Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Riddle was staring at him again.

Over the course of his life, ever since he turned eleven, Harry has slowly gotten used to the undeniable fact that he will never be “just Harry” like he’d always wanted—that for one reason or another and with very little, if any, say of his own on the matter, he will somehow always find himself the center of attention in every room that he walks into every day for the rest of his life going forward.

First, it was the Boy Who Lived nonsense and all the many mishaps and misadventures over the years that seemingly came along with that title—this whole time travel business being only the latest, albeit the most distressingly permanent and unfixable mishap of all.

Then, it was made even worse when he presented as an omega over the summer between Fourth Year and Fifth, a turbulent and tumultuous turn of events to say the least at a time when he already had so much to deal with on top of everything else.

Amidst other things, it led to his aunt and uncle turning their noses up at him somehow even worse than before, as if it were his own fault for not turning out to be “decent, staunch betafolk” like the two of them or presenting as an alpha like their precious Dudley Diddlekins had earlier that same year. Omegas, of course, being no better than good-for-nothing, entitled trollops with inflated senses of self-importance and ego as the “fairest sex” of them all. (Never mind the fact that they would have instead been singing the praises of what “pure and virtuous beings of grace and beauty” omegas surely were or some similar rot like that, had their darling boy presented that way instead. Once they got over the initial shock of it, of course.)

It also led to him finding himself in the bizarre situation of being meekly defended for once by his cousin against some of his friends’ crass remarks late one evening, shortly before Harry then in turn had to act to defend them both against a swarm of dementors that showed up and attacked them not too long after the other boys had left. From the dismissive way the Wizengamot members spoke about him instead of to him at that farcical delinquency hearing afterwards, he’s still not fully convinced his being let off the hook in the end didn’t have more to do with the majority simply not wanting to be “too harsh” on the poor little newly-presented omega rather than genuine belief in his innocence of any supposed crime.

Looking back now, he can say that being a male omega didn’t really cause too many new problems for him back in his own time except in the way it seemed to make some people act particularly stupid and annoying around him on occasion—more so than normal, that is. At the time though, any change in people’s behavior towards him because of his secondary gender felt especially egregious and infuriating, somehow more so than all the many other times everyone usually seemed to flip-flop in their opinions on him with every slight change in the wind.

At least back in his own time, however, he’d been allowed to go on suppressants. Madam Pomfrey did not gasp, scandalized and disapproving, at the mere suggestion of them the way the school’s current Matron had, nor given out some bollocks excuse for denying his request because said potions supposedly “might be damaging in the long-run to his fertility.” Until that moment, he had forgotten how common it was around this time for medical misinformation like that to still get spread around even by professionals, both muggle and wizarding alike, well into the earlier half of the twentieth century and a bit further beyond. This was the era when cigarette companies were still taking out full-page ads in magazines that touted the supposed “health benefits” of smoking with actual doctors backing up their claims!

Not only does this mean he has to endure going into seasonal heats now and holing up in a private room off the main Hospital Wing for the whole duration of them, missing out on almost a full week of classes at a time, his suppressants were also one of the main reasons he’d been allowed to choose between staying in the boys’ dorms or moving into the girls’ instead. He’d been happy to stick with the former, although Seamus could still be a bit of a prat about it sometimes.

Here, he had been given no such choice by his new Head of House, a decent and well-intentioned (but also rather pompous and often somewhat patronizing) professor named Horace Slughorn. To the girls’ dormitory he went, which, although it still rankled, he admittedly might have chosen this time anyways if given the option again if only because at least it meant he wasn’t sleeping in the same room as Tom bloody Riddle himself.

Fucking Tom Riddle, who is still trying to catch his eye right now it would seem, despite Harry’s best attempts to pretend he doesn’t notice and continue to ignore him instead. Tom Riddle, who graciously copied his own lecture notes without being asked to and gave them to Harry when he finally came out of his miserable heat-imposed exile back in October. Tom Riddle, whose even kinder offer to also help Harry catch up on his missing assignments couldn’t justifiably be refused without making everyone around them question the new kid’s inexplicable animosity towards the perfect shining star and senior prefect of House Slytherin.

Tom Riddle, who has not taken the fucking hint since then that Harry is not interested in his overtures of “friendship,” a thinly veiled invitation to join his creepy little proto-Death Eater sycophants club if Harry’s ever heard one. He tried so hard in the beginning to just fade into the background and evade Riddle’s notice altogether, and then when that failed to at least give him the impression of someone boring and completely average whenever they had to interact, yet the persistent bugger still won’t leave him alone and he’s not entirely sure why.

It makes him paranoid that Riddle may suspect something is off about him, only he’s fairly certain the other boy would have already made some type of move against him by now if that were really the case, not just make eyes at him constantly and insert himself into seemingly any and every conversation that Harry may happen to be involved in as well whenever possible, even though he has never once been invited to chime in and share his opinion no matter what the topic at hand may be. (Well, not by Harry at least, although their classmates and fellow Slytherins are unfortunately a different matter altogether.)

Feeling self-conscious now and aware that he’s still being watched, Harry huffs quietly under his breath and fidgets a little in his seat, which leads to him then having to discreetly micro-adjust his skirt under the table by smoothing his hand down a pleat that had bunched up a little as he moved. That’s another thing about living in the 1940s that he could do without honestly. In his own timeline and with his own money at his disposal, he could have added a few more feminine items of his own choosing to his wardrobe at any time he wanted without anyone batting an eyelash, probably, but here and now the cut and style of his uniform under the standard school robes had been chosen for him, since it was now being paid for out of the Hogwarts disadvantaged students’ fund rather than his own (currently non-existent) bank vault.

He’s only lucky he managed to convince the professor who escorted him to Diagon Alley to let him also grab two pairs of trousers to wear on weekends during the cold wintry months. The stockings under his skirt may be imbued with exactly the same warming charms as the trousers, but that doesn’t change how exposed he still feels in them sometimes, even if his skirts do all go down past his knees and a couple that are also meant to be worn outside in winter nearly reach his ankles. He does like them, but just wishes he had the option to pick between them and something else during regular school days.

He’d also felt a bit silly the first time he had to put on those ridiculous curly-toed witch boots he’d thought only little old ladies ever wore whenever they went out…until he saw that most girls and omegas of every persuasion in this era apparently seemed to wear them all the time. He then remembered suddenly that these same little old ladies he used to see in the shops before were now his current classmates and peers, so without realizing it at first he was actually following some totally normal present-day trend. Some of his fellow students even still liked to wear those pointed hats that everyone in the nineties had sensibly abandoned altogether within the first week of their First Year at Hogwarts! He would continue to pass on that one, thanks.

Some of this care that everybody else his age seemed to put into their personal appearance must have finally rubbed off on him as well to a degree it never quite had before he arrived in this time period, since he also cautiously agreed to let one of his dormmates transfigure his glasses into a more modern and fashionable design after spending a few weeks here, something he’d been firmly set against trying out when Ginny made a similar offer to him about a year ago.

The subtle cat-eye slope of his new horn-rimmed frames is pretty cute, he has to admit. He’s not so far gone yet, however, as to also let the girls in his dorm put him in makeup or play with his hair, although he has neglected to cut it in a while. It’s almost long enough now to nearly dip below his chin where it just grazes the back of his neck, which he’s noticed most of the alpha and beta boys aren’t even allowed to get away with before some of the stricter teachers start to call them “disheveled” and “slovenly.” He’s decided he likes the length that it’s at now though and won’t be changing it back anytime soon.

It’s weird, really, how on the one hand he chafes under the new (or rather old) dress code restrictions and societal expectations of this decade overall, yet on the other hand he feels bizarrely freer than ever before as well. Gryffindor or no, he’s not sure he ever would have been brave enough “back home” to experiment with his style of dress—or to develop any real sense of style at all, honestly, especially one so quintessentially omegan. As the ruddy Boy Who Lived, there were certain expectations thrust upon him back then too. Far too many people would have had something to say about their supposed boy hero straying so far from what they had envisioned, even though his gender and his looks obviously changed absolutely nothing about who he was as a person.

Harry taps his quill idly against a mostly blank page in his open Charms notebook, gazing out the window to his left to look out at the soft blanket of fresh snow that is slowly beginning to cover the entire quidditch pitch. He wonders if Montague will have to cancel practice drills later if it starts coming down much harder by this evening. He wouldn’t mind still heading out there after dinner even if they’re flying under quite heavy snowfall. At least he’s allowed to wear trousers again under his school-issued quidditch leathers.

“Evans,” says a soft-spoken voice from somewhere close beside him, pitched low enough to avoid disturbing the other students who are using the library at this time to actually study rather than just sit around and daydream about nothing important. Harry jumps in his seat regardless but bites back the strangled curse that wants to slip out just in time and manages not to get them both kicked out for making too much noise. He almost wants to curse again anyway as he recognizes the voice and realizes that his very own personal stalker has finally given up trying to get his attention from a few tables down and decided to take advantage of Harry’s temporary distraction to sneak up on him instead.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Riddle says with that far too charming, seemingly self-effacing smile that Harry has always interpreted to mean he’s actually not sorry at all and secretly delights in Harry’s reaction, but knows that he has to politely feign otherwise for the sake of his image. “Do you have a moment?” he asks, sitting down at Harry’s table without an invitation like the rude entitled wanker he actually is.

Harry swallows down the snippy, ‘No, how about you kindly bugger off,’ that wants to come out, responding instead in a perfectly mannerly tone yet with a face that could be carved from a chipped block of ice, “I’m actually revising for Charms right now.”

Tom’s smile only grows more teeth, eyes hooding a little while he allows some of that false modesty to bleed away from his own expression. “Were you?” he drawls amusedly. “Because it looked to me like your eyes were a million miles away from your textbook, and your thoughts right along with them.”

Harry scowls down at the incriminating evidence before him, his Charms textbook still closed and his quill trailing spilled ink where he let it sit for too long on the page of half-written notes. “Can I help you with something?” he asks the table moodily.

“Professor Slughorn is hosting his annual Christmas party the night before students are set to leave for winter break,” the other boy tells him matter-of-factly.

Harry blinks, unimpressed and a little annoyed that Riddle saw fit to interrupt him just for this. “Okay,” he responds robotically. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

Riddle tilts his head in a manner that seems oddly inviting somehow, giving him another slight smile that looks almost sweet and a little bit hopeful and—damn him—also charming as hell. “Will you go with me?” he asks softly.

“What, why?” Harry cringes immediately at the accidental uptick of his voice, which causes a few other students nearby to shoot irritated glares at them both. Riddle, of course, only has to dip his head cordially in their general direction with a somewhat demure expression to get them to stop and return to their own reading. “Why would you ask me that?” he tries again, making sure to keep his voice lowered this time.

