Chapter Text
He taps repeatedly over his parchment, humming the song that Orion was blasting after their last practice.
The rhythmic tapping was stopped when Tom snatched the feather off of his hands. His brown eyes were twitching lightly and coloured in annoyance.
“Care to stop?” While the words were said softly and very low (as they were in the library) there was a bite to it that almost made Harry laugh.
“Remind me why I need to…”
“An A is not a proper grade.”
“Who says?”
Tom glares at him as he pushes another book towards him. “Me.”
Harry glares back, trying to push as much venom as he could into his stare.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t the slightest bit intimidating if he went by Tom’s amusement colouring his eyes. Harry sighs, quitting his attempts and latches snatches the book from Tom’s hand. “This is ridiculous.”
“What is ridiculous about studying to improve your grades?”
He pauses his long look at the index to stare at Tom's face.
“Well… Nothing, but I just…” He sighs, closing the book and setting his head above it. “I don’t want to.”
“Oh? You don’t want to? Oh… Well, that's really sad for you, because you’re going to study.”
Harry choked out a laugh and made a gesture to get up. A hand latches into his shirt like a claw. It was as strong as the merfolk when they tried to drown him last time, he was helping Hagrid out.
“Sit.”
Twisting his arm, he tries to dislodge his shirt, but Tom just tightens the hold.
“Harry, sit.”
Finally, sighing, he slumps back on the chair.
“You’re so overbearing.”
Tom doesn't seem to bite into the hook at first. His hands holding the books, seemingly looking for a particular title, as Harry rests his head on his hand passing pages with no goal.
Tom's voice finally comes back: “What do you think your father would say about the ‘A’?” The words are soft, but they carry the tone he usually takes with the other Slytherin's.
A tone of manipulation.
Which made him want to laugh.
Harry curls an eyebrow, “Did you just bring up my dad?”
“... Yeah. What do you think he’ll say?”
“He’ll be like, ‘oh, well, grades aren’t everything. Care to explain why are you spending so much time with Mr. Riddle?’”
Tom paused again, considering what he said and sudden understanding coloured his face.
“Fair.”
For half an hour, he really tries to study, but his eyelids grow heavier with every line, even as he attempts to focus on the words.
Transfiguration was an interesting subject, but it's far from Harry's favourite. It's far too complicated to solve his confusions in one afternoon, and (and yes, he dares to say it) far too boring to even try.
McGonagall's style of teaching wasn't ideal, and neither was Albus’ style when referring to the intricate subject.
Practical Transfiguration tests? Sure, he could do it.
Theory? Why not slam his head with a shovel instead?
Finally, after 10 minutes of struggling with the same line, he gives up. Guiding the feather to the margins of the parchment he doodles the pets of the Slytherin's.
Just as he was outlining Katherine's canary, Tom lets out a groan.
“You got to be pulling my chain.”
Looking up, he sees the Prefect glaring down at him.
“What?”
“Can’t you focus on this for five seconds?”
“I can’t. I’m bored,” he sighs, leaning back on his chair. “And it's been 45 minutes.”
“No, it hasn't.”
“Yes, it has.”
“It's been 42 minutes.”
He feels his eyelid twitch. “Whatever. I'm bored.”
“Well, you wouldn’t be if you could just focus on it.”
“Lies,” he hisses.
“Come on,” he opens his eyes and looks back at Tom when he places his hand on Harry's arm. “Focus and…”
Staring at him he sees his eyes get lightly glassy and unfocused, then a dark blush flushed on his face down his neck, painting the fair skin.
Tom's hand, which was previously wrapped around his arm, lets go as if it had burned him and he sets it above the closed book.
“And what?”
Tom's head shakes repeatedly, his eyes focused on his parchment.
“Nothing…”
Harry bends his back and twists himself next to Tom's face, trying to meet his eyes.
“What did you just think?”
Tom suddenly lunges to his feet and looks at the ceiling.
“Wow, I just remembered I'm late!”
“Late for what?”
“...yes.” he leaves the table
Harry is now alone at the table.
He stares at the pile of books.
There were two options in front of him: study or get away.
The right choice wasn’t hard at all.
“I’m not staying here.” He pushes the chair under the table and gets away before a Slytherin sees him and rats on him.
-
Catching the snitch is easy.
Having to avoid the snitch and lead the other seeker away from it because it's too early to catch it thanks to the team being far behind on points? Torture.
The entire match he had been shoved and jostled more times than he could count, and the barked warnings from Casier and Carrow (“don’t fucking it up, squirt!”) were wearing his patience thin, but in a short break he had declared he needed them to bring it up or they'll lose even if he caught the snitch.
His jaw ached from gritting his teeth and his ears buzzed from the wind.
After around twenty minutes they had enough points to end this.
