feels like you’re pulling every bit of tension out of me…”

“I’m happy you’re enjoying it.” 

Harry’s work as an Auror often left him coming home with sore, knotted muscles. The first time Harry mentioned an ache in his shoulder, Tom read a book on proper massage techniques and put what he learned into practice the very next evening. Since then, Harry had taken to asking for it regularly, something Tom found himself more than willing to provide.

As Tom continued, his gaze returned to the wall of photographs. Every time Tom comes here, his eyes can’t help but notice it. After a moment, he asked, “Do you not have any pictures with your parents?”

It seemed like the sort of thing Harry would have. The walls were crowded with photographs of him beside nearly everyone in his life, yet the only picture of his parents showed just the two of them, bundled against the cold and smiling.

“No. They died before we could take a proper one together,” Harry replied so casually it takes a second for Tom to register what he said. “I have pictures of them holding me when I was a child, but nothing recent.”

Until that moment, Tom had been unaware that Harry’s parents had died. He was such a bright person, that it surprised Tom to hear that something as tragic as losing a parent young had happened to him. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom replied. Whether the words carried genuine sympathy, he could not quite tell.

“It’s alright,” The calm in Harry’s expression seemed genuine. “I knew they cherished me, and that’s more than enough.”

The idea of his own parents stirred in Tom’s thoughts. He had entered the world as an unwanted bastard child, which made Harry’s feelings impossible to share.

“What about you?” Harry asked. “Do you have any pictures with your parents?”

Tom considered lying. He usually shaped his answers to suit what his golden geese wanted to hear. When someone preferred the image of a devoted son, he would invent stories about his mother and the memories she left behind. This time, however, Tom realized the truth might serve him better.

“None. I’m in the same boat as you. My mother died the day I was born, and I have never met my father.”

“Oh.” Harry’s face dimmed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up—“

“There is no need to apologize,” Tom interrupted. “It does not trouble me.”

How could one miss what one had never possessed? There was nothing to mourn when Tom had never known what he had lost.

Harry asked him many questions after that. He wanted to know where Tom had lived as a child, what it had been like, what he hated and loved about school, and how he ended up working at Borgin and Burkes after ‘graduating.’ Tom mostly told the truth, if only because he was unsure what answer would work in his favor best. 

When Harry’s eyes narrowed with pity, Tom felt anger rise in him even as a strange satisfaction followed close behind. He needed no one’s sympathy, yet he found himself wanting it from Harry all the same.

Harry’s hand tightened gently on Tom’s shoulder. “If you ever run into trouble with money, you can come to me. Someone your age should not have to deal with that alone.”

The moment Tom heard those affectionate words, a vulgar desire was infested him. He wanted to shove his cock into Harry’s candid lips, tell him to keep his pity, and make him swallow his cum until his stomach swells.

But of course, Tom did none of that. Instead, he smiled a sort of smile that made him appear weak and innocent. “Thank you, Harry.”

If Tom had known that sharing his miserable past would be enough to cover his rent, he would have done it long ago. 

The massage continued for another hour, but when he noticed that Harry hadn't spoken up in a while, Tom turned his head and saw that he had drifted off, his glasses slipping slightly out of place. 

The sight, Tom couldn’t help but think, was oddly adorable—a thought Tom realized he often had about Harry. 

With Harry asleep, there was no reason to continue. Afterall, the massage was nothing but a way to demonstrate his usefulness. But if Harry was not conscious to feel it or comment on it, there was little reason to continue. Logic dictated that Tom remove his hands and step away.

Yet, the tension beneath his palms had not yet eased. The muscles were still tight, stubborn from long days of strain. Tom paused, aware that no advantage could be gained from pressing further.

His thumbs sank back into the arch of Harry’s foot.

He kept going.

With everything progressing in his favor, Tom allowed himself a rare lapse in vigilance. He did not notice it at the time, nor did he consider the risk. The consequences arrived on a Wednesday evening.

Harry and Tom were having dinner at a restaurant they had seen on television, one that immediately caught Harry’s attention. It was far more lavish than the places he typically preferred, which made it exactly the sort of setting Tom enjoyed.

Tom dabbed his mouth with his napkin and then looked up, only to notice that Harry was not eating with his usual enthusiasm. Was something wrong with the food? Had it failed to meet his expectations? That seemed unlikely, considering how excited he had been about coming here.

“Pass it over,” Tom said. When Harry realized he meant the plate, he slid it across the table. Tom drew it closer and began cutting the steak into neat, bite sized pieces.

“What is bothering you?”

At Tom’s question, Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “Was I that obvious?”

“But of course,” Tom replied, setting the knife down. “How negligent would I be if I failed to notice when my darling is out of sorts?”

Harry blushed and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “Smooth talker.”

Tom slid the plate back to Harry, the steak arranged into clean, even slices. Yet, Harry still did not touch it. Tom frowned.

“Harry, I asked you a question.” 

“You’ll think it’s ridiculous.” Harry replied, biting his lip.

“That is up for me to decide.”

Harry glanced up briefly before looking down again. “…It’s a little difficult to eat with everyone watching.”

Every—? Oh. 

Tom let his gaze drift beyond their table and across the restaurant. Several patrons were watching them outright. The moment any of them met his eyes, they startled, flushed, and quickly turned away. Tom sighed as he continued to eat his meal. 

“If you are referring to the stares, pay them no attention.”

“Easier said than done,” Harry replied. “You might be used to it, but I’m not.”

Since his birth, Tom had been gawked at the way a tourist might stare at some rare creature on display. He was used to the attention and the lingering looks, so much so that he had grown comfortable beneath them. It did not seem to be the same for Harry.

“Shall I cover my face?” Tom asked lightly.

Harry gave him a flat look. “I doubt that would solve anything.”

He hesitated, then added more quietly, “I just…wonder if they’re trying to figure out what I’m doing sitting next to you.”

Tom cocked his head, not understanding. Harry continued almost tentatively, “You’re younger, and you look like that. I’m…not exactly on the same level. It’s hard not to think people are questioning it.”

Tom studied him carefully, taking in the way Harry avoided his gaze and kept his hands tucked out of sight beneath the table.

“Are they the ones wondering that, or are you?”

Harry’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. The reaction was answer enough.

“Let me see your hand,” Tom said.

Harry brought it out at once, a rare show of immediate obedience that drew a chuckle from Tom. “I do appreciate when you listen.” 

Tom closed his fingers around Harry’s hand and brought it closer, brushing his lips lightly over his knuckle.

“You are a man of considerable charm,” he said. “And as attractive as one can imagine. But what I value most is your honesty. You feel deeply, and you do not disguise it. I do not have to exhaust myself wondering whether you are lying to me or concealing some hidden motive.”

His thumb traced slowly across Harry’s skin. “You are simple and stable. Your kindness knows no bounds, and I find the way you embarrass so easily cute.”

It is not lip service that Tom is doing. None of what he had said were lies, a fact that startled no one more than Tom himself. The realization that he meant every word was...

He pressed his forehead lightly to Harry’s knuckles, using the gesture to shield his expression now that he wasn’t certain he could control it. “If anyone here questions what we’re doing together, it’s me.”

When Tom received no reply, he looked up to find Harry redder than he had ever seen him. The color was so intense it bordered on absurd, and even the tips of his ears had flushed to match.

Tom burst into laughter, louder than it had been in years. The sound escaped him before he could stop it, and though he lifted a hand to cover his face, it only shook beneath his fingers.

When the laughter finally subsided, Tom became aware of the silence that had settled over the room. He glanced around and found every pair of eyes fixed on him, awe plain on their faces. He cleared his throat and looked away.