Riddle turns back to him with a surprised look like he can’t tell if Harry is being deliberately obtuse or not. He leans in a bit too close for Harry’s comfort now with a relaxed smirk. “Naturally, because I would very much like to take you, Evans,” he murmurs, dropping his own voice into a lower register as well that Harry is loath to admit makes everywhere from the top of his spine all the way down into his lower belly tingle a bit strangely.

Between his perplexing reaction and that frustratingly unhelpful answer to his question, he quickly makes a snap decision without giving it too much thought.

“No,” he blurts automatically, making sure to keep his volume down this time while still being forceful in his response. Tom frowns, clearly not expecting that answer even though Harry has obviously never given any indication that he’d be interested in going to that sort of thing in the first place, especially not with him.

“Listen,” the other boy says quietly, leaning in uncomfortably close again. “Between you and me, I’ll admit it’s not the most thrilling way to spend a Friday evening. But it is an important networking opportunity, especially for those of us with no family fortunes to fall back on and even fewer connections to speak of.”

Aha, now he understands why Riddle is asking him! It must be some kind of stupid alpha machismo status thing or whatever to show up to one of these events with an omega draped over your arm like an overgrown accessory. Especially a male one as they’re just a bit rarer to present, particularly in wizarding populations. The only other one Harry knows of in their house is Orion Black, a sweet little Third Year who has already presented, as the Blacks are apparently commonly known to bloom a little early. (Internally, Harry winces thinking about the poor boy’s future being married to his overbearing alpha cousin, Walburga, who’s in her Seventh Year right now and already just as awful as he remembers her older version’s portrait to be.)

Riddle is possibly also trying to relate to him a little by not so subtly pointing out how they both have being a poor halfblooded orphan in common, which is so many different shades of ironic that Harry wouldn’t even know where to start if he were mad enough to try to explain it all to him. Being invited just so Riddle can parade him around like a trophy all evening is the real icing on the cake though.

“Still not interested,” Harry repeats, and considers his reward to be the way the future Dark Lord’s mouth pinches closed more tightly in clear annoyance.

“Our friends will all be there,” Tom points out next, stubbornly still trying to convince him it would seem. “Don’t you want to spend a little more time with them before seeing them all off as they board the train the next morning?”

It seems like a rather desperate last straw to grasp since Harry already doesn’t talk much to the other boys in their year. He gets along well enough with most of the girls from his dorm, but the only one he’d come close to considering a friend at this point is Liara Lestrange, who seemed genuinely regretful that she couldn’t change her plans at the last minute and stay with him after all. It unfortunately went without saying that she couldn’t invite him to spend the holiday with her family either, not that Harry thinks he would have gone even if she had.

“Well, I hardly think I need you to show me the way to the venue even if I do change my mind,” Harry tells him sweetly, just to see how much needling it might take to really get under the alpha’s skin. Hermione did always say he might be a bit of an adrenaline junkie.

Tom’s jaw visibly ticks before he gets his face under control again. His smile returns with a bit of a sharper edge to it than before. “My goodness, would you really shock and scandalize our Head of House so by showing up to a formal event unescorted, darling? They really must do things quite differently in Australia,” he remarks dryly.

It takes a second for Harry to realize this isn’t a totally out-of-pocket non-sequitur. It was part of his cover story to claim that his family had moved to Australia when he was ten to explain why he wasn’t at Hogwarts for the last five years. He’d also “let slip” at one point that he was homeschooled there by his mum, but that his dad was a muggle so at least it would make more sense for his parents to have died together in an automobile accident.

Bile rose in his throat as he’d given the same lie the Dursleys fed to him for years, minus the drunk driving part, but it felt like a necessary evil. He wanted their deaths to seem as boring and mundane as possible, and not easily verifiable one way or another by wizarding authorities. Saying they’d been killed by a Dark Lord would be unwise, even with Grindelwald currently on the rampage, as he’d also have to explain why they were targeted in the first place and then cross his fingers hoping no one would try to dig deeper into his story on their own.

“You’re right, things are a lot more progressive there than they are in this silly backwards country,” he retorts. He has no idea if that’s true or not, of course, but Riddle will probably think he’s just being facetious anyways if it’s not. Seriously, fuck the 1940s though. He’s never appreciated more until now just how far omegan rights have come by the time he presented in the nineties.

“Will you at least tell me why you would refuse my invitation?” Tom asks him evenly, some of his sullenness bleeding through again, this time in the smallest trace of an oppressive spike in his scent which generally serves as an early warning sign that the alpha giving it off is gearing up to make some kind of threat or attack. It’s too faint to spread far enough beyond the two of them to reach the other library patrons’ noses and alert them that anything is amiss, but the fact that Harry can detect it at all past the other boy’s normally impenetrable scent-blocking charms is telling in and of itself.

Harry is upset to learn that it distresses his inner omega badly enough to almost want to bare his neck in apology and submission, an instinct that other alphas are rarely able to draw out of him that close to the surface. Not for the first time, he thanks his lucky stars that he never met adult Voldemort while he still had the ability to give off pheromones. Harry didn’t even know the man used to be an alpha before he got here, though in hindsight it should have been obvious with the way he carried himself with such an undeserved air of entitlement and dominion over all things.

The phantom Riddle from the diary and the man’s wraith form obviously never gave off any kind of scent since neither had an actual body. The new homunculus body he gained with the resurrection ritual barely had one either, and it certainly gave off no recognizable hormonal markers anymore by that point. The Dark Lord had boasted then that he was a god among men, beyond the ken of mere mortals still chained within their weaker bodies and enslaved to their baser instincts, but Harry thinks if he had regained his alpha status, he would have simply bragged instead about being obviously stronger and more powerful than any other alpha before him. It’s clear that he would say just about anything really to inflate his own already massive ego.

It may fill the omega’s heart with just a little too much glee to shrug off his own instinct to submit now and smirk unconcernedly right in the pushy alpha’s face instead. “Last I checked, ‘No’ is already a complete sentence, Tom.”

Tom swallows, his fingers curling around the armrests of his appropriated chair like he has to hold himself back from making a sudden grab for him, which feels like a bit of an extreme reaction if Harry’s being completely honest here. From one blink to the next, however, he looks serenely at ease once again and merely dips his head in calm acceptance of Harry’s response.

“I shouldn’t take up more of your time and keep you away from your studies any longer then,” he replies smoothly, pushing his chair back to stand up. “I’ll see you at supper, Evans.” Right before he turns to leave though, he pauses as if he’s just thought of something else. “By the way, don’t forget there’s another fireside meeting tonight,” he adds with a courteous air.

That’s another thing that’s different about this time period, or maybe it’s just a matter of being in Slytherin instead of Gryffindor now. It’s still a bit novel to him and surprisingly pleasant, having a Head of House who likes to drop by the common room at least once every other week just to check on how everybody’s doing as the term progresses and fill them in on any news or updates he has to share. It almost seems like he can count on his fingers the number of times McGonagall made similar appearances in the Gryffindor common room, and usually it was for some very specific purpose and not as a general check-in on the students. To be fair though, she also had her duties as Deputy Headmistress to deal with on top of everything else, so it makes sense that she probably wouldn’t have time for that sort of thing.

“Er, right, thanks for the reminder,” he says when it seems as if Riddle is waiting for some kind of response.

“Of course,” Tom says with just the right note of friendly warmth in his voice and a touch of the usual empty gallantry in his perfectly polished smile before he departs. If it rings perhaps a bit hollower than normal, Harry is likely the only one who could ever possibly tell. It is perhaps a matter of when, not if, this whole weird interaction comes back to bite him somehow, but for now he can’t allow himself to worry about that when he still has a few more homework assignments to get started on.

*

Supper, at the very least, passes without incident when he crosses paths with the other boy again later. Riddle doesn’t even look up from his conversation with Nott and Avery when Harry comes in and sits down. While he still can’t dismiss the possibility that the alpha might be petty enough to want to get back at him later over a single awkward chat that didn’t end how he wanted it to go, he can also hold out hope that maybe Riddle has already gotten over it and has finally figured out that Harry is not worth wasting his time on anymore. He might have even already asked someone else to go to that stupid party with him, not that Harry actually cares one way or another.

He stops thinking about it altogether by the time everyone in their house returns to the dungeons for their bi-weekly fireside meeting. He listens to the comfortable familiar drone of Professor Slughorn’s voice as the man gives out announcements, as well as a few friendly reminders not to let their excitement about the impending holiday season distract them from paying attention during lessons or completing their homework assignments on time so they’re not stuck trying to catch up on them over the break.

Harry’s attention drifts slowly over time as it goes on, to the point that he’s a little surprised after a while to look around and find that most of the crowd has already dispersed as the meeting concludes. Professor Slughorn walks over to him with a jovial expression, looking pleased to find Harry is one of the few still left standing there afterwards. The boy pastes on a polite smile and tries not to look as though his thoughts have been idly wandering as the kindly alpha approaches him.

“Ah, Harry, dear boy! I trust you’re feeling quite settled in by now, getting used to the ins and outs of the castle and keeping up well in all of your classes, hm?” Harry’s smile grows a bit warmer as he nods at the question and responds with a quiet ‘yes, sir.’ It really is kind of nice to have at least one teacher who seems to genuinely care about all the students under his charge. The man clearly has his favorites to be sure, as members of the infamous Slug Club can certainly attest to more than anyone else, but it’s also apparent that he doesn’t let that get in the way of him making the time to be there with an encouraging word or a friendly listening ear for each and every one of his Slytherins individually.

A part of him wonders if all the rest of the students in the castle each feel the same way about their own Heads of House and it’s only his own prior experience in his old timeline that was lacking, or if this is in some way unique to Slytherin House specifically to make up for how often they’re perceived as less trustworthy than others and get singled out by everyone else. For all he knows, maybe Snape was actually a great mentor in private to his own proud snakes. Either way, only Dumbledore ever used to seek Harry out for personal chats like this, and even then in hindsight it was only really whenever he had some specific agenda in mind. (Nor has he forgiven or forgotten the way he was totally ignored by the Headmaster for pretty much the entirety of last year. This era’s Dumbledore hasn’t done much to win him over either.)

“Wonderful to hear, lad! I’m so glad to see how much you’ve truly come into your own and made a place for yourself here in Slytherin in such a short amount of time.” Harry’s honestly not too sure what he means by that entirely, but it’s really better just to keep nodding along and let him talk. There’s a fine line between Harry enjoying the professor’s overall congenial nature and him starting to chafe under the attention a bit once it begins to drag on for a little too long. It’s a learned skill to stay engaged just enough to express his appreciation for a teacher he genuinely likes while not contributing so much as to unduly prolong the conversation either.