This could finally be over.
Diving low, he pulled up at the last second barely avoiding a head-on collision with the Hufflepuff seeker.
“I’m sorry!” the boy shouted over the roar of the wind and crowd.
Harry caught a glimpse of his face, earnest and pale with nerves, and despite himself, he nodded back. “It’s okay!” he shouted through clenched teeth. Merlin, they’d nearly plummeted to their deaths and the Hufflepuff was apologizing? “Just - be careful!” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Better that than snapping: mind your bloody space.
Shaking it off, Harry kicked higher, climbing above the chaos of the other players. Up here, the field spread out below him like a green board, dots of scarlet and gold, yellow and black darting around like ants. He slowed his broom deliberately, hovering, watching. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Hufflepuff seeker shadowing him, copying his movements.
Good.
Harry feigned a sharp dive to the left. The boy followed instantly. At the last moment Harry twisted, banking the other way, his eyes snapping to a flicker of gold near the stands. His pulse jumped.
There you are.
He leaned low over his broom, his chest pressed right against the wood and even if his muscles complained about the pain, he urged the broom faster. The Hufflepuff seeker realized too late and scrambled after him, almost shoulder-to-shoulder as they tore across the pitch. Harry stretched, fingers brushing empty air once, twice-
Then at last he felt it, cool and fluttering in his palm as he closed the hand.
“YES!” Harry roared, triumphant.
He shot upward, looping the field with the snitch held aloft, laughter bursting from his chest. When he landed, the team swarmed him, thumping his back and shouting. He nearly doubled over laughing when Casier himself edged forward, looking reluctant, uncertain—then raised a hand and patted Harry’s head, as though knighting him into the team.
“Not bad,” Casier muttered.
The Hufflepuff seeker approached, flushed and panting, but smiling. He extended his hand. “You’re a good player.”
Harry stammered, suddenly awkward, “Th-thanks. You too.” His ears burned as they shook hands.
As they continue celebrating he sneaks a look at the teacher's tower.
Dumbledore was dressed in gnarly crimson robes but was sporting a green scarf as he clapped enthusiastically.
He feels something warm spread across his chest.
-
Harry is still buzzing later that night.
The Slytherin common room glittered with levitating candles and laughter. Someone had smuggled in bottles of something sweet and something burning, and the twins were calling it a ‘soirée’ with obnoxious pride.
Harry ended up leaning against Riddle on the green velvet settee, his cheeks flushed and a soft chuckle escaping him. A drink clinked between his fingers.
“Have you ever drank before?” Tom asked, watching him.
Harry paused, thinking. “Never. A friend tried to sneak me some Firewhisky… but his mum found out.” He takes a shot and winces, then chuckles. “We were in so much trouble.”
He laughed to himself and went to take another shot, but Tom’s hand suddenly closed over his wrist.
The contact sent something sharp and strange jolting up Harry’s arm.
They both stared down at the point of contact.
“You should slow down,” Tom said quietly, not letting go right away.
Harry nodded slowly, though he didn’t move away either. It was Tom who slowly released his fingers from around his arm, placing his hand over his own glass. He took the glass and lightly settled it on the table.
Neither noticed the glance the twins shared across the room.
“Yeah… What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Have you drank before?”
“Yes,” Tom said, composed. “I’m part of Slughorn’s club. We’ve sampled wines. Liquor, too.”
“What’s that?”
Tom blinked. “Liquor?”
“No!” Did he look that dumb? “Slughorn’s club.”
“It’s… a little group made by the Potions professor,” Tom explained. “He gathers students he thinks will go far. Those with potential. Connections. People he thinks can become somebo-”
Harry yawned so big it brought tears to his eyes.
Tom pauses, staring down at him, his eyes roaming over his face (at the half-lifden eyes tearing up, the crinkle of his nose and the open mou- focus).
Harry blushes in regret noticing he has stopped talking.
“Sorry!” he said quickly. “Not you—I mean, I didn’t- you were not boring, just… I’m tired. You’re fine.”
Tom stares. That shouldn’t have made something warm curl low in his chest.
That quiet hung between them, then Harry, sighing, rested his head on Tom's shoulder.
The Prefect freezes at the contact. His chest jumps with his beating heart.
“I can’t believe I play Quidditch for Slytherin,” Harry mumbled, the words sleepy, breath warm where it hit his collarbone.
Tom’s voice caught before he forced it out. “... Why’s that?”
“Albus was certain I’d be in Gryffindor.”
Tom it's about to comment, but Harry stretches with his eyes closed, and he can't speak. His shirt raises a bit, showing a sliver of his skin, his neck is bare and so close.
He can't focus.
Tom counts to ten then back to zero, and that's when he can talk.
“How’s he taking you being here?”