“I hope that restored your appetite.”

A real smile curved across Harry’s face as he nodded. “Actually, it did.”

He picked up his fork and moved to take a bite, only to pause midway as if some realization had just struck him. Color rushed back into his cheeks. When he remained frozen for several seconds, Tom tilted his head.

“Your food, Harry. Do I need to feed you for you to eat?”

That snapped Harry out of it immediately. “N-No!”

“There’s no need to be shy.” Tom removed the fork from Harry’s hand and lifted it toward him. “Here. Say ah.”

Harry stared at the piece of steak hovering in front of him, as though weighing whether to accept it. Tom’s smile deepened into something less kind and far more predatory, not as he intended.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

Harry finally leaned forward and took the bite, which pleased Tom more than it should have. As he chewed, he cast Tom a sidelong look, “…Are you sure you’re twenty two?”

Tom stilled. Had he been caught—?

“You act like you’re some seventy-year-old grandfather,” Harry went on. “A grumpy one at that.”

A chuckle slipped from Tom, edged more with relief than humor. He inclined his head slightly. “Weren’t you the one who claimed you had no interest in children?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, returning to his meal as though nothing had passed between them. “Who would be?”

…Who, indeed?

A woman with bouncy blonde curls stood frozen in front of him, jeweled spectacles flashing beneath the chandelier’s glow.

She extended a cautious hand, pressed a single finger against Tom’s chest, then recoiled at once, as though she had touched a live wire.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, eyes wide. “You’re real. I truly thought you might disappear back into whatever fairy tale you came from.”

A hand intercepted her before she could reach for him again. It belonged to a distinctly displeased Harry.

“Miss Skeeter,” he said coolly, “I would have thought you knew better than to touch strangers without their consent.”

Skeeter, apparently, flashed them both a smile that was not apologetic at all, “My apologies, I just simply wanted to check if he was a figment of a woman’s imagination!” 

On their way out of the restaurant, they were intercepted by the very woman who had been watching them all evening. She had sat toward the back of the room, and Tom had noticed her early on when her gaze lingered for the entire meal. He had not anticipated that she would follow them outside…

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied now that you’ve checked. If you’ll excuse—”

Skeeter sidestepped neatly into Harry’s path, cutting off his retreat. There was something feverish in her gaze. “I’m not satisfied at all, actually. If anything, confirming he’s real was only one of the many questions I’ve had.”

Harry frowned deeply. The expression caught Tom off guard; it was rare for Harry to show open disdain toward anyone.

“This is not your column, Rita,” Harry said. “You were not invited to question us.”

“Oh, it needn’t be formal,” Rita replied with a practiced smile. “Think of me as a curious acquaintance.”

Ah, Tom thought the name sounded familiar. It was Rita Skeeter, the Prophet’s headline hunter. It was not a newspaper Tom often read, if only because of the way it tended to embellish the truth.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one. Many are curious about the life of Harry Potter, especially when you insist on keeping it so private.”

It was the first time Tom had heard Harry’s surname spoken aloud. Tom had avoided asking all this time. Curiosity is rarely one sided, and he had no desire to offer his own name up to inspection if Harry were to ask back. A simple search would unravel the lie about his age, and once doubt took root, Harry would begin looking for more.

But Potter—Tom knew that surname. Potter, which almost certainly meant the old Potter family: established, affluent, and long regarded as firmly pure blood. Their lineage was said to trace back to the Peverells themselves.

Suddenly the wealth makes sense, but what didn’t was the way Rita spoke as if—

“Well then, introductions are in order. Is he your latest lover?” Rita said, head angled with keen interest as she looked Tom over.

“I suppose you have always had a type,” she added thoughtfully. “You favor the handsome ones, do you not? If Cedric was classically handsome, then this one is…unreal.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Although he seems younger than the men you usually keep around. And—hm, have I seen you somewhere before?”

Since his second year, Tom had attended enough events covered by the Daily Prophet that it would not be surprising if they had crossed paths before. If Rita chose to dig, however, she would uncover that everything he’s been telling Harry was a lie.

Before he could say anything, Harry cuts in, “I did an entire spread page for you. You still aren’t satisfied?”

“Hardly,” she said with delight. “I intend to recreate the sensation I achieved when I wrote about you, Mr. Potter. The resurgence of Harry Potter—the youngest Triwizard victor in a hundred years, the youngest Head Auror to ever hold the title.”

It felt like fitting the final piece into place. Harry’s fortune had begun with his parents, but he had sustained it himself. His income came from his role at the Ministry, a role he had consistently downplayed whenever it surfaced in conversation.

To think he’d been head auror the entire time. 

“I’m not interested,” Harry said bluntly.

He seized Tom by the wrist and pulled him along. As they turned the corner, Tom glanced back over his shoulder and caught sight of Rita Skeeter. She watched them with crescent eyes, a pleased smile, and a small, almost mocking wave.

The walk home left Tom with more questions than he liked. The foremost involved Harry’s role as Head Auror and the absence of any mention of it—

“You’ve been with other men?”

…That was not the question Tom meant to ask, but it was what came out.

Harry halted midstep, and looked at Tom with disbelief.

“I…yes?” Tom’s brows drew together at the answer. Harry noticed immediately. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Who?”

“My senior at Hog—wait. Why does that even matter?” Harry’s voice faltered when he saw Tom’s displeasure deepen. “Tom, don’t tell me you expect otherwise. I’m twenty-seven. And surely you must have dated other people as well.”

“I have not,” Tom said flatly. One could argue that his previous golden geese counted, yet Tom would not accept that. Those arrangements had been transactions. He took what he required and held no real attachment to any of them.

…Wasn’t that the case with Harry too? Tom had dealt with golden geese who had husbands or lovers already in their lives, and he had never cared enough to think about it twice. So why did the idea of Harry having a lover—an ex-lover, at that—irritate him so much?

“Seriously?” Harry blinked. “You’re not lying, are you?”

“Why would I lie about this?”

“Don’t sulk.” Harry placed his hands on either side of Tom’s face and pulled him down until they were level. “Why are you sulking? You can’t seriously be jealous. It was so long ago, and besides…” His gaze slid aside. “It’s not like we’re dating. This is just a trail run, remember?”

It felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over him. Ah, right.

That was how it is, wasn’t it?

Tom smiled before covering Harry’s hands with his own and gently removing them from his face. He straightened to his full height. “Yes. Thank you for the reminder.”

They had spent so much time together, and Harry had done so much for him, that Tom allowed his guard to slip. For a brief moment, he even believed he had secured his golden goose. Yet it seemed the prize was not his to claim just yet. It remained something that could still be taken by another, or slip from his grasp entirely.

Tom would have to escalate, and he would have to do it now. There had to be something that would bind Harry to him, something irreversible.

The thought had barely taken shape when arms slipped around his neck. A sudden pull brought him down, and before he could react, something soft brushed against his lips.

It lasted no more than a breath. The contact was so brief Tom scarcely registered its warmth before it vanished. Harry retreated at once, eyes lowered, his face carrying a hesitant, almost apologetic softness. Tom thinks: not enough.

“Did I upset you?” Harry muttered, the admission clearly reluctant, his face flushed all the same. “That wasn’t my intention. I meant what I said. I do take you seriously.”

Desire was not something Tom experienced often. When it did strike, it came abruptly, almost always tied to Harry’s presence. At its worst, it filled his mind with images crude enough to still his tongue. Yet he had never been entirely convinced he could act on them if he had the chance.

Now, though, as he watched Harry’s troubled expression and the deep flush staining his cheeks, Tom felt confident.

This was the act that would bond them together. 

Undressing Harry feels strangely ceremonial, like loosening the ribbon on a long awaited gift. Each layer that falls away reveals another stretch of warm skin, and with every discovery Tom feels the heat inside him climb higher, straight down below.

As Tom had anticipated, Harry’s body was strong and well trained, his muscles more defined than Tom’s despite the care Tom himself took with his appearance. Being an Auror must have something to do with it.

When Tom had overheard the crude talk that so often passed between boys his age, it had always sounded distant to him, almost absurd. They spoke of breasts that spill out of your palm when you cup them, an arse that ripples like rock to pond. None of it had ever stirred anything within him. Now, as his gaze traced the lines of Harry’s body, he understood the excitement.

Harry lay pinned beneath him on the narrow mattress, breath still uneven. The lamp cast only a muted glow across the room, leaving most things in shadow, yet it revealed enough. Pale light traced the lines of old injuries across Harry’s skin, each mark a story Tom could not read but could not look away from either. Rather than diminishing him, they seemed to strengthen his presence, lending him a raw, hard won beauty Tom found unexpectedly arresting.

“Stop staring,” Harry muttered, lifting a hand to Tom’s face and pressing his palm there. The gesture only smeared Tom’s vision. “Look somewhere else.”

“Don’t make unreasonable requests.” Tom replied, grabbing Harry’s wrist and easing his hand aside. “How can I look at anything else when you’re right here in front of me? That would be a waste.”

Harry let out a groan, color rising fast along his neck. “How do you say things like that without even flinching?” he muttered. 

The embarrassment did not last. He drew in a breath, steadied himself, and met Tom’s gaze with new determination. 

“Fine. If you are going to look at me like that, then it is only fair I look at you.” He reached forward and caught the edge of Tom’s shirt, giving it a tug.

Tom did not hesitate. He caught the fabric where Harry’s fingers still lingered and pulled the shirt over his head in a single motion, tossing it aside without looking.

“Is that better?” he asked.

Harry did not answer. He only stared, eyes wide, gaze fixed somewhere along Tom’s chest with his expression caught between awe and disbelief.

“How is it possible to be this lean and still be this muscular?” Harry murmured, his hand gliding over the firm lines of Tom’s abdomen. Tom frowned at the question. He could not understand the fascination, not when Harry’s physique was the more impressive one by far.

“I do not gain visible muscle easily, if that is what you mean,” Unlike his peers, his frame remained largely unchanged no matter how hard he trained. “If I want them to be visible, I must do this.”

He flexed his arm, holding the tension just long enough to watch Harry’s gaze fix on the curve of his bicep in fascination.

“Merlin—” Harry began, the word cut short when Tom kissed him. He could not restrain himself any longer, not when Harry was looking at him like that.

“You do not need to sweet talk me. I am already in your bed.” Tom says in between the kisses. 

Harry’s arms wrapped around Tom’s neck, pulling him closer, while his legs hooked around Tom’s waist, thighs squeezing tight and drawing their hips flush. The friction of Harry’s hardening cock against his own sent a jolt straight through Tom, his arousal throbbing painfully in his trousers.

“That’s my line,” Harry gasped into the kiss, fingers threading into Tom’s hair and tugging just hard enough to sting.

They tore at each other then, hands frantic and possessive. Tom stripped Harry of his clothes with ruthless efficiency—unbuttoning his trousers and shoving them down his hips along with his underwear in one swift motion. Harry’s cock sprang free, already hard and leaking, the flushed head glistening in the light, curving up against his stomach. Tom paused for a heartbeat, drinking in the sight of Harry bare and trembling beneath him.

His eyes zeroed in on Harry’s nipples, firm and pebbled from the cool air and the heat building between them. They stood out like invitations, dark and taut against Harry’s flushed skin. A strange, primal urge hit Tom, sudden and ridiculous, like a babe craving his mother’s milk. He wanted to suck on them, to taste and feel.

So he did.

Lowering his head, Tom latched onto one bud with his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before he sucked hard. The salt of Harry’s skin bloomed on his tongue, mixed with the faint musk of arousal, and Tom groaned low in his throat, the vibration making Harry arch up with a moan. He licked and sucked to his heart’s content, swirling his tongue in lazy circles, nipping gently with his teeth until the nipple swelled even harder under his attention. Harry’s fingers threaded into Tom’s hair, tugging weakly, his body trembling as soft, breathy sounds spilled from his lips.

“You can lick all you want,” Harry gasped, one hand flying up to cover half his bright red face, fingers splayed like he could hide the flush spreading down his neck. “But it’s not going to taste good.”

Tom pulled back just enough to grin, lips shiny and swollen from his efforts. His eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s, “Oh, but it does,” he murmured.

He dove back in, switching to the other nipple, sucking it into his mouth that made Harry whine. Tom’s hand slid up Harry’s side, thumb brushing the neglected bud, rolling it between his fingers while his mouth worked the other. Harry’s moans grew louder as his hips bucked up instinctively, seeking friction against Tom’s thigh. The sound of it sent a fresh wave of heat straight to Tom’s cock, already straining against his trousers.

He could do this forever. Tease Harry until he begged. Until he admitted, out loud, that he was the only thing Harry needed.

Tom’s hand wandered down Harry’s body, fingers trailing over the curve of his hip, seeking the heat between his thighs. All he wanted was a sense of its location, so that Harry didn’t see him struggle to find it, but when his fingertips brushed Harry’s hole, he found it already wet with lube, the rim slightly puffy and red as if it had been played with recently.

He pulled back in surprise, checking again with a probing touch, sliding one finger along the slippery entrance. Sure enough, it was soaked, the muscle yielding softly under pressure, still warm from whatever had stretched it open.

“…Why—” Tom started, accusation sharp on his tongue, ready to demand who else had touched him. But the words died when he saw the look on Harry’s face: cheeks flushed crimson, eyes averted, lips pressed together in embarrassment.

It dawned on Tom then. It wasn’t that someone else had been toying with Harry. It was that Harry had been toying with himself.

A wicked grin slowly spread across Tom’s face. He leaned in closer, his finger circling the slick rim teasingly, watching Harry squirm. “Did you want this to happen so badly that you went off and prepared yourself ahead of time?” Tom asked, trying to keep the mockery out of his voice but no doubt failing. “Harry, did you mean to seduce me from the very beginning?”

Tom shoved his finger in fully, the heat of Harry’s hole clenching around it like a vice, drawing a surprised moan from Harry’s lips that echoed in the room. The sound went straight to Tom’s cock, hardening it further as he watched Harry’s face contort in pleasure and pain.

“I asked you a question.” Tom began to thrust his finger in and out, slow at first, savoring the way Harry’s body trembled beneath him. 

“I—ah,” Harry moaned, his voice fracturing as Tom’s finger searched deeper, probing the velvety walls. According to the books, there should be a spot around here somewhere that will make Harry feel even better. It should be towards the bellybutton, and it was supposed to have a firm, rubbery texture—

“Ah!”

The loudest moan yet ruptured from Harry, raw and unrestrained, when Tom’s finger brushed against a certain raised bundle of nerves. Found it, Tom thought, a satisfied grin curling his lips. He’d keep that location burned into the back of his mind, a secret weapon for future torments.

“Like that spot, don’t you?” Tom murmured, pulling his finger back just enough to tease. “I’m afraid I cannot continue indulging you if you insist on being dishonest with me.”

He added a second finger without warning, shoving them in together, the stretch making Harry’s rim burn and flutter around the intrusion. Tom made sure to stay clear of that sensitive prostate, thrusting shallowly, watching with amusement as Harry’s hips bucked in frustration, chasing the pleasure Tom was withholding.

“Ugh, Tom, come on…” Harry pleaded, blinking those pretty green eyes up at him, lashes wet and fluttering. The look was so vulnerable that Tom felt himself falter for a heartbeat, his fingers slowing under that gaze.

The realization that he had nearly given in stirred a flash of anger. It would be simple to snap Harry’s neck and put an end to those irritating, persuasive tactics. The thought lingered, then shifted.

Instead, he punished Harry by adding another finger, making a total of three, slamming them in with a twist that stretched him wide and deep. Harry’s gasp turned into a choked cry, his hole clenching greedily around the invasion.

Tom leaned down, lips brushing Harry’s ear, voice a low whisper laced with fury and lust. “Though you beg very beautifully, it’s not what I asked for.”

“Yes,” Harry gasped, the words tumbling out as Tom’s fingers neared his prostate again, brushing just close enough to tease. “I opened myself thinking about you, Tom. I’ve done it nearly every time we’ve been around one another. Are you happy now?”

Tom grinned at Harry’s confession, the words sinking in like sweet poison. Nearly every time? The thought of Harry—alone, fingers buried in his own hole, whimpering Tom’s name while prepping himself just in case—sent a thrill through him. It was better than he’d hoped, proof that Harry had been his long before this night.

“My, you deserve a reward,” Tom murmured, “Well done.”

Without warning, he launched a full assault on Harry’s prostate with all three fingers, curling them precisely against that swollen bundle of nerves, thrusting hard and fast. The wet squelch of lube and Harry’s arousal filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, as Tom’s knuckles dragged against the rim with every plunge.

Harry’s moan shattered the air. He grabbed at Tom’s wrist with both hands, fingers digging in desperately—whether to pull him away or shove him deeper, Tom couldn’t tell, and didn’t care. Harry’s nails scraped red lines down Tom’s skin, his thighs quivering, hole clenching greedily around the invasion as pre-cum leaked steadily from his cock, pooling on his stomach.

“That’s it,” Tom said, twisting his fingers deeper, rubbing relentlessly against the prostate until Harry’s eyes rolled back, tears pricking at the corners. “Take it. You’ve been dreaming of this, haven’t you? Fingering yourself open for me, imagining my cock splitting you wide. I’m preparing you for it. Aren’t you happy?”

Harry’s hips bucked wildly, caught between fleeing the overwhelming pleasure and chasing it, his moans turning into sobbed pleas—“Tom—fuck—too much—ah!”—his cock jerking untouched, the head flushed dark and slick. Tom watched it all with hungry eyes, utterly transfixed, as Harry came apart beneath him.

With just a few more firm strokes of his fingers against that prostate, Harry’s cock jerked violently. A thick burst of white shot from the flushed head, splattering across his own chest in messy ropes that painted his skin in pearly streaks. The organ continued to twitch and pulse even after the first spurt, shaking with each aftershock as more cum leaked out in weak, dribbling pulses, sliding down the sides of Harry’s ribs.

Eventually Harry went boneless, collapsing flat against the bed, chest heaving, body streaked and glistening with his own release. He looked utterly wrecked—the sight making something in Tom’s head short circuit.

Dizziness swept through him as he stared at the evidence of Harry’s pleasure painted all over his skin. By the next second, Tom followed his instinct rather than his brain.

He leaned down and dragged his tongue flat across Harry’s abs, licking up the warm, salty cum in one long stripe. The taste exploded on his tongue, bitter sweet, not quite delicious, yet Tom chased every drop. He followed the trail higher, licking across Harry’s chest, over his collarbone, until he reached Harry’s mouth.

Without hesitation, Tom sealed their lips together in an open mouthed kiss, forcing his tongue inside and sharing the mess he’d just collected. It was dirty and wet and obscene, cum and spit sliding between their tongues as Tom kissed him deep.

Harry made a weak, startled sound and tried to push at Tom’s shoulders, but Tom didn’t budge. He simply caught Harry’s wrists, pinned them to the mattress, and kept kissing him until Harry’s resistance melted and his tongue tangled helplessly with Tom’s, tasting himself on Tom’s lips.

Tom pulled back just enough to whisper against Harry’s swollen mouth, “Pretty.”

Harry’s breath hitched, eyes dazed and wet, but he didn’t pull away.

Tom smiled against his lips and kissed him again, slower this time, savoring every shaky little moan Harry fed him.

Tom’s cock had become an unbearable distraction, throbbing so hard it felt like it might split his skin. He’d never been harder in his life, not in any of the fevered fantasies that had plagued him, not even in the stolen moments of self pleasure where Harry’s face had haunted his mind. The ache could not be ignored any longer.

He freed himself from the confines of his pants with a quick tug, his length springing out, the head slick and weeping pre-cum that dripped in beads down the veined shaft. He stroked himself once, firm and slow, the relief almost painful, but parting from Harry’s mouth was torture. Their kiss broke with a wet smack, saliva connecting their lips for a heartbeat before snapping.

Harry’s eyes followed the movement, dropping down to Tom’s cock, and widened comically. His pupils were blown wide, and his mouth fell open in shock.

“Wha—no, no no no.” Harry tried to scramble up, scooting backward on the bed like a cornered animal, but Tom grabbed his wrist and yanked him back down.

“What do you mean, no?” Tom asked, tilting his head as innocently as he could, “Do you not like what you see?” 

He knew he was larger than average, but he’d been told that was a good thing. Yet still, Harry shook his head rapidly, eyes fixed on his cock in fear. “Are you kidding? You’ll kill me if you try to put that in me. I don’t think it’s physically possible for me to take it.”

“How can you know if you won’t even try?” Tom asked. 

He forcibly pried open Harry’s legs again, one hand pinning a thigh to the bed while the other kept his wrist trapped, holding him spread and exposed. Harry’s hole clenched visibly under his gaze, still slick and puffy from the fingering, a faint sheen of lube glistening in the low light. 

“Come, Harry. Surely you wouldn’t be so selfish as to be the only one left satisfied.”

A flicker of guilt crossed Harry’s face, his cheeks flushing deeper, eyes darting away. “I can suck you off, or something.”

“While that is tempting,” Tom’s free hand trails up Harry’s inner thigh, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just shy of his entrance, “I would much rather be inside you instead. Right now.”

If Tom weren’t keeping up the act of an attentive lover—playing the part of someone who cared about consent—he would’ve discarded Harry’s words entirely and been inside him already. Especially since it was so clear Harry wanted him too: the way his hole twitched, the fresh bead of pre-cum welling at the tip of his cock, the subtle shift of his hips begging for more despite the fear in his eyes.

“I’ll satisfy you, I promise,” Tom said, leaning forward to plant a soft, almost tender kiss on Harry’s cheek, his lips lingering there as his thumb circled Harry’s rim.

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed in consideration, then met Tom’s eyes with a shaky nod. The submission sent a shiver down Tom’s spine.

Tom grinned, wide and victorious, and pushed Harry back down onto the bed with a firm hand on his chest. He threw one of Harry’s legs over his shoulder, the other remaining splayed at his side, opening him up completely—ass tilted up, hole winking in the air, all perfect and ready. Tom grabbed his cock at the base, giving it a slow stroke to spread the pre-cum, and rubbed the swollen head against Harry’s entrance, teasing the rim with pressure, watching it flutter and yield just a little with each nudge. 

Truthfully, Tom had no clue if he would fit. The hole welcoming him was so small, and it seems almost impossible to imagine it stretching wide enough to swallow him. But he did not tell Harry that, of course. 

Instead, he forced the head in, the tight ring of Harry’s hole yielding with a burning stretch that made Tom’s breath hitch in his throat. The heat was immediate, scorching, clenching around the crown like it was trying to suck him deeper while fighting him off at the same time. Harry’s moan ripped out of him, and his hands flew to Tom’s forearms, clutching desperately, nails digging into the skin like he needed something, anything, to ground him as the sensation took over.

The world narrowed down to the velvet grip around his cock, making Tom dizzy. He stilled, buried just an inch inside, worried that if he moved any further he’d cum right then and there. He breathed slowly, in and out, forcing calm through the haze of lust.

So he can fit—such wonders of the human body. Such wonders of Harry’s body, which must’ve been made for him.

Luckily, Harry didn’t seem to notice, his own chest heaving as he did the same, eyes squeezed shut, tears already gathering at the corners. So Tom continued, pushing himself in inch by agonizing inch until he was midway through. It was almost unbearable, like his cock was being squeezed by a fist, and he wondered how on earth he was supposed to last.

Tom now understood why his classmates chased sex like addicts. Why everyone seems to have such an obsession about it. 

“Too much…I can’t…” Tears spilled from Harry’s eyes, sliding down his cheeks as he squeezed them shut.

Tom wanted to lick them away, but resisted. “You can,” he growled, leaning down as he pushed deeper. “Hold on—almost there.”

With one final thrust, Tom sank flush against Harry’s ass, buried to the hilt in that scorching depths. Now that he was fully seated, Tom leaned down and licked the tears off Harry’s cheek, savoring the salty tang mixed with sweat.

“Open your eyes, Harry,” Tom commanded.

Harry didn’t obey, his face twisted in a mix of pain and ecstasy, breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

Tom frowned, irritation mixing with the lust. He needed Harry’s eyes open. Tom wanted to see that striking green, and more than that, he wanted Harry to know who he was doing this with.

Pulling back slightly, Tom thrust in hard, prompting Harry to open his unfocused eyes with a start. Their gazes met, green locking onto his.

“You really do make everything so difficult. Why can’t you ever follow directions?”

“Tom—wa—!” Harry gasped, but Tom didn’t stop. He began a rhythm, not too hard, but not too soft at first. Once he found his rhythm and grew more accustomed to it, Tom gripped Harry’s thighs, spreading him wider as he watched his cock disappear into that hole again and again.

“Ah, ah, oh, hmm, ah, oh—oh!” Harry moaned, sounding almost like a different person entirely. 

Stars floated behind Tom’s eyes, and suddenly he was too aware of everything that was Harry—the salt slick skin under his hands, the warmth of him, all his scars that made his body more memorable. 

Harry clutched at him, nails raking down Tom’s back, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. Tom leaned down and welcomed the sting—savored it, even—as he buried his face in Harry’s neck and drew in his scent.

It drove Tom wild, and he picked up his pace, slamming into Harry until the bed squeaked like it might splinter under the onslaught.

“Yes, yes, Tom—oh, like that!” Harry had abandoned all sense of shame, surrendering completely to the pleasure, his voice a broken, whorish litany that thrilled Tom to his core. He licked Harry’s neck as he moved his hips, sucking hickey after hickey into the tender flesh. There, the dark purple blooms would mark him for days, a reminder of what had transpired this night.

Tom angled his hips until he was confident he was hitting Harry’s prostate. He knew he was spot-on when Harry began thrashing beneath him, his body convulsing like he’d been struck by lightning. 

From there, it took no time at all for Harry to come a second time. His cock jerked wildly between their bodies, spilling thick ropes of cum across his own stomach and Tom’s chest in quick, messy spurts. Then, like a doll with its string cut, Harry went limp—sprawled out, utterly spent, his chest heaving as he lay there for Tom to take.

So Tom did.

He thrust his hips solely for his own pleasure now, using Harry like a toy—gripping his thighs hard enough to bruise, slamming in and out with no care. In his mind, there was nothing but the mission of seeking his release, everything else fading to white noise. It was terrifying, in a distant way, to have his brain shut off like this, reduced to nothing but an animal rutting his hips into a welcoming hole.

When he looked down, he saw a creamy ring of white foaming at the base of his cock where it disappeared into Harry’s stretched hole, the sight so filthy it made him groan louder, hips snapping faster.

“H—Hold on, there’s—mhm, ah, ah—something—!”

Anything Harry might have said was lost on him, drowned out by the pleasure that had taken hold. He groaned like a beast, wrapping his arms around Harry and hugging him close, crushing their bodies together as his orgasm hit. 

Tom came the way stars died. A supernova of ecstasy collapsing in on itself: so pleasurable that it actually hurt. His vision momentarily went black, and he couldn’t stop thrusting even if he tried. A gasp escaped Tom’s parted lips, his legs tensing as he ground forward a few more times, ejecting every last drop deep inside. Ecstasy caused Tom to short circuit, leaving him momentarily deaf and dumb. 

It was only after he’d squeezed out the remaining semen that he unclenched his arms, just barely stopping himself from collapsing on top of Harry.

A second afterward, a clear liquid burst from Harry’s cock. It shocked them both. Harry moaned loudly as his body seized in another wave, and Tom pulled back just enough to see it happen—the stream arcing out in thin, watery spurts that soaked their skin, blending with the drying cum on Harry’s stomach. 

It looked like water more than anything else, soaking the sheets and mixing with the mess they’d already made. Harry’s eyes squeezed shut in humiliated pleasure as his hole clenched one last time around Tom’s softening cock, milking the aftershocks.

Is that… water? Tom thought, his gaze flicking to the clear liquid still trickling from Harry’s spent cock, soaking the bed. It doesn’t seem to be urine… Another thought hit him forcefully, dark and curious: What does it taste like?

Since Tom just came, he was much too sensitive, and having Harry suck him in so much nearly hurt. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he pulled out his cock as gently as he could and watched in amazement as his cum leaked out of Harry’s hole. It dripped down Harry’s crack and pooled on the sheets. The entrance didn’t close, not even after Tom stared at it for a few seconds, but rather gaped obscenely now. It almost seemed as though it wanted Tom to shove his cock back inside and fill it again.

He tried to even his breathing, chest heaving as he looked at Harry—body limp and streaked with sweat and cum, a truly salacious sight. When Harry made eye contact, a shiver raced down Tom’s spine. He had done many awful things in his life, but this was the first time he truly felt like a sinner.

So that…was sex, Tom thought, though even that came with difficulty. His mind felt shrouded in fog, leaving him unable to think beyond the most surface level impressions.

“Tom..?” Harry stared up at him, an almost scared look on his face that Tom wasn’t used to seeing. It made him look vulnerable. “Why do you have such a scary look on your face?”

Tom bent down, staring deep into Harry’s eyes, and whispered, “…Again.”

“Huh?”

“I wish to do it again.” Tom grabbed his now half hard cock and pushed it back inside Harry, the oversensitive flesh burning with a mix of pain and pleasure as it slid into the cum drenched heat. He was still relatively soft, but with the way Harry’s hole was clenching around him, combined with the fear in those green eyes—he knew it wouldn’t last long.

“What? No. No, Tom. No more. I can’t do it. My body can’t do it. I want you too, sure, but I at least need some sort of break—” Harry tried to explain between breaths, hands pressing uselessly against Tom’s chest, his resistance lacking any real force. Tom paid no heed. He continued thrusting, slow and insistent at first, feeling himself fully thickening.

“Please,” Tom begged, his voice cracking with desperation he hadn’t expected, hips rolling deeper. He told himself this desperate plea was for Harry’s sake, though the ease with which the words came suggested otherwise. “Please. I’ll be good. Just once more. Please, Harry.”

Tom watched Harry’s hesitant look, the flicker of uncertainty in those green eyes only made him want it more.  

He grabbed Harry’s hand without a word, pressing it flat to his chest, letting Harry feel the rapid thump of his heart beneath the skin. Slowly, Tom guided it downward—over the ridges of his stomach, the trail of dark hair leading lower—until Harry’s palm met where they connected. 

His resistance faltered, and then he nodded, small, but with a flicker of heat in his eyes. Tom grinned. 

Harry lay back limply, letting Tom take him, his body open and yielding as Tom picked up the pace, the bed creaking beneath them once more.

Even when Harry passed out from the exhaustion, Tom didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His cock was still rock hard, and throbbing with an ache that refused to die, too turned on by everything that was Harry. The way his body clenched and fluttered, the taste of his skin, the little whimpers that escaped even in unconsciousness. 

It was the first time in Tom’s life where he thought of nothing: no schemes, no power, no control. Just lust. Pure instinct. Behaving like an animal in heat, rutting mindlessly like he might die if he stopped.

He thrust and thrust, hips slamming forward in snaps, the wet squelch of flesh and lube echoing in the room. He came everywhere he could, pulling out to paint ropes of cum across Harry’s slack face, watching it drip from his parted lips; splattering his swollen nipples until they glistened; even coating his feet as Tom held one up to his mouth, licking the sole before shooting across the toes. 

But mostly, he came inside him—pumping load after load deep into Harry’s guts, flooding him until his stomach began to bulge slightly, distended from the sheer volume. Cum leaked out around Tom’s cock in white froth with every plunge, and he was addicted to seeing it there.

When Harry woke up from the movement every now and then, he would dizzily stroke Tom’s head, fingers tangling weakly in his hair as Tom continued to thrust without stopping. At times, they kissed, tongues tangling sloppy, though it never lasted long before Harry’s eyes rolled back and he slipped into unconsciousness again.

But mostly, Harry lay limp, a vessel for Tom’s hunger. He much preferred it when Harry was awake, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. 

“It’s your fault,” Tom said during the act, nothing but a whisper to himself. “Everything you do is erotic. You’ve turned me into this.”

Tom lost count of the hours and the orgasms. Nothing remained of him but the beast, and perhaps nothing else had ever existed.

Before Tom’s eyes open, he becomes aware of fingers moving slowly through his hair, nails grazing his scalp in a way that sends a dull, pleasant shiver down his spine. At some point, though he could not say when, he must have passed out as well.

He is lying on something firm, though strangely comfortable, and beneath his cheek there is a steady rhythm.

A heartbeat.

Tom’s eyes flew open and he pushed himself upright at once, a jolt of alarm tightening his chest. Harry lay beneath him, staring up in surprise. His dark hair was tousled beyond saving, and his skin marked everywhere by the evidence of Tom’s earlier hunger. He looked thoroughly spent, yet unmistakably content. Harry’s lips curved into a soft smile.

“Where are you going?” Harry murmured, voice still rough with sleep. His hand slid to the back of Tom’s head and guided him down again. “Come on. After what you did to me, I think I’ve earned this.” 

He pressed Tom against his chest, holding him there so the steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled the quiet.

It was the first time in Tom’s life he had ever shared sleep with another person. At the orphanage, rest had never come easily. He used to lie awake through long stretches of the night, convinced that closing his eyes left him too vulnerable to whatever the dark might bring. Because of that, he had learned to survive on very little. Even when exhaustion caught up to him, his rest rarely lasted more than a few hours.

Yet when his eyes drifted to the clock on Harry’s nightstand, the glowing numbers read 11:36. Tom always rose at seven sharp, regardless of how late he had gone to bed the night before. He had slept nearly twice as long as usual.

What was happening to him?

“Do all young people have your stamina?” Harry asked, still combing his fingers through Tom’s hair.

“You’re only twenty-seven, please stop talking as if you’re decrepit.” Tom murmured, eyes sliding shut again. Warmth settled deep in his chest, heavy and steady, wrapped in a sense of ease, as though nothing could reach him here.

“It was a serious question,” Harry said. “For a moment there, I really thought you wouldn’t stop.”

“I did consider it.”

There had been an instant when he believed he could continue without end, surrendering completely to instinct and the pull of Harry’s body. Fatigue had overtaken him before he could act on it, his body refusing further cooperation. He accepted the lapse as a sign that indulgence must never eclipse the plans he had set in motion long before Harry entered his life.

“You didn’t stop even after I passed out…” Harry muttered, sounding more affronted than truly angry.

“You never told me to,” Tom replied.

“That doesn’t mean you had to be so rough,” Harry shot back, gesturing weakly at himself. “I can barely move.”

“If you are accustomed to gentler company, consider this a lesson in contrast. I am not like the men you’ve been with.”

Tom did not know why he said it. The thought had already slipped free before he could stop it. Harry’s offhand confession about a former lover from his Hogwarts years refused to leave his mind. So Harry’s aversion to younger partners had been genuine after all.

It should not have mattered. Tom told himself it did not. He dismissed the notion as irrelevant, yet a slight irritation remained. For the first time since his days at the orphanage, he found himself wishing he were older.

“Are you still sulking about that?” Harry asked.

Tom did not answer. He kept his eyes closed until Harry’s fingers grazed the shell of his ear, tucking loose strands of hair back. “If it helps, you—”

The words stalled in Harry’s throat.

Tom shifted, resting his chin against Harry’s chest so he could look up at him properly. As expected, Harry’s face had already flushed a deep, telling red.

“I’m what?”

“You…are the best I’ve been with.”

The surge of satisfaction that followed such a simple confession caught Tom off guard. The sharp, needling irritation that had plagued him moments before began to recede. In its place came a darker impulse, the urge to swallow Harry whole. 

“Naturally.” Tom said. 

“Naturally my butt,” Harry scoffed, pinching Tom’s cheek before pulling his hand away just in time before Tom could bite it. “You may be good, but you’re still too rough. You’re lucky I’m built well enough to handle everything you do. I feel sorry for your previous partners if this is how you always hold someone.”

“There is no cause for sympathy,” Tom said. “You are the only one.”

“Yeah, but—” Harry stopped mid-gesture. “Hold on. What did you just say?”

Tom studied the confusion that shifted into outright disbelief.

“You mean to tell me I’m the first person you’ve ever slept with?”

“Harry,” Tom began, “I have already told you that I never formed friendships and have no history in romance. Why, then, does it surprise you so much to learn that you are the first person I have ever been intimate with?”

“Because you look like—well, you.” Harry said. “You must be beating people off with a stick! You’re telling me you were never even tempted? Not once?”

Seventeen, Tom corrected inwardly. He lowered his head until his ear rested against Harry’s chest again, letting the steady rhythm anchor him. “I’ve had no real interest in it until you.”

“…Wow,” Harry murmured, the word leaving him on a thin breath.

“What?”

“I just— it’s strange to think I was your first.”

Tom frowned. “Yes, not quite fair is it, considering that I wasn’t yours.”

“Is it not enough that you’re here now?” Harry asked. Tom closed his eyes. 

“No, not at all.”

From that day on, Tom heard nothing from Harry. 

He wrote letters that went unanswered. He passed by Harry’s flat to check for light in the windows, yet never saw any. They had always managed to meet at least once a week, yet two had now passed without a word or a visit.

Tom could not make sense of what was happening. Never before had one of his golden geese—or anyone at all, for that matter—simply vanished on him like this. He had heard enough stories about people who chased pleasure only to disappear once they had it, but Harry wasn’t that kind of person.

Could it be because he was bad in bed? Tom had heard plenty of people who had stopped seeing their lovers over that. But Harry had come. Plenty of times, in fact. And he seemed so satisfied. He had even told Tom he was the best, unless that was a lie. Which it couldn’t have been, for reactions such as those can’t be faked. 

…Then was it because he showed too much of his true nature? He had let the gentleman’s mask slip while they were in bed, then remained too at ease afterward to put it back on. For once, he had not said what he thought Harry would like to hear, nor did he go out of his way to ‘do the right thing’. He had simply been himself. Perhaps that had been the mistake.

A flush of anger and humiliation hits Tom. So that was it, then? Harry saw him for what he was and got scared off? Because Tom doesn’t like it when he gets told no? Because he cares about his own feelings and wants more then anyone else’s? Because he’ll force things to be if they weren’t? Or was it because he admitted that being with Harry right now was not enough to equal being Harry’s first time?

Grabbing a pen, Tom began writing to Harry every few hours. Calling them letters would be generous. What he had written before could be called that. What he wrote now were scraps of parchment meant to irritate Harry into responding. If Harry wanted the bombardment to stop, he only needed to reply. Tom was certain guilt would get to him eventually. Harry would worry about the poor owl forced to make so many trips and give in just to spare the creature.

[ Answer my letters. ]

[ Did I truly offend you that badly? You're the one who fucking seduced me. I only gave you what you asked for. Now you find it excessive, and that is reason enough to discard me? ]

[......Apologies for cursing. ]

[ How long do you intend to ignore me? ]

[ Please write back. ]

[Are you doing this on purpose? To drive me insane?]

[You're not hurt, are you?]

[ Is this some sort of punishment? ]

The final message left his apartment at four in the morning, written in ink that had nearly run dry.

[ Do you hate me now? ]

Around the third week, when Tom is sitting outside of Harry’s apartment door, the scrape of wings against the evening air drew his attention upward. At the sight of the familiar owl descending toward him, Tom rose to his feet at once, the sudden movement knocking the book from his lap onto the floor.

The white shape gliding toward him needed no second glance. Tom would have known Hedwig anywhere by now, flying through the air, a letter clenched in her beak. Rising onto his toes, he caught her mid flight and pulled the parchment free before she could land. She struck back with a peck to the side of his head, which he ignored entirely as his eyes dropped to the page.

It read:

Dear Tom,

Come see me at St Mungo’s. Room 204. I will explain everything once you arrive.

Though your letters have been adorable, and I enjoyed receiving them, you should still show some mercy to that poor owl of yours.

And for the record, no, I could never hate you.

Sincerely,

Harry

The letter had barely left his hand before Tom broke into a full sprint. Only when the burn settled into his lungs did he remember that a single step into a fireplace would have brought him there in seconds.

The moment he stepped inside the building, Tom seized the nearest staff member for directions, listening only long enough to catch the gist. He took the stairs two at a time and cut through the corridor without slowing. When he reached room 204, he shoved the door open hard enough for it to strike the wall.

Harry sat propped against the pillows, looking out the window until the sound of the door slamming open drew his attention. A hospital gown hung loosely on his frame, white bandages visible everywhere Tom looked. Despite that, he broke out into a bright smile when he saw Tom.

“Did you run all the way here? Your—”

The rest of the question was lost when Tom closed the distance between them and wrapped him in his arms. The sudden contact startled a yelp out of Harry, though his arms came up a moment later, circling Tom in return.

The action surprised him as much as anyone. Tom had never been inclined toward physical affection, much less initiating it, yet he pulled Harry into a hug before he could even think twice. Harry’s constant habit of throwing his arms around Tom every time they see each other had him expecting it. But to think he would initiate it himself…

“What happened to you?” Tom asked the second he pulled away. 

Up close, Harry looked far worse than he had first thought. Shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair lay in tangled disarray, and there was a hollowness to his cheeks that had not been there before. The layers of bandages covering him only made it worse.

“Work happened.” Harry murmured, leaning into Tom until his forehead pressed against him. The contact stirred a desire to run his hand through Harry’s hair the way Harry always did to him. “Was fighting some poachers, and they released a dragon on me.”

“A drag—?” Tom took a deep breath. “Is it dead?”

“Of course not. My men released it back to the wild.”

“It injured you to this extent and you did not take its life as payment?”

“We’re finally together again, and you want to talk about murder?” Harry peered up at Tom, using his number one seduction trick—batting the lashes that framed his beautiful eyes. “I would rather hear about you. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“What I’ve been doing is waiting for you to answer my letters.”

A breath of laughter escaped Harry’s mouth. “Letters? I’d call them notes at best. Some of them sounded like threats. What did you mean when you said I should hope you never find me?”

“I…” Tom wanted to tell him he meant exactly that, but a gentleman wouldn’t be so forceful. 

Harry smiled at him. “I would have written back if I hadn’t been in a coma. I’m sorry I worried you.”

Worried? Him? No, he couldn't be. It was nothing like that. What bothered him was the possibility that his golden goose had slipped from his grasp. Harry was, in the end, only a living bank.

At the way Tom suddenly went rigid, Harry’s brows drew together. “What’s wrong?”

Tom bit down on the inside of his cheek, then forced a small smile. “Nothing worth mentioning. I owe you an apology for those letters. I was…concerned for you, as you pointed out. It made me behave more aggressively than I intended.”

“It’s alright. I wasn’t upset. Honestly, waking up to that mountain of letters that apparently ‘wouldn’t stop coming’ was kind of nice.”

“Must you keep teasing me?” Tom muttered, a rare note of embarrassment creeping into his voice.

A laugh bubbles out of Harry, something like music to Tom’s ears.

“How long will you have to stay here?” Tom asked.

“Not long. A few days at most.” Harry’s expression dimmed, something conflicted flickering in his eyes. “They’ve also barred me from returning to duty for the time being.”

“For what reason?”

Harry wore the same expression a child might after breaking something on purpose. “Well… I wasn’t meant to release those dragons. I had clear orders not to.”

“And you chose to ignore them.”

Harry gave a small nod.

“Why not allow one of your subordinates to shoulder the fault?”

Harry blinked, looking almost confused by the suggestion. “Why would I do that? It wasn’t their mistake. They just did what I told them to.” He shrugged. “The higher-ups knew I did it on purpose anyway. So… I’m basically suspended for now.”

“…I see.” Tom nodded. He supposed now was the time as any to tell Harry, if they were both sharing bad news. “In that case, I should inform you of something. I will be gone for a few months starting next week.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Gone? What do you mean gone? Where are you going?”

“Albania,” Tom said. “I’ve been offered a temporary job position there.”

In truth, Hogwarts would begin within the week, which meant any chance of seeing Harry would disappear the moment term started. Naturally, that was information Harry would never hear from him.

“Through Borgin and Burkes?”

Tom gave him the name of a firm that truly operated in Albania, careful to lace his lie with enough truth that any attempt to verify it would lead nowhere suspicious.

“Oh… well, I’m happy for you, Tom,” Harry said. His smile appeared on cue, yet it stopped short of his eyes. “It sounds like something that will be good for your future.”

“Thank you.” Tom said with his best smile.

He has greater plans than Harry could ever imagine. His ambitions reached further than a clerk’s desk in a dusty shop or ledgers balanced in some distant country.  He kept those thoughts to himself. There would come a time when Harry would see.

Look at what your money and your affection have nurtured, Harry. Aren’t you happy?

The irony of it all almost made Tom smile. Harry would hate what he had helped create. He’d be horrified in the face of everything Tom has ever wanted. Though Tom found the idea amusing, he could not ignore the stirring of something restless beneath it.

“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” Harry asked.

“Weren’t all the letters you received thus far not enough proof?”

Harry laughs at this, and the sight of his smile chased away the chill that had settled in Tom’s chest. Something softer took its place, something rather pleasant. Tom did not understand it, yet he did not wish for it to leave.

While Harry recovered in the hospital, Tom visited him each day without fail, keeping up the routine until his own departure drew near. Harry was discharged only two days before Tom left, which left a mere three days before the start of term at Hogwarts.

“Do you have everything? Your travel documents and all that?”

“Are you my mother or my—” Tom cut himself off. Even now, Harry had never given him a clear answer about their relationship. To Tom, Harry was his golden goose. But to Harry…was Tom only some younger man he passed the time with?

“Can’t I worry about you?” Harry murmured, gesturing for Tom to bend down. When he did, Harry brushed a loose lock of hair away from his face.

“Please worry about yourself first. You’re the one who’s only recently been gravely injured and released from the hospital. And you know I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”

“Yes, I am,” Harry replied with a soft sigh. “That doesn’t mean I won’t worry. Just…be careful.”

Of what? Tom almost asked. He held the question back, knowing this was simply Harry being himself. “Yes, yes,” he said instead.

There was a sheen to Harry’s eyes when he smiled. Rising onto his toes, he pressed a quick kiss to Tom’s cheek just as the train bound for Lestrange’s estate pulled into the station. Tom went utterly still.

“Good luck, Tom. I know you will be great wherever you go. The path to success will always be the path you walk.” 

Tom stared at Harry, still only half recovered from his injuries, dressed in casual clothes that gave no hint of the fortune he possessed. His hair was as messy as ever, though Tom himself had combed through it not long ago, and the sheen of ointment on his skin was something Tom had helped apply. Even like this, Harry was easily the most beautiful person Tom had ever seen. How he was only realizing it now was beyond him.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Tom slid a hand around Harry’s waist and drew him in, pressing a proper kiss to his mouth that caught Harry completely unprepared. Harry stiffened for the briefest moment, surprise written in the way his breath hitched, but the hesitation soon faded. His arms rose to loop around Tom’s neck, and he leaned into the kiss, returning it with intensity.

From his seat by the window, Tom watched Harry grow smaller on the platform, still standing there waving. After a moment’s hesitation, Tom lifted his own hand and returned the gesture. The train lurched forward, gathering speed, and just before Harry slipped from view, he saw Harry mouth something one last time. Tom could not hear it, yet he understood all the same.

I like you.

As tradition demanded, the choir began to sing, their voices swelling through the Great Hall in a performance Tom had never once found moving. In earlier years he might have been irritated by the spectacle, yet tonight his attention remained elsewhere. He sat in stillness, turning over possible openings for his next letter to Harry, only to find each one circling back to the same persistent question.

What was it that you said before I left?

Surely he had not misread Harry’s lips. The words had been clear enough, even through the blur of movement and distance. When would it be appropriate to write? It hadn’t been long since they parted, and Tom was meant to be occupied with his supposed travels. Sending a letter now might be suspicious.

“My lord, may I ask if all is well?” Lestrange asked from his seat beside him at the table.

Tom did not look up. “Why would it not be?”

“You have seemed…preoccupied these past few days,” Lestrange said carefully. “I wondered whether your duties as Head Boy were to blame. I have heard the younger students are particularly unruly this year.”

“The little ones are of no concern.” Tom said, despite having been pulled into Head Boy duties the moment he returned to Hogwarts. “You may find this difficult to grasp, Lestrange, but I am in the habit of using my mind. Thinking is an activity you might consider attempting.”

A flush crept across Lestrange’s face, humiliation tightening his features, yet he inclined his head in obedience and withdrew without another word. As he retreated, the choir’s final note faded into silence, and Dumbledore stepped forward to address the hall.

“Welcome, welcome to another year at Hogwarts!” he announced in that booming, familiar voice Tom had grown tired of hearing. “I have a few things to say, before we become befuddled by our excellent feast. I myself am particularly looking forward to the flaming kiwi cups, which is somewhat treacherous for those of us with facial hair…”

McGonagall cleared her throat in a pointed manner, prompting Dumbledore to move along. “Ah, yes. First and foremost, it is my great pleasure to introduce a former student of mine, truly exceptional in his time here, who has returned to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

A former favorite of Dumbledore’s. Tom felt immediate disdain at the thought. Anyone praised so highly by that man couldn’t be any good for him.

“Please, give a warm welcome to Professor Harry Potter.”

Tom’s head snapped toward the staff table before the name had even finished echoing through the hall. Only then did he truly look at the row of professors he had ignored until now. There, seated in plain view, was Harry.

Harry.

Tom could barely remember to breathe again when Dumbledore continued, “That is not all. As you know, the lovely Miss Garlick is currently expecting and has taken leave. To fill her post, another former student of mine has joined us. Please welcome Professor Cedric Diggory!”

What happened next was, in Tom’s mind, nothing short of unbearable. Diggory, seated far too close for Tom’s liking, beamed at the hall and raised his hand in a broad wave. All the while, his other arm rested comfortably around Harry’s shoulders, keeping him anchored at his side. He leaned in slightly, coaxing Harry to return the greeting.

Who in the bloody hell did that man think—

“Merlin, he’s handsome…”

The words reached Tom’s ears before he could finish the thought. He went rigid, gaze fixed ahead.

“See? I wasn’t exaggerating,” came the eager answer beside it.

Tom observed him carefully and concluded that the man fit neatly into the standards of attractiveness the world seemed to agree on. A straight nose, full lips, and eyes large enough to soften the severity of his jaw. It was obvious in an objective sense, the way one might recognize a theorem as correct. Yet the realization stirred nothing in him. Harry alone struck him as beautiful. The rest of humanity was just there.

Then something clicked in Tom’s mind, prompted by an echo of Rita Skeeter’s voice, “I suppose you have always had a type. You favor the handsome ones, do you not? If Cedric was classically handsome, then this one is—“

The upperclassman Harry dated was that man, Cedric Diggory.

A red haze crept over Tom’s vision as he watched Harry laugh at something Diggory had said. That smile, the one Tom had come to think of as his alone, was turned toward another man with ease. The sight twisted deep inside him, stirring an ugly sensation he could neither name nor ignore.

He forced himself to steady his thoughts, reminding himself that there were matters currently more pressing than this. His position as Head Boy ensured that every member of staff would come to know him in time. If that was the case, how was he meant to avoid Harry when their paths would inevitably cross?

“One more announcement.” Dumbledore said. “I do not typically do this, but this particular young man has surpassed expectation after expectation. It seems only proper that he be acknowledged before the term truly begins.”

Tom felt a certain sense of dread. 

“He holds twelve O.W.L.s, each graded Outstanding, and has worn the prefect badge since his fifth year. His record places him among the most accomplished students this school has seen. With pleasure, I present to you our Head Boy—Tom Riddle.”

Dumbledore gestured in his direction, and the entire hall turned to him at once. The applause swelled around him, loud enough to blur the edges of his thoughts as he rose from his seat. 

Surrounded by seated students, he stood alone, acutely aware of every gaze on him. Among them, Harry’s was the only one that mattered, and meeting it stole the breath from his lungs for a fleeting second. 

Then instinct returned.

Wearing his best smile, Tom set a hand over his chest and inclined his head in a measured bow. “The pleasure is mine.”

The clapping grew louder. Tom turned his gaze away from Harry and smiled at the others, acknowledging them with a slight dip of his head. He knew, even without looking again, that Harry did not look away.