“By the by, I can’t seem to recall if I’ve mentioned it to you yet, but it’s sort of an annual tradition of mine to host a little celebratory get-together just before the holiday season truly kicks off. Now, I do have to be a bit select about how many students to invite, you understand, as there will be quite a lot of people in attendance, but many of your housemates shall also be there and it would please me to add you to my guest list as well. What say you, hm? Can I count on your attendance on the seventeenth?”

Harry tries to think of an appropriate response, honestly a bit thrown for a loop. He knows that Slughorn likes to “collect” students who have some rare talent or excel in certain areas to join his little club—to be honest, it’s one of his worst qualities that Harry’s not too big a fan of—but he’s not sure what makes him qualify as seems to be the case here, unless the professor is just a really big fan of quidditch. Harry considers himself to be a fairly average student at best, although he is one of the top students of his year in Defense and, surprisingly, Potions. (This latter he doesn’t feel as though he can take much credit for personally. It’s just that the combination of having a teacher who actually wants his students to do well and finding himself partnered up with Riddle more often than not despite his own best wishes is apparently enough to really work wonders on his understanding of the subject material.)

Before he can say anything, Riddle casually sidles up on his left, like he’s just been standing nearby in wait this whole time looking for the right moment to insert himself into the conversation, and places a hand on his right shoulder. Harry freezes up at the touch, but manages to keep his face in check and not reveal his own shock or confusion where Slughorn can see. “I actually just offered to take Harry to the party myself earlier this afternoon, professor.”

Harry’s eyes widen dramatically and his jaw drops a little this time as he turns his head sharply to look up at the boy next to him.

“Oho, is that so?” the professor chortles heartily, looking delighted as he darts glances between the two of them with a curiously knowing twinkle in his eye. “Well, that settles that, I see! Good on you, Tom,” he says and nudges the younger alpha’s shoulder almost a bit playfully with a loose fist. Harry has the feeling like he just missed some kind of silent communication between the two of them, probably some ridiculous alpha thing again if he had to guess.

Riddle ducks his head in response with an almost bashful sort of smile, his fingers curling around the omega’s shoulder just a bit tighter. The smile morphs into more of a self-satisfied smirk as Slughorn turns away, however, pulled into conversation by another student with some question about Wednesday’s homework assignment.

Harry waits until the man is gone entirely and any remaining students left in the common room are out of earshot not paying them any mind before he whirls around, dislodging the other boy’s hand off his shoulder. “Seriously?” he hisses under his breath. “I cannot believe you just did that!”

“Did what?” Tom asks him far too innocently. “I only mentioned what we talked about in the library earlier today.”

“Except you left out a rather pertinent detail, didn’t you? Now he thinks I actually said yes, you prat!”

Looking all too pleased with himself, Riddle leans down into his space again and says in an undertone, “And you had every opportunity just now to correct his assumption, didn’t you, love? If you really didn’t want to go with me, perhaps you should have said something earlier.”

“I did say something earlier. To you. In the library this afternoon,” Harry reminds him in harsh clipped tones. It takes all the willpower he possesses not to raise his voice as he says it. He’s already noticed other people looking this way to watch their exchange while trying to pretend otherwise, but Harry’s business is none of theirs even if it would serve the other boy right to get yelled at in front of the whole common room.

“Well, Professor Slughorn is going to be expecting us there regardless now. You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?” Riddle asks, his lips tugging upwards into another smug, victorious little smirk. Honestly, who knew the Dark Lord smiled so often when he was younger, and in such a wide nuanced array of them ranging from the winsome and magnetic to ones more derisive and impudent, or even at times utterly vicious Harry’s noticed when they’re at someone else’s expense?

Harry makes a disgusted noise and walks away, having had about enough finally of looking at the arrogant git’s astoundingly expressive and stupidly handsome face any more than he can handle for today.

He can still hear the barely hidden laughter in Riddle’s voice though as he says to the omega’s back before he’s gotten too far away to hear him, “I’m already looking forward to spending next Friday with you, Harry.”

Sure, I bet you are. Harry, on the other hand, is entertaining fantasies of running off immediately after classes on the day of and standing the arrogant twat up, leaving him to stew in the common room alone or give up and head to the event on his own, which would be a humbling prospect for him either way.

As compelling as that idea may be though, Harry already knows he won’t go through with it or go out of his way to embarrass the alpha in some other fashion either, no matter how satisfying in the moment it might be. For someone who surrounds himself with so many yes men, Riddle oddly seems to like how headstrong and uncooperative the omega boy can be, but Harry has already seen today that this indulgent tolerance the other has been showing him so far has its limits. He has no doubt that if he were to actually humiliate the alpha in front of others or defy him too openly, retribution would be harsh and swift to follow. He’s just trying to get through the next two years of school making as few waves as possible and doesn’t need to make that task harder on himself than it already is.

He’s not surprised by how fast news travels when his dormmates swarm him less than an hour later and immediately begin drilling him with questions which grow tiresome rather quickly. The way they all seem to think he was just playing hard to get when he initially turned Riddle down and coo over the alpha’s “persistence” like it’s an admirable quality that just proves his dedication or whatever really irks him even though he knows he should have been expecting it. Was this how his mum felt when his dad kept trying to get her attention in increasingly extravagant ways until eventually he wore her down into finally agreeing to go out with him?

His face flushes and his stomach ties itself up in knots as soon as the thought enters his mind. No, the situation here is not comparable. Riddle isn’t even interested in him like that anyways despite what these girls may think. This is all just some bizarre power play to show off what a strong and capable alpha he is for being able to bully an omega like Harry into compliance or some other equally sexist, alpha peacocking bullshit like that. Right?

(He’ll just ignore the uncertain little voice inside his head for now that tries to point out that he’s never seen Riddle actively participate in any of the other ridiculous pissing contests many of the other alphas their age like to engage in, and yet the vast majority still seem to listen to him about most things anyhow. He doesn’t need to try to prove himself when he already exudes the type of quiet, self-assured confidence that it can take years for even fully grown alphas to master.)

While the other girls have moved on to gossip about who else is going to the party with whom and whatever ensuing drama this might cause or has already caused in the days leading up to the event, his first and still sort-of only real friend in this timeline tells him in no uncertain terms to keep his schedule cleared for dress robes shopping on Saturday.

“I’m sure Slughorn will be happy to write us a permission slip to go into Hogsmeade when I explain it to him tomorrow,” she states confidently.

“Er, Li, you know I can’t really afford to get new dress robes, right?” Or used ones either for that matter. It would be a stretch to use the pittance he has left from the students’ fund to cover even for a pair of old fuzzy woolen socks. (Come to think of it, how was Riddle able to afford his own set of robes, since presumably he already has them? He probably just got Malfoy or one of the other boys to pay for it, the omega reckons.)

“And who says you’re going to buy them?” Liara points out archly. “No, I don’t want to hear it,” she waves him off with an imperious sweeping hand gesture when he tries to protest. “Just think of them as an early Christmas present from me!” Harry thinks he has a better understanding now of how Ron used to feel whenever he would buy something for him, a little guilty and embarrassed like he’s a burden on his friend even though the other treats it like it’s no big deal at all.

“Honestly, what was that pillock thinking though, waiting til little more than a week out from the event to finally ask you to go?” she mutters to herself indignantly. Harry nearly chokes thinking about the look that would be on Riddle’s face if he’d heard her say that just now. “There won’t be nearly enough time for a custom fitting now! We’ll just have to hope Gladrags does a decent enough job on their built-in refitting charms.” She sighs gustily and drops down onto the bed beside him. “Merlin save us from idiot boys who have no appreciation at all for the amount of work that has to go into making ourselves look our best!”

Harry bites his lip to keep himself from laughing out loud at his friend’s dramatics. He can tell that she’s secretly relishing this whole affair for the excuse it provides her to fix up more than just his glasses for him and treat Harry like her very own personal dress-up doll. He decides not to point out to her that he’s one of those “idiot boys” she’s talking about since he wouldn’t have even known to be worried about what he was going to wear next Friday if she hadn’t said anything about it.

He’s not even surprised at this point when she tells him to take off his robes, tie, and sweater so she can cycle through different charms to change the color of his plain white shirt underneath. He humors her because really it’s no worse than letting Ron trounce him in another game of chess while he gives a running commentary on where Harry’s strategy went wrong and what moves he should try out next time instead, or listening to Hermione come up with new tactics to raise awareness for her S.P.E.W. campaign and recite entire passages from Hogwarts: A History to them both from memory.

His smile dips briefly as he thinks about old friends he’ll never truly be able to meet again, at least not as they were in his old timeline, but Liara thankfully doesn’t seem to notice as she’s too busy changing the color of his shirt back and forth between near-identical shades of green and debating with herself on the differences between them under her breath. He’s already resigned to it being like this while they’re out together later this weekend too.

“Obviously we don’t want to match the color of your eyes too exactly,” she mutters, “or that’ll drown out the effect they have a bit. They really are your most unique feature so we want them to dazzle everyone who looks into them.” Harry thinks the scar on his forehead is probably his most unique feature actually, but he’s not going to argue with her. He rather enjoys the fact that nobody here gawks at it the way people used to anyhow. “If we go a few shades darker like this, that’ll complement them much better without drawing too much attention away at the same time. You should also have gold accents, of course, not silver. That’ll be lovely with your complexion, and plus we’re not trying to make you look like you’re the bloody house mascot over here.”

“Are you sure about that?” Harry can’t help but snark in reply. “You know, I think Riddle would be all for it to be honest.”

“Oh, well, if Riddle likes it, why don’t we just rip down one of the banners in the Great Hall, wrap it around you like a toga, and then call it a day?” she quips back. Harry snickers. He’s never heard anyone else say the alpha’s name with such disdain before and has to wonder whether that’s some of his own influence rubbing off on her or just a testament to how seriously she takes her fashion. Probably the latter, which is honestly funnier to consider anyways.

He lets her continue to fuss over him until she’s finally satisfied. Eventually she returns to her own bed and takes out a quill to write down her notes and observations to bring with them into the shop, which is actually kind of adorable. He doesn’t know what he would do without her at this point and is gladder than ever that he decided to look past her last name and family history (and possible future) and allowed himself to make an actual friend here. It may not make up for what he’s lost, but it does make this new life he’s been building up steadily from scratch a whole lot more bearable than it might have been otherwise.

*

Harry smooths his hands down over his brand new robes one last time, still getting used to the soft velvety fabric under his fingertips. They look nothing like the ones he wore two years ago at the Yule Ball, which were fairly basic and shapeless like regular robes except in a bright emerald green color.

These ones are more of a dark forest green with a subtle floral pattern outlined in the faintest traces of gold thread, which is only really noticeable in the correct lighting. The collar and ends of the sleeves are lightly trimmed with gold as well, and the garment is wrapped around him and tied off with a golden silk ribbon around his middle instead of the long column of buttons down the center he’s normally used to. Liara even changed the metal stems of his glasses to a similar gold color to match when he insisted on keeping them on instead of taking an expensive eyedropper potion for the night.

The whole outfit is, in point of fact, more dress than robes, he’d honestly say, and before he presented as an omega he never would have been caught dead in it because his friends would all have taken the mickey out of him for wearing such a thing. Well, Hermione probably wouldn’t, and perhaps not Neville or Luna either, but everyone else certainly would have.

“Stop fidgeting, sweetheart, you look great!” his reflection says, and it perhaps says something about him that his instinct upon hearing such a compliment in his own voice is to immediately look up and scowl at it. “Well, fine, not with that face you don’t, I take it back,” the mirror sneers right back at him.

Liara giggles beside him, still putting the last finishing touches on her makeup after helping a reluctant Harry with his. (The most she could get him to agree to was a bit of mascara “to really make his eyes pop even more despite the glasses,” a truly minuscule and nearly invisible amount of rouge on his face, and some colorless lip gloss to give his mouth the barest hint of a shine.) “You really do though,” she says, giving his arm a squeeze. “That silly boy won’t know what hit him once he gets a good look at you tonight.”

Harry does his best to hide his cringe behind what probably seems like a rather nervous smile, if only because he doesn’t need any more unnecessary commentary about whatever face he’s making from his surprisingly haughty double in the mirror. Not even Liara believes him that there’s nothing actually going on between him and Riddle. The more he’s tried to convince her over the past week that the alpha is his “date” tonight in name only, the more she keeps giving him these funny looks that often fall somewhere between deeply amused and pitying. It doesn’t help his case either that Riddle has been so nice to him lately—not that he’s ever particularly not nice, especially in front of other people, but it feels like more somehow over these last few days in a way he doesn’t quite know how to explain, so he won’t even bother trying.

The other girls have already left to meet up with their own respective dates, so it’s just him and Liara left in the dorm room at this point since he doesn’t want to walk out there on his own. He hopes Riddle is feeling very put-upon by now as one of the few still left waiting in the common room for his date to finally come out already—or maybe he’ll just leave without him after all. A boy can dream, right?

“One last thing,” Liara says as she finally puts the rest of her beauty supplies away only to turn around and open up a small box full of jeweled accessories. What more could she possibly need? he wonders to himself amusedly, having just watched her put in a pair of dangling earrings and clasp a thin silver chain of what might be garnets around her neck. They go nicely with her wine and burgundy-colored robes and stand out like blood droplets against her warm brown skin. She’d swatted him on the arm earlier for jokingly referring to the look as “vampire chic.”

This time, she pulls out a delicate golden comb decorated with a fanciful array of pearls and sparkling cut crystals. Unless those are actually rhinestones, or even diamonds for all he knows, since he has absolutely no idea how to tell. Regardless of what they are, even he can tell that cute little accessory in her hand would clash with everything else that she’s wearing. He gives a little sigh as he realizes what—or rather who—it must be for then. Merlin, he really hopes in that case that those aren’t diamonds after all.

“Relax, I know when the battle is lost and it’s time to hang up my armor,” she says wryly, eyeing up the wild nest of curls atop his head which, as per usual, valiantly defied any and all attempts earlier to style it properly and is one of the reasons they’re the last two left up here. “But it still needs something to tie the whole look together.” Saying this, she reaches up to tuck a few loose strands back behind his ear and pin them in place with her comb. “There, now we’re finished here.”

“Finally,” Harry mutters under his breath, sparing only a brief glance in the mirror one last time before steering her towards the door.

“Getting impatient, are we?” she teases him, letting herself be pushed and prodded along without complaint.

“I just want to get this over with already,” he huffs. She hums agreeably but in such a way as to convey that she doesn’t actually believe him.

Riddle does not look annoyed or put upon as Harry thought he might, even though he’s pretty sure they were technically supposed to have left around fifteen to twenty minutes ago. Instead he seems to be amiably chatting away with Liara’s date, Alexander Bulstrode, a Fifth Year whom he has never actually seen the alpha bother speaking to before, which tells Harry that he must indeed be quite bored then even if he’s exceptionally good at hiding it. The way they both laugh quietly together at the same time—quiet presumably so as not to disturb the scattered handful of younger students who are still loitering around the common room as well—makes him think they’re probably just commiserating with each other over the long wait anyhow.

“Ah, but yon do I spy my lady and her compatriot come down from their lofty bower at last!” says Bulstrode, apparently no longer concerned with keeping his voice down as he spots them first and drops into a low bow with highly exaggerated puckishness.

“Ugh, shut up, Alex,” Liara says with an equally playful roll of her eyes. “We’re not even running late enough yet to arrive there fashionably late, you great big ninny.”

Riddle also turns to face them both as they walk over to join them. The relaxed congenial smile slides right off his face as soon as he actually sees Harry, his expression going completely blank while his eyes seem almost to darken and draw the omega in. Harry takes half a step closer than he actually means to before he catches himself. His heart rate picks up and he abruptly lowers his gaze, once again not sure what to make of his own curious reaction to the alpha in front of him.

If Riddle is unfairly fit most of the time already in just a regular old school uniform, he cuts an especially sharp figure now in fine tailored silk robes. It’s frankly unjust that he makes for such an arresting sight that easily stands apart from the crowd even when dressed simply in all-black, the only bit of color visible otherwise being a pair of gold cufflinks and small golden buttons that run in a straight line down the center of his chest and stop at his waistline.

He can tell without looking up that the other boy’s eyes have not stopped looking him and up down either and tries not to fidget because of it. He’s also vaguely aware that the other pair are still talking but can’t make himself focus on what they’re saying right now. The only part of their conversation that filters through to him is when Bulstrode makes another humorous comment—Harry thinks he overhears “can’t rush perfection” or something along those lines—followed by a long pause. Harry finally darts a glance in their direction and notices that the other boy has turned towards Tom with an expectant look, while Liara looks suspiciously like she’s trying to hold back a vindicated smirk.

A soft sound like a throat clearing has him immediately whipping his head back around. “Indeed,” Tom finally responds belatedly to whatever Bulstrode just said without actually turning to look at him. In a surprisingly earnest tone, he adds, “Harry, you do look quite lovely tonight.” He smiles. “Not that you don’t always, of course.”

Harry’s heart jumps into his throat again and his brain goes a bit staticky for a second before he gets his bearings back. “Thanks, er, you too.” Immediately he wants to sink into the earth and never emerge again just so he won’t have to hear his own words repeat themselves back to him on a frantic mortified loop.

“Thank you,” Tom says back to him far more graciously. His eyes crinkle a bit and he rolls his bottom lip into his mouth for a second like he’s trying to physically stop his smile from getting any bigger. “Shall we be off then?” he asks and offers the omega his arm. Bulstrode offers his to Liara as well as the four of them finally head out with Tom taking the lead. (As he so often does.) Harry elects not to turn around when he hears his friend try to cover up a giggle behind him and assiduously tunes out whatever she and her beau are whispering to each other right now.

“Sorry about the hold-up, by the way,” he mutters quietly to the boy at his side, although he could kick himself for saying it. Curse his stupid guilty conscience that tends to crop up whenever he feels like he’s been a burden or an inconvenience to someone else. It shouldn’t even matter to him when that someone is Tom Riddle.

Tom glances back over at him with a look of surprise. “It’s alright, I don’t mind,” he says. He smirks then and leans down a little more into Harry’s personal space. (Ugh, why does he have to be so bloody tall? And so close too.) “Mostly, I consider it enough of a win that at least you didn’t try to run away or fake an illness just to get out of going.”

“Damn, should’ve thought of that,” Harry flippantly retorts. Tom laughs, a deep, pleasant rumble in his chest that Harry can actually feel in the long, lean body pressed up against his side and those soft puffs of breath that raise goose pimples on the omega’s neck because of the way Tom is still leaning into him a bit. His toes curl in his shoes even as they walk and his fingers unconsciously wrap tighter around the arm that has successfully ensnared his own for the night.

The alpha straightens up again, but his arm almost seems to pull Harry’s in tighter against him now. His lingering smile shifts out of the realm of humor into one of deep satisfaction instead, like he’s just earned another important victory for himself, although he likely has no intention of telling Harry what this one is about.

Despite this, Harry catches himself almost smiling back. Bollocks. He averts his gaze forward again and resolves once more to steel himself firmly against the alpha’s dangerous charms. Just because there’s a bit of banter and joking between them right now doesn’t mean they’re going to become friends after tonight or anything.

The walk isn’t terribly long since the party is in one of the larger unused classrooms not far from Slughorn’s office. As the doors come into view, however, Tom suddenly stops in the middle of the hallway and gently squeezes his hand to make Harry halt in place as well.

Harry blinks up at him as they both turn slightly to face each other. “Tom?” he says confusedly. (And dammit, since when has he started calling the other boy that instead of Riddle without even noticing? Come to think of it, when is the last time Tom called him ‘Evans’ either?) “Is something the matter?” he asks, putting those other questions aside for now.

Tom’s lips pick up into another faint smile before he shakes his head. His eyes dart over briefly to Liara and Bulstrode as the two of them catch up. With a silent tilt of his head, he gestures for them to continue on past them. Harry fidgets, inexplicably nervous at the thought of being left out in the corridor alone with the other wizard, even if it’s only for a minute and they’re right outside of a room with dozens of other people inside. He doesn’t try to wave them back over and ask them to stay, however. It’s not for nothing that he used to be a Gryffindor in another life.

“Before we go in, I actually have something for you,” Tom says once the other couple have headed inside without them.

“You do?” Harry’s brows furrow. Were they supposed to get each other something as part of some poncy rules of etiquette for these type of events that he wasn’t aware of? Surely, Liara would have mentioned it if that was the case.

Tom releases his arm and takes half a step back. Without getting his wand out, he wordlessly summons a small tendril of flowers, pulling them right out of the ether into his waiting hand. The gesture is so smooth and practiced that it would almost seem like a mere sleight of hand trick if not for the subtle tingle of magic that can be felt in the air around them.

Harry huffs a short, quiet laugh of surprise. Reluctantly, he has to admit to being a tiny bit awed by this effortless display of magic that would be tricky even for some older and more experienced wizards to manage. Not even Tom’s cocky pleased grin at having clearly impressed him takes away from the feeling. Given that his abundant self-confidence is genuinely warranted in this case, it instead for once leaves Harry feeling—dare he say it—actually rather charmed by the other boy yet again.

He unconsciously leans forward a bit to take a closer look. The sprig is just about as long as the width of Tom’s hand, with slender leaves that are almost more grey than they are green and several small white blossoms with six petals each. For half a second, Harry’s smile turns a bit wry with nostalgia at the memory of his very first Potions lesson from Snape. Because of it, he would recognize this plant anywhere.

“Asphodel,” he murmurs softly. “Feels a bit odd seeing these outside of a potions lab.”

“Perhaps,” Tom allows. “But if you ask me, the value of a flower can never be found solely in its usefulness,” he says, his eyes flickering up to meet Harry’s. “It’s also good to take a step back sometimes to simply…look and admire.”

“Y-yeah?” Harry stutters a bit, surprised to find himself in agreement with the other boy on something, and even more surprised to find himself feeling a bit weak-kneed and suddenly having to fight off an unexpected blush. He clears his throat and quickly drops his gaze back to the flowers again. “Still, seems like a somewhat odd choice.”

Another slow smile steals over Tom’s face, softer than any Harry has ever seen before. “Asphodels are my favorite flower,” he confesses quietly. He steps in a bit closer again, making Harry’s heart stumble frantically in his chest for a moment before he realizes the other boy is only closing the gap between them so he can pin the flowers to Harry’s robes with a temporary sticking charm.

“They’re said to grow in the Elysian Fields, according to Greek legend,” the alpha continues, plucking one of the smaller blooms from one end of the stem and twirling it idly between his fingertips. His smile takes on a slightly more mischievous aura as he adds, “And in some rare tellings of the ancient myth, they’re also said to be the flower that Persephone was picking when she was first abducted.”

Harry titters nervously, not sure how else to react to the strange sudden intensity in the other’s gaze. He doesn’t know who Persephone was, though the name sounds vaguely familiar, and makes a mental note to look it up later the next time he’s in the library. Surely there must be some books on mythology there.

He does recognize what the Elysian Fields are supposed to represent though. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised your tastes run a bit morbid,” he points out sardonically.

Tom huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “I suppose so,” he agrees. He straightens up a bit and holds the single flower left in his hand out to Harry. “Would you mind?”

Harry takes it from him and reaches up to pin it at the collar of Tom’s robes. As he does, he’s distracted momentarily by a quick bob of the alpha’s adam’s apple at the first light touch of the omega’s hands on his chest, making him swallow as well in turn. He pulls his hands back as soon as the flower is in place and glances away, feeling oddly embarrassed again.

Tom hums, still with the same keen look in his eyes and curious smile tugging up on the corners of his mouth as before. “Shall we then?” he says, once again offering his arm for the omega to take.

Still at a loss as to what’s really going on here that’s making the other boy seem so well-pleased tonight, but determined as ever to see the rest of this evening through nonetheless, Harry accepts it and allows himself to be led off once more.

Chapter Text

Harry’s not sure whether to be more disappointed or relieved that Liara and Bulstrode have already disappeared into the crowd and are nowhere to be seen by the time he and Tom finally go inside. On the one hand, he’d been sort of hoping he could rely on her as a buffer to help him get through the night without wanting to strangle his date by the end of it. On the other hand, strangling Tom is the furthest thing from his mind at the moment and he has the feeling she would easily be able to read that on his face and take it as an opportunity to gloat (covertly, of course) like this actually proves anything. (What it might prove, exactly, is something that he is very determinedly not thinking about right now.)

He has other matters to think about anyway, like the somewhat alarming fact that he can now hear the opening strains of a melody swelling in the background, an instrumental version of some famous song on the WWN that seems to always play around this time of year, even five decades on. “There’s not dancing at this party, is there?” he asks Tom urgently.

“No, or at least there hasn’t been in years past, although you might hear a few of the livelier guests start to sing along with some of the more popular carols once they get deeper into their cups as the night wears on. Good old Sluggy really likes to cultivate a very festive atmosphere at these little shindigs of his,” the other boy tells him with a sardonic smile. His expression turns more playful and curious as a knot of tension visibly loosens in Harry’s shoulders. “Why? Would it be an issue if there were to be any dancing tonight?”

“Yeah, an awfully painful one on your poor toes,” Harry tells him somewhat snidely. “I can’t dance.”

“Really?” Tom asks him with a slightly raised brow. “That’s honestly quite surprising to hear. You don’t strike me as being particularly clumsy. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone more light on their feet in a duel than you, Harry.” He leans down a bit closer as if he has something more intimate he wishes to impart. “The only place I’ve seen you move even more gracefully is way up high in the air, pulling off some spectacular maneuver on your broom that makes the other team’s Seeker look like a windblown troll clinging helplessly onto a gnarled old branch by comparison.”

As has been the case far too often this night already, Harry finds himself momentarily speechless and desperately fighting off another blush after yet another unexpected compliment from the other boy out of nowhere. Two of them actually. “You…I didn’t know you went to any of the games,” he says, having nothing better to respond with.

“Haven’t missed a single Slytherin match all year,” the alpha tells him drolly, though his tone seems to bely another oddly intent look in his eyes as if he were saying something entirely different altogether.

He’s saved from trying to decipher what else it might mean by the appearance of their host upon finally noticing their arrival. “Ah, good evening, lads! Welcome, welcome,” Slughorn says, coming over directly to greet them jovially in person. “I must say, I was almost starting to worry there for a moment when I realized the two of you hadn’t shown up yet. Tom, you’re usually a fair bit more punctual than this,” he remarks. Though it still comes across as good-natured rather than chastising as such words might normally imply otherwise, Harry can’t help but wince all the same.

“I’m sorry, that would be my fault, professor,” he admits, not wanting to give the man any reason to assume that Tom might be to blame. The other boy squeezes his hand delicately, though he’s not sure at first whether he’s meant to take it as a subtle communication of gratitude or a gentle reproof instead—the kind of silent gesture that Hermione might have made once right before pointing out yet again that he “should never apologize to others simply for existing.”

“Please, as I said before, I didn’t mind the wait one bit,” the alpha tells him, once again seemingly earnest though one can never be too sure with him. “After all, you know what they say,” Tom adds with a playfully demure smirk, apparently talking to Slughorn now, though his eyes catch Harry’s again with a spark of genuine humor. “One simply cannot rush perfection, sir,” he finishes in a tone of mock solemnity.

Harry snorts softly and rolls his eyes at this fairly mild “inside joke” between them in the form of a sneaky little callback to Alexander’s earlier comment.

“Yes, yes, quite right,” Slughorn agrees blithely. “And it certainly shows tonight especially. You look pretty as a picture, my dear,” he says to Harry, speaking to him in the same amicable doting manner that an uncle might when complimenting a favorite nephew or niece.

His eyes soften as they land briefly on the cluster of asphodels pinned to the omega’s robes. “My own late wife was much the same way, you know,” he goes on nostalgically as he turns back to Tom. “She could never be induced to leave the house a single moment before she was ready, and woe be to anyone who tried to tell her that she looked ready a single moment before she had already decided she was,” he chortles quietly in fond memory.

Harry feels a stirring of sympathy for the man’s apparent loss, although it’s clearly not a recent one if he’s able to bring it up almost casually now like this. His compassion for the older alpha is somewhat marred a moment later, however, when Slughorn lifts a hand up to the side of his own face, as if pretending now to hide from Harry and block him out from the rest of the conversation, so he can loudly stage whisper something to Tom. “Hence why I learned rather quickly at the beginning of our courtship to always tell her we were due to arrive at some engagement or other at least an hour earlier than the invitation might have actually said. Something to keep in mind for the future, hm?” he suggests with a wink.

Tom smiles back at him blandly in turn. Harry surprisingly finds this utter blankness behind his eyes that is so at odds with the rest of his expression weirdly refreshing for once rather than creepy. He’s a lot better at hiding what he really thinks than Harry is at any rate, since one look at the omega’s face makes their professor start to chuckle heartily and reach over to pat him lightly on the arm in reassurance. “I’m only joking, of course, lad. Only joking!” he says.

Harry holds in a sigh and smiles weakly back. At the end of the day, he knows that Professor Slughorn still means well even if he is also at times rather paternalistic towards women and omegas in general. He’s unfortunately not the only professor guilty of this condescending attitude either. Kind-hearted or no, the man is nonetheless also very much a product of his time and it’s in small moments such as these where it really shows the most.

“Well, I’m sure you boys didn’t come only to enjoy my scintillating conversation this evening. Go on, have fun and mingle! By the way, you’ll find the hors d’oeuvres table and a free flowing fountain of punch over at that end of the room,” he says, pointing the way. “I’m told it has quite the kick though, so perhaps take care and try not to overindulge too much this evening, hm?” he chortles. “Oh, and Tom, don’t disappear on me now! I have a few rather important guests on the way who have been dying to meet you ever since I happened to mention your name in a few of our letter exchanges,” he adds with another wink. “I’ll come find you and make some introductions once they finally get here, my boy, how does that sound?”

“I would be delighted to meet them, of course, professor. Thank you,” Tom says, inclining his head to the older alpha in almost a short bow, his expression the perfect image of humility and gratitude, with an added touch of only the exact right amount of underlying self-confidence appropriate to an alpha of his own age and experience and not a smidgen more.

Harry waits until he’s sure Slughorn is out of hearing range and no longer looking their way to let out a quiet scoff and shake his head slightly. He nudges Tom’s shoulder slightly towards the aforementioned hors d’oeuvres table, an unspoken subtle suggestion of where to go next rather than leading the way there himself since he’s sure that would be considered unseemly behavior from an omega by the other esteemed guests. Oh, the horror.

“What?” Tom asks as he takes the hint and starts walking them in that direction. Harry can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking up at him.

“You,” the omega answers simply.

“Me?” the other boy parrots him innocently.

“Mr. Perfect who always knows exactly what to say and just how to act to wrap every ruddy person in this school around his finger and make them all dance to his tune,” Harry elaborates without an ounce of hesitation.

“Darling, you wound me with these baseless accusations,” Tom replies with exaggerated moroseness. “Whatever have I done to cause you to mistrust me so?”

“Call it an omega’s intuition,” Harry tells him sarcastically. Immediately, he starts piling a little plate high with mini tartlets, crostinis, and sausage rolls once they get to the spread of appetizers set out fancifully on display.

“Are you certain it’s intuition and not merely your own penchant for being contrary about anything and everything under the sun simply for its own sake?” Tom asks in a tone that manages to come across as snide and weirdly rather fond at the same time.

Harry doesn’t know whether he should feel more indignant or flustered. He chooses not to say anything more until they both have refreshments picked out and Tom has steered them over to a round standing table that happens to be tucked out of the way from most of the crowd.

“Listen, you might have most of the staff and students around here fooled, but I know a reputation like yours in Slytherin doesn’t come from just being nice to people all the time.” The way Tom preens at this statement makes it apparent that he’s decided to take this as a compliment rather than the obvious insult it should be. “Besides, nobody puts on the flawless goody two-shoes act like that in the first place without having some kind of hidden agenda as well,” he finishes pointedly before popping a baked brie and cranberry tartlet into his mouth.

“You speak as though from experience,” Tom says with a note of curiosity in his voice that Harry is in no mood to indulge. He makes that clear by taking another bite of his food before washing it down with some punch…and whoa, apparently Slughorn hadn’t been kidding when he said it had a real “kick” to it. His head nearly swims just from the scent alone as he raises the cup to his mouth. He’s careful only to have a small sip and take it slow, mentally noting to himself that he should probably swap the drink out for some water once he’s finished with this one if he doesn’t want to embarrass himself later tonight.

Tom glides smoothly around the edge of the table until he’s no longer standing across from Harry but settled in right next to him again. “And what sort of agenda do you suppose I have in mind for you, Harry Evans?” he murmurs lowly into the boy’s ear.

The omega shivers involuntarily with a soft noise in his throat and tilts his head to the side—to put distance between them, of course—but in so doing bares his neck unthinkingly to the alpha. He only realizes what he’s done when he hears a rough, deep inhalation, a ragged breath that stirs the hairs at his nape and makes him shiver again until he comes to his senses, abruptly scooting away by about half a foot and swiftly straightening back up.

He quickly glances around to make sure no one else is looking at them. Even in the future he comes from, a physical response like that could easily be misinterpreted and seen as wildly inappropriate if it’s not shared between two people who are…well, a couple. Which the two of them obviously are not as anybody can plainly see.

He doesn’t know if he should give an apology for the unintentional faux pas or demand one from Tom for accidentally causing such a reaction in the first place. Flustered, he chances looking over at the alpha again and suddenly freezes. The other pair of eyes looking back into his own appear darker for a second than they were before and glimmer with a hint of maroonish red behind them. It has to be a trick of the light which is somewhat dim in here, surely, but still, it makes him a bit hesitant to speak up for a moment nonetheless.

After an uncomfortable pause, Tom’s fixed stare loses some of that uncanny sharpened focus and his face slowly eases back into more of a brazen smirk that is so much more familiar to Harry that it’s almost reassuring to see now.

He wishes he could say it also melts away much of the strange charged energy between them, but it honestly doesn’t. “Why, Harry, you’re looking at me now like you’re worried I’ll bite all of a sudden,” the other boy drawls, darkly teasing.

The omega’s teeth clench against another eerie tingle traveling all the way down his spine. “You wish,” he snarks right back. Just because he’s been caught a little off-guard doesn’t mean he’s going to put up with Tom’s usual amount of sass without giving some of it back in kind.

Tom scoots in a little more to close the gap between them once again. “Hm, you’re right, maybe I do,” he murmurs, his eyes hooding a bit as they flicker downwards. The skin around Harry’s throat tightens when he swallows.

Tom then reaches down to steal another cranberry tart directly off of Harry’s plate, effectively breaking the unsettling tension between them when he pops it into his mouth and eats it right in front of the other boy with a smug look.

“Oi, you have your own plate!” Harry shoves him back a bit. Tom only laughs silently through his nose, his shoulders shaking but his mouth thankfully still closed while he finishes chewing. “I hope you choke on it, you prat!”

He doesn’t though, naturally, instead swallowing it down with ease and following that up with a small sip from his own drink. His nose wrinkles slightly at the sharp tang of alcohol, however, much like Harry’s had, which Harry can’t help but giggle at as it’s honestly surprisingly rather cute. Wait, what?

“There you are!” Harry has never been gladder to hear Liara’s voice, although he’s a bit less thrilled to find that it’s not just her and Alexander any longer. She’s unfortunately brought some of Tom’s little gang with her, namely Abraxas Malfoy and Bertram Nott. Tom presses in against him even closer than before to allow the others some room. Harry hopes they don’t plan on staying for long since there’s hardly enough space at their tiny table for so many people to fit at once.

“We were looking everywhere for you two earlier,” Liara says as she scoots in on his other side while Alexander steps away for a moment, presumably to grab them both something to eat or drink as well. Malfoy and Nott stay right where they are, both nursing drinks of their own already.

“As were we,” Malfoy piggybacks off of her statement, looking downright sycophantic as he addresses Tom. Harry politely refrains from gagging as he turns to face Liara, making the executive decision now to tune out Tom’s annoying little hangers-on until they hopefully go away. Of course, he won’t be so rude as to just keep ignoring them entirely if one of them actually tries to talk to him—he just very much doubts either of them will bother, which is honestly more than fine by him.

Truth be told, he’s probably exchanged about ten words in total with the whole lot of Tom’s followers put together ever since he arrived here. None of them seem all that keen on speaking to him anyways, which he mostly chalks up to the majority of them being especially set in their own patriarchal pureblooded ways, too caught up in whatever meaningless bullshit the snobbish elites are usually into to bother wasting their time on a mere omega like him, and a halfblooded one to boot.

“You know, you might have had an easier time finding us again if you’d just stuck around by the entrance and waited,” he points out to his best (only) friend. ‘Instead of abandoning me to my terrible fate alone,’ he more or less says with only his eyes rather than his words, knowing she’ll get the gist on her own.

Liara smirks and leans into him a bit conspiratorially. “Sorry,” she says in a hushed voice that doesn’t sound very apologetic at all. “But it looked as if you two were having a bit of a moment out there. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

Harry narrows his eyes and mouths the words, ‘You’re evil,’ at her while no one else is looking at them still.

She snickers quietly. “Yes, I can see how you’ve been suffering in my absence,” she whispers, her eyes dropping lower to his chest now. “Those are very pretty by the way,” she says a bit louder with an awfully knowing look at the flowers pinned to the front of his robes.

He tries not to groan aloud. Of course she’d read into them as something far more than what they actually are, how could he have expected otherwise? Worse, her comment draws everyone else’s attention to them as well.

“Indeed,” Malfoy agrees mildly after a short glance over at Tom. “An unconventional choice, to be sure, but they suit you remarkably well all the more for it, Evans,” he adds with an unctuous bow of his head that strikes Harry as oddly formal and almost a tiny bit obsequious too.

“They really do, don’t they?” Tom responds blithely, clearly exulting in the attention as if any compliment paid to Harry is a compliment to him as well. He did pick the flowers out, so it’s kind of like what Malfoy is really praising is Tom’s good taste after all. More alpha grandstanding, Harry thinks. He’s getting a bit too used to it by now if the most he can muster to feel about it is a faint hint of nearly fond exasperation.

Nott mumbles something vaguely complimentary as well and bobs his head somewhat stiffly without looking up at Harry at all, his eyes firmly affixed to the round tabletop between them instead. Harry’s own quick “thanks” in reply to everyone else probably comes across rather awkwardly too, since Tom’s hand comes up to lay gently between his shoulder blades almost as if in reassurance.

“If you’re nearly finished, we should probably go make our own rounds about the room soon before Sluggy tries to drag us off again,” Tom points out dryly, leaning into him a bit with his hand still on his back. Harry nods, full from the appetizers already since they also had dinner in the Great Hall just a few short hours ago, and takes one last small fortifying swig of his barely touched drink before letting himself be led off once more. Time to go do his job of looking pretty on the alpha’s arm and pretending to care about what all the other various schemers and schmoozers here have to say.

It’s honestly not too bad though compared to what he was expecting. Tom doesn’t really go out of his way to seek anyone else out for conversation, preferring for the most part instead to let other people come to them. Of course, he’s perfectly charming to everyone who does approach, clearly attentive and always engaging, yet also ready with a well-timed polite excuse to take their leave whenever they seem nearly in danger otherwise of getting sucked into some mind-numbingly long-winded chat with somebody who doesn’t know when to shut up. Of the alpha’s admittedly innumerable talents, Harry has to say he finds this one the most enviable of them all.

As much as he’s sure he would normally hate this kind of thing, it’s surprisingly entertaining to watch the young alpha effortlessly weave silk-spun thread with his words around such a wide variety of people in a single night, knowing full well despite all appearances that he doesn’t actually give half a damn himself about what any of them have to say. It’s obvious that he views this all as a game and that somehow makes it a little easier for Harry to sort of do the same, especially since half the time when they’re not talking to someone else, they’re instead standing together in some barely hidden private corner, taking a short break from it all just to quietly trade mean barbs and witty observations about all the other party-goers around them.

“It’s official now, you have to be my date at every one of these awful gatherings now and forever from here on out,” the alpha loftily declares after they’ve run out of things to say about a particularly timid-looking wizard who bears such a strong resemblance to Binns that they’ve begun speculating on how the two might be related. (Given that their History professor has already been dead for who even knows how many decades at this point, the possible theories passed between them have all varied widely.)

“Oh, I have to, do I?” Harry responds archly. “Whatever happened to asking me first?”

“Well, we already know how that went the last time, don’t we, love?” Harry makes a disgruntled noise at the sheer cheek of that answer and has to silently ask himself whether it’s even worth the bother of arguing anymore at this point.

“Truly though,” Tom says in a softer undertone, looking disarmingly sincere once again for the moment, “this really is the most fun I’ve ever had at one of these formal affairs. I hope despite your misgivings from before, you’re also enjoying it well enough to at least consider coming with me again next time?”

There’s only one sane way Harry can answer this while he’s also trying to tamp down on the weird fluttery feeling now happening inside of his chest. “I accept bribes only in the form of treacle tart or butterbeer in lieu of cash,” he states flatly.

“Done,” Tom agrees with an easy grin. “Next Hogsmeade weekend, and all others thereafter, I’ll buy you as many rounds at the Three Broomsticks as you want.”

“No, wait a minute—” Harry starts to say in a minor panic, suddenly realizing how his sarcastic demands have been (no doubt, willfully) misinterpreted, only to have to forcibly cut himself off as their Head of House abruptly reappears in front of them with the worst timing imaginable.

“Ah, good, you’re still here!” Harry minutely raises an eyebrow, wondering where else the man thinks they could have possibly gone in the last hour or so since they saw him last, but the older wizard doesn’t appear to notice. “Come now, come!” he says, urging them to follow him now as if he cannot contain his own excitement.

“I’m so glad you’ve finally agreed to meet with some of my Ministry contacts, Tom. It’s never too early to start making those connections, I say! Two of them here tonight just so happen to head their own divisions within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, you know,” he adds, puffing up his chest and looking quite pleased with himself when the younger alpha noticeably perks up at this.

Ministry contacts? Maybe this shouldn’t surprise Harry to hear as much as it does, but since when has Tom been interested in having anything to do with the Ministry anyways? From the sounds of it, Slughorn has been trying to arrange a meeting like this for a while now too, only to be met each time with some kind of deflection or gentle pushback from the younger alpha. Only Harry knows him well enough to truly understand why that would be, of course. It’s the main reason Lord Voldemort ever came to exist in the first place—the very idea of enacting change from within the current system had always been a little too slow for the Dark Lord’s tastes.

Could he really have changed his mind then, and if so why? And more importantly, how does that affect the future timeline as Harry knows it? Or is he just overthinking all of this and shouldn’t expect anything different to come of it at all?

These thoughts continue to swirl through his mind off and on throughout the rest of the night, while their professor introduces them to more bureaucrats than he might have ever expected to meet at a single event outside of the Ministry itself. His own internal musings render him somewhat quieter during most of these conversations than he had been before, not that anyone other than Tom actually seems to notice. Just like with Malfoy and Nott, it’s not like they’re really here to talk to him anyways.

Before finally scurrying off to attend to some of his other duties as host, their Head of House makes one last introduction between them and the Deputy Head of the Auror Office, an alpha woman named Stebbins. (He’s already forgotten her first name, but oh well. Admittedly, he hadn’t been paying all that much attention to begin with.) At one point in time he might have been more interested in this particular meeting, back when he still harbored some tentative hopes of becoming an Auror himself one day. That career path has become far less appealing to him these days, however.

He’s also pretty sure he wouldn’t be taken too seriously in that department during this era anyhow. As an omega living in the earlier half of the twentieth century, he’s far more likely to find himself relegated to desk duty or a receptionist’s role rather than ever receive an assignment that would actually require he put on a badge.

As if only to prove this point, Auror Stebbins is the first to finally take notice of his overall silence, but she does so by attributing entirely the wrong reasoning behind it. The stodgy old alpha actually compliments Tom on finding himself “such a demure and proper omega in this day and age” and for not picking out someone “too modern” to bring here with him instead.

Harry might have burst into laughter then and there at the sheer irony of that statement, had Tom’s hand not suddenly begun to squeeze his just a little too hard. And that’s before she further tacks on even more stupidly, completely oblivious to the offense she’s already caused, that it’s “also good to see there are even halfbloods these days who still honor some of our oldest courtly traditions.”

“Would you excuse us?” Tom says abruptly, barely even waiting for a response before he drags Harry off away from the woman, swiftly cutting through the rest of the crowd with only the occasional terse “pardon us” tossed around at random to other people as they pass through. Any hint otherwise of his usual polite veneer all but vanishes from the moment they turn their backs on the now completely mystified auror they’ve left behind to stand awkward and alone in the middle of the room.

For once he appears not to be trying very hard at all to bury his own ire as he pulls Harry along with him halfway across the room. His nostrils flare and his irises have gone a darkish red again—not Voldemort red at least, thankfully, but still the red of a seriously ticked off alpha just barely restraining himself from breaking into a sudden bout of violence without warning nevertheless.

They duck behind a heavy curtain wall that was clearly erected in place to cordon off this part of the classroom that’s not meant to be seen for the rest of the party. It’s surprisingly quite a bit darker back here, and several desks have been pushed out of the way and shoved up against the back wall where the blackboard takes up most of the rest of the space, Harry notices as his vision readjusts.

Tom closes his eyes and takes a harsh shuddering breath, clearly trying to center himself now and regain his sense of calm away from everyone else. It’s so…trusting actually, that he would bring Harry back here with him and allow the omega to see him visibly perturbed like this.

He steps in closer after Tom lets go of his hand, some instinct which he doesn’t want to examine too closely at the moment drawing him in and making him reach up while he gives off soothing pheromones meant to appease hi— the alpha’s unexpected flare-up of ill temper and smooth out its roughened edges.

He gasps, startled, when Tom suddenly grabs his arm, holding it in place, and leans in close enough to nose along the delicate skin of his inner wrist, breathing in deeply with his eyes still closed. The young omega shivers but otherwise holds himself still, letting the alpha scenting him have his fill since it genuinely seems to be working at pacifying him and putting him in a much better mood. The tensed set of his shoulders immediately ease up and with a few more long, slow breaths, all trace of his agitation appears to disappear entirely. Only then do his eyes finally blink open, back to their normal shade of cool dark brown again, and meet Harry’s own wide-eyed gaze.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, and huffs a sheepish laugh against Harry’s skin before carefully releasing his arm. “I…didn’t exactly mean to do that just now.”

“S’okay.” Harry clears his throat awkwardly to try to hide the unintentional breathiness of his voice. “Are you alright?”

“Are you alright?” Tom counters. “What that…auror said back there…” A hint of that suppressed anger still lingers in his icy tone, leading Harry to wonder what word he might have wanted to use instead before he caught himself just then. “She should not have said that about you,” he finishes simply, firmly, rather than continue on with whatever train of thought he had just started on.

Harry’s lips curl up into a wry smile. “You mean when she called me a ‘proper’ omega?” He snorts. “Believe me, Tom, I’ve been called plenty worse than that before.”

“When? By whom? What exactly did they say?” Tom’s eyes flash dangerously as he fires off one question after another, each one coming out sounding more harsh and clipped than the last.

“Whoa, easy there, tiger!” Harry pats him gently on the shoulder, a little surprised when this light touch actually works at making Tom’s stiffened posture loosen back up again. “Nobody you know. And anyways, it doesn’t matter because I handled it.”

“Did you? Now, that I would have liked to see,” Tom says warmly.

“Yeah, I bet you would,” Harry mutters with a quick eye roll to cover up how secretly endeared he is by all of this. There’s something oddly rather sweet about Tom’s clear affront on Harry’s behalf and his obvious relish in hearing that some of these people who’ve bothered him before have already been put in their place because of it.

“But I would still like to know if anyone else ever disrespects you like that again.”

“Erm, no, I don’t think I’ll be telling you that unless I want to read about something terrible happening to them in the next morning edition of the Prophet.” He smiles at the rather hearty laugh this response gets, although he hadn’t entirely been joking.

“I wasn’t going to say anything earlier in front of our professor or a bunch of strangers,” Tom says now, his expression turning a bit more serious again as his voice takes on a mild note of concern. “But I did notice you were getting awfully quiet out there for a little while,” he remarks with a vague nod towards the curtain wall.

“I think I’m just getting a bit tired,” Harry tells him, shrugging. “My mind started wandering, names and faces started blurring together, you know how it gets.”

Tom hums agreeably. “I did warn you these aren’t typically the most exciting affairs, unfortunately.”

“And yet, seems like you’re gearing towards practically making a full-time gig out of it soon,” Harry shrewdly points out.

Tom sighs with exaggerated despondency. “True, this is only a precursor to what will undoubtedly be equally tedious public events happening ad nauseum, since the Ministry likes to host them with such alarming regularity.”

“So, why are you doing it?” Harry presses. He really wants to know what makes this route to power so appealing all of a sudden when he’s sure that deep down, one of the main reasons the young man in front of him would later go on to create his Dark Lord persona was so he wouldn’t have to spend his adult years playing the long game with all those stuck-up nepotist prigs that currently populate the Ministry’s halls.

Tom actually seems to hesitate for a moment, ducking his head almost shyly in a way that doesn’t feel faked like the usual “humble and totally innocent” act he puts on in front of their professors and peers.

“Well…truth be told, it wasn’t initially my first choice,” he admits, surprisingly. “I, ah, harbored this idea in my head for a long time that I’d make a name for myself another way. Relying on no one else, I’d save up enough to go abroad and throw myself fully into the pursuit of more esoteric studies than might be readily accessible here.”

“And now? Are you sure that’s not still what you want?” If any of his old friends were here, Harry imagines they’d be screaming at him now to shut up. Why risk jinxing an unexpected turn such as this by questioning it? He has never been one to deny his own curiosity, however, and more than anything now he finds himself wanting to truly understand this enigma of a wizard standing in front of him.

“I would still like to travel someday. That part hasn’t changed, but I’m also not so single-minded in focus anymore. I’ve had a recent epiphany, you see,” he says, taking a step closer to Harry. “And it’s that I want something else more. Something I honestly would never have even considered in earnest before the start of this school year, but now that it’s right in front of me, I…” He pauses to draw in a subtle breath, smiling briefly, and bites down gently on his lower lip. “Well, I suppose you could say that it’s led to me…reshuffling my priorities a bit in pursuit of attaining that instead.”

He’s looking at Harry again with that intense, penetrating stare that reveals far too much of the real him despite somehow telling the omega absolutely nothing at all about what he’s really thinking. (‘Oh, come on, like you really can’t guess?’ says the inner voice Harry has been expertly ignoring for quite some time now.) He doesn’t know what to say to this surprising admission and instead awkwardly stares up back at Tom.

His heart thumps louder in his chest when after a few seconds of utter silence between them, Tom’s mouth curls upward into a predatory fox-like smirk, his eyes sparkling and mischievous. “Aren’t you going to ask me what that something is, Harry?” he drawls teasingly.

“Would you actually tell me if I did?” Harry immediately counters.

Tom casually shrugs with one shoulder and somehow makes it look elegant. “Maybe,” he says. “For the right price.”

Harry laughs, inexplicably glad they’re treading on more normal ground again. “No thanks, I have a feeling the going rate for one of your secrets would be a little too rich for my blood.”

“They are quite steep,” Tom agrees. “I would say I could offer you a friendly discount, but truth be told I’m much too greedy for that.”

“Wow, that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said in your life.”

They continue to converse like this for a few minutes more until another pair of students comes stumbling back behind the curtain, their intentions very clear as their lips lock and their hands begin to roam all over each other the second they think they’re out of view of everybody else. Tom pulls him back with an arm around his waist before they can bump into Harry on accident, clearing his throat loudly to command their attention.

The girls immediately spring apart, one an omega from Ravenclaw and the other an alpha from Gryffindor, although Harry’s mind is drawing a blank on both their names for the moment. They might be blushing now, though it’s hard to tell in the dimmed lighting back here while he’s also trying to avoid looking at anyone else directly. His own face feels flushed and only gets warmer when he realizes he’s pressed back against Tom’s chest with the other boy’s arm still wrapped around him.

“Sorry!” the Gryffindor exclaims with a giggle, an arm around her companion’s shoulders while the other girl looks like she’s fighting against instinct not to turn away and try to hide her face. “Didn’t know this corner was already taken, gents!”

“Oh, uh! N-no, that, that’s not…” Harry stutters. “We weren’t just—”

“That’s quite alright, Ms. Ashton,” Tom interjects smoothly. “We don’t mind relinquishing it over to you. It’s high time I escort Harry back to our dorm anyway.”

The omegan girl finally looks up as they try to move past her, her previous shyness dissipated as she looks them both up and down. To Harry’s annoyance (and mild dread, though he doesn’t want to admit to it), he realizes it’s one of the school’s biggest gossips, Olive Hornby. Her eyes sweep over them both just a little too keenly for Harry’s liking, especially as her gaze lingers rather invasively over his robes. Probably wondering how an impoverished halfblood like him could ever afford them.

“My, don’t you move awfully fast,” she says, sickly sweet, and in this moment Harry understands completely why Myrtle Warren hated her enough to haunt her for years even after she left Hogwarts, finally leaving her alone only after the Ministry issued a restraining order against her with the looming threat of exorcism if she didn’t comply.

“You’re one to talk, aren’t you?” he can’t help but fire back, but for some reason that only seems to confuse her, despite her own date whom she was just plastered all over not five seconds ago still standing right there.

“What are you even talking about, Evans?” she sneers. “For your information, Cici’s parents and mine were already in negotiations for a year before we declared our intent—” Suddenly she sneezes, loud and repeatedly without stopping, and hunches over, looking and sounding utterly wretched within moments while Ashton starts rubbing her back and murmuring soothingly. Fortunately, Harry didn’t get sprayed despite being in the blast zone, thanks to a well-timed shielding charm from Tom. One might say a little too well-timed actually.

“We’ll leave you to it, ladies,” Tom says politely and steers Harry out through the other side of the curtain. By mutual unspoken agreement, they leave the party altogether without saying goodbye to anyone else.

Once they’re out in the hallway alone, Harry turns and throws the alpha a coy look. “So, how long does that jinx last for?”

“What jinx?” Harry plants his feet firmly, arms crossed, until Tom relents with the innocent act and returns his gaze with a smug look. “She should be breathing normally again in about ten minutes. Any longer, and the spell would technically count as a Class D hex, which of course I cannot condone as a prefect.”

Harry scoffs. “Pretty sure prefects aren’t supposed to use any kind of offensive spells on their classmates, no matter their classification.”

“Au contraire, as a figure with some level of authority, I am within my rights to mete out certain disciplinary actions to the student populace however I deem appropriate.”

“No, you’re not, fibber!” Harry argues, poking him in the ribs with a small grin on his face. “Shall I turn around and ask Professor Slughorn to back up that claim?”

He makes a show of going to do just that, but doesn’t make it more than a couple of steps before Tom grabs him by the elbow and yanks him back over to him, his belly swooping with the sudden forceful movement. “Aha, so I’m right!” he cackles with an accusatory jab at the other boy’s chest.

“Yes, fine, you see right through me, Harry Evans,” Tom admits with a narrow-eyed gaze, playacting annoyance at being caught in the lie. “Can I trust you then to keep your silence about what really happened back there?”

“Hmm, may-be,” Harry singsongs, and walks his fingers up the row of shiny gold buttons to the white flower still pinned at the other boy’s collar with his free hand, his other arm still being held comfortably tight in Tom’s grip. “For the right price.”

Tom’s other hand snatches Harry’s up as his fingertips brush over the top button just below the flower’s petals, holding it in place there. “Name it, darling, and it’s yours.”

Harry’s smile falters, his breath catching in his throat before he clears it awkwardly. “We should, er…we should probably head back to the common room now like you said,” he mumbles, taking a step back and staring flatly ahead at Tom’s chest rather than look up and meet his eyes again.

“Of course.” Tom lets his hand go, but then steps in closer and turns smoothly in place so he’s standing at Harry’s side, the hand at his elbow loosening and gliding over it so their arms are now linked like they had been earlier on the way to the party.

After a minute of walking together in silence, Harry recovers and tries to make light conversation again. “Can you believe Hornby back there trying to justify her sticking her tongue down her girlfriend’s throat in front of us like that? What a weird time to even bring their parents up like they’ve got anything to do with it,” he says, crinkling his nose. Alive or dead, his parents are the last thing he’d want to be thinking about right after he got caught snogging someone. Why even mention them at all?

Tom chuckles under his breath. “I believe what she might have been trying to get at, darling, was that she and Ashton had been more or less promised to each other for quite some time already before they officially started their courtship.”

“Oh, so she was just trying to shame us back there because she thought we were making out before getting engaged first or something?” Heat rises to his cheeks again as he thinks about the misunderstanding he hadn’t even managed to correct fully before they got out of there. He doesn’t want to think about how much worse the rumors about him and Tom are probably going to get now.

“Hmm, not quite,” Tom says, still smiling. “You know, she and Ashton aren’t engaged yet either. It’s more or less a foregone conclusion that they will be soon, however, since they’ve been publicly courting since the end of last summer.”

Harry rolls his eyes, already bored of hearing about his classmates’ love lives and the archaic traditions surrounding them.

No one else is in the common room when they get back since they’re all either still at the party or have already gone up to bed. Most will be heading out bright and early tomorrow morning to board the train home, but this will be the first December in a while that Harry has nowhere else to go with no one waiting for him at either the Burrow or Grimmauld Place. He’s been trying not to think about it too much, but seeing the place so empty and cleared out is a stark reminder of that fact now.

The simple touch of another’s hand clasping around his own again has him jolting away from those thoughts and turning to face his companion once more. Someone’s being awfully needy lately for Harry’s constant focused attention, aren’t they?

“I’m really glad you could join me tonight, Harry,” Tom says, squeezing his hand lightly.

“Me too,” he replies, and surprisingly he means it, even if he was coerced into going. This night has definitely given him a lot to think about, if nothing else.

“You’ll be down at the platform too in the morning to see everyone else off?” Tom asks him, reminding the omega abruptly that they’re about to be the only Slytherins left here for the next two and a half weeks while everyone else is gone on holiday. Harry can only nod and try not to fidget too much, suddenly restless at the mere thought of it.

“Good.” Tom smiles and lifts Harry’s hand (which he’s still been holding all this time, the omega only now realizes) to brush a featherlight kiss over the back of his knuckles, making Harry blush spectacularly as his heart lurches up into his throat. “Until tomorrow then. Goodnight, Harry.”

“Right, goodnight!” Harry squeaks, embarrassed, fleeing to his dorm room the moment Tom’s fingers loosen around his own and allow him to finally pull away. Tom’s smile only widens further as he watches him go, turning roguish and mischievous and deeply amused.

Alone now with his back pressed against the door, Harry lays a hand over his chest and feels his own rabbiting pulse there beneath his palm. What the hell has gotten into him? He’s acting like some…some…giddy omega swooning over his crush. Oh god, why? Why does it have to be him? Worst of all, he’s certain by the reaction he saw just now that Tom knows about the effect he has on him too.

Harry throws himself onto his bed (being careful not to crush the asphodels still pinned to the front of his robes, for reasons he is not going to overanalyze at the moment) and groans loudly with his face buried in his folded arms, very glad to be the first one back with none of his dormmates here to witness his dramatics. He flexes his fingers a few times and fancies he can still feel the phantom sensation of lips pressed against them, even though they barely grazed his skin for maybe all of a second or two before politely pulling away.

That’s all it was anyway, just a polite, gentlemanly gesture to end the evening on. It has to be. It doesn’t mean anything. Can’t possibly, because then Harry would have to reconcile with that too while he’s still recovering from the discomfiting revelation brought about by his own reaction to such an innocuous touch.

Turning over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling, Harry laughs quietly to himself, self-effacing and definitely not in the least bit hysterical. This is fine. It’s fine. He’s just tired like he mentioned earlier and his wires have gotten a bit crossed tonight because of it, that’s all. Yes, that’s definitely it.

After changing into his nightclothes and leaving his borrowed jewelry on Liara’s nightstand, he crawls in under the covers and pretends to already be asleep when the others eventually get back, deciding that he’s in no mood to field any questions tonight. His dormmates are courteous enough at least to keep their voices down as they also get ready for bed. Unfortunately, the room around them is quiet enough that he can still hear them whispering to each other even from across the room.

“Poor thing must have been exhausted to have gone to bed so early,” Druella Rosier simpers. Harry can practically her playful smirk all the way from over here.

“Myrna said she saw him and Riddle sneaking off together at least an hour before the party really even started winding down, isn’t that right?” says Lucretia Black with her usual overstated confidence.

Selwyn answers in the affirmative. “Do you think they might have been…you know…?” she trails off meaningfully, but Harry can all too easily imagine the type of face or gesture she must be making as all three girls giggle under their breaths. He’s glad he drew the curtains around his bed so nobody else can see how his face catches on fire once the implication hits home.

“Oh, please, like that’s even news at this point,” Druella whispers back. “When anybody with a brain can see that they’ve clearly been together for months already.” Harry sits bolt upright in bed. Well, that’s certainly news to him. “Tonight was obviously just the official debut for them,” she says.

Their gossip session draws to an abrupt close as the bathroom door opens and Liara steps back out. It’s frustrating when he wants to hear more, but he supposes it’s good to know at least that they won’t say anything about this in front of her. He wonders if that means she’s told them off before for talking about Harry behind his back, feeling rather warmed by the thought. He’s sure she knows they will anyway, much like Harry himself already knew his supposed love life would be yet another source of entertainment for them. He’s not even mad at them for it, to be honest, only a little perturbed to realize the rumors were apparently much worse than he’d thought. Months, seriously? Where did they even get that idea from?

If Harry were still the brash Gryffindor he used to be, he might draw the curtains back right now and just ask them outright. It’s not worth it though to let them know he’d been listening when that would probably just make them more careful around him in future. He’s already learned by now that the harder he tries to deny the things people say about him, the less inclined they are to actually believe him anyways.

The real question is whether Tom has heard about any of these rumors and if Harry should say anything to him about it or not. Surely they should both clear the air and set the record straight with everyone else, right? …Right?

Harry lays back again and covers his eyes behind his hand even as the lights go out and everyone else finally settles in for bed. Yeah, that’s not a conversation he ever thought he might need to have with the dangerously attractive living ghost of Lord Voldemort’s Christmas Past, nor is it something he wants to have to bring up with the alpha at all if he can help it.

Better to just stick with what he’s gotten surprisingly good at over the past several weeks—ignore and deny everything until the problem will surely go away on its own. Some of his biggest failures in life up to this point have been due to his own active participation or interference, while this tactic so far has yet to fail him. Let it be tomorrow Harry’s problem, not his.