Harry exhaled, long and low.
“Better. He didn’t like it at first but…” A shrug. “He can’t hate me for it. It’s easier now.”
Tom’s voice sharpened before he could stop it. “He hates us.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to try to defend him?”
“I've told you before I don't agree with him. He does hate Slytherin's, I can't lie.” There's a pause in which Harry sighs and Tom had to look away to not lose his mind. “I was scared.”
“He was never going to abandon you.”
“Not abandon,” Harry murmured, as his face rested over Tom's shoulder, “But I thought he might resent it. His name, dirtied.”
“That’s what you think this does?” Tom’s voice had gone soft again, but not kind.
“No,” Harry said after a pause. “I don’t. But… he might have.”
He's petrified by the wide, glassy, emerald eyes blinking up at him.
He froze at the sight. Not even a mandrake could save him from it.
The eyes close slowly with a sigh. “You're warm.” He mutters, and the sound of his voice made him feel like he was sinning.
At any point, he could be struck by lightning for his unworthiness at being the receiver of the words.
“... You’re drunk,” he mumbles, his throat closing.
Harry hummed back. “Not enough.”
Tom looked down at the vision.
He's suddenly struck with the others' eyes, trying to steal what's his.
He had Dumbledore’s secret cuddled up to him and only him.
The wonder-boy who swept through the house like was born for it.
Maybe his selfishness was the one speaking, but he wanted to claim the creature that was toying with him like prey.
“I think you’re a danger,” Tom murmured.
Harry just smiled, sleepy and sideways.
---
The common room was quieter the next morning, dim with the gray wash of early light slipping through the lake-green windows. Most of the party’s mess had been vanished away by eager third-years hoping to win favours.
Tom sat near the fire with a book in his lap and a barely-touched cup of tea beside him. He hadn’t slept much. Too many thoughts. Too many questions.
“You know,” drawled Lestrange, sliding into the armchair opposite him, “if your goal is to enrage Dumbledore Sr., there are less intimate ways to do it.”
Tom didn’t look up from his book. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mm. Don’t you?” Rosier came up behind them with a smirk, arms crossed. “Because I saw the two of you last night. Practically cuddled up like sweethearts.”
Tom turned the page slowly, ignoring the way his ears warmed.
Rosier added helpfully, “I applaud your methods. Improper and bold, but it will bear results soon enough.”
“I’m not-”
“-Trying to seduce Dumbledore’s son?” Lestrange cut in smoothly. “Or just hoping he’ll call you daddy next?”
Tom snapped the book shut with a soft thunk. “Don’t be crass.”
They were laughing now, with that sharp edge Slytherin's always used when testing a weakness.
Which should never be used against him.
“He’s new. It makes sense to keep an eye on him.”
“Keep an eye, he says,” Rosier muttered under his breath, grinning at the letter in his hands.
Tom ignored the jab, though something restless coiled in his stomach.
Yes, before he kept an eye on him for strategic reasons. Maybe his eyes had thrown him off balance for a moment, but his pretty face didn't mean he would quit his mission.
But then he apologized.
And he was good to him. No manipulative attempts to get something from him.
Then last night he had leaned into Tom’s shoulder like it was nothing.
It was…
Tom didn’t know what it was.
“I think,” Lestrange added with mock wisdom, “you’re developing a crush, Riddle.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” His tone is so sharp that they both pause and look at each other.
“I could be wrong.”
“Maybe he just wants to see how many secrets are stuffed in that pretty little head.”
“Or get head,” murmured a twin, avoiding a book thrown at him by merely an inch.
Before Tom could snap back, footsteps echoed down the stairs behind them.
Harry came into view with his robe slipping from one shoulder and his hair even more of a mess than usual.
He yawned like he hadn’t slept in weeks, even though last night he fell asleep as soon as he hit his bed. (Tom had to close the curtains to stop the others from looking at him.)
“Morning,” he said, voice a little hoarse.
The twins straightened immediately. Lestrange gave Tom a meaningful look, and Rosier bit down a grin.
“Morning,” Tom said carefully.
Harry rubbed his eyes. “Did we clean up last night or…?”
“Mostly,” Rosier said innocently. “Nothing too scandalous was left behind. Well, we haven’t checked upstairs.”
Harry blinked at him. “That sounded like a loaded comment.”
“Did it?” Lestrange asked.
“Don’t listen to them,” Tom muttered as he stood. “They’re trying to be funny.”
“I’d be worried if they succeeded,” Harry said around another yawn.
Tom stepped beside him, brushing his fingers down his sleeve as if to straighten the fabric. Harry barely noticed, still half-asleep.
They walked toward the Great Hall with the others trailing close behind. Tom stayed just slightly ahead, just slightly beside, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye.