Chapter Text
It was Monday, four days before Christmas, and Tom hadn’t looked Harry in the face since Friday night.
That was certainly an accomplishment considering how much time Tom spent with him that weekend after the rest of the students left. Madame Fern made Harry come to the hospital wing every day to drink his potions so she could check on him, and Tom always came with him. When Harry was then laid out on the couch for the rest of the day, either because he was having a headache or because the potions made him feel about eight different kinds of ridiculous, Tom sat with him, Harry’s head in his lap, combing his fingers through his unruly hair.
“You know…” Harry mumbled, the potion of the day making him feel rather loopy, like his head was stuffed with cotton and he was also very drunk. “My first bit of accidental magic was my hair.”
Tom made a soft sound that sounded like a snort. “Go on,” he murmured, keeping his voice quiet.
“My aunt hated my hair when I was a kid. She shaved my head bald one day except for a tuft in the front cuz she hated the scar on my face even more than my hair. It all grew back by the next morning.”
Tom’s hand faltered. “…She shaved your head?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, his tongue feeling more than a bit loose. “Nicked the hell out of my scalp while she did it, too.”
The hand in his hair tightened momentarily before Tom softened his grip, smoothing out the spot. “What did your parents have to say about that?”
“Not much,” Harry muttered. “They were already dead.”
“Your godfather, then?”
“He was in prison, so he had no clue.”
Tom let out a disbelieving sound. “Your past confuses me.”
“Honestly, it confuses me, too.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Harry hummed, not bothering to pretend like he wasn’t leaning into Tom’s touch and purring like a cat. “That’d really make my head hurt.”
“Forget I asked, then.” Gentle fingertips brushed the hair off his forehead, tracing the shape of his scare and sending a tingle through Harry’s entire body as he did. “…I set the matron’s desk on fire with my first bit of accidental magic.”
Harry burst out laughing, startling the other boy. “Sorry…” he bit out around a peal of laughter as he rolled onto his back. “Story time.”
Tom shook off the jolt of adrenaline, the hand that had been in Harry’s hair coming to rest lightly on his chest. “Your eyes are black.”
“This potion is wild.” Harry’s eyes flickered up to the ceiling. “Since when are there bats down here?”
Tom followed his gaze. “…Perhaps we should return to the hospital wing…”
“Nooo…” Harry whined, reaching up a hand and twining it in Tom’s sweater. “Story time.”
Tom chuckled lightly, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Oh, the blackmail I will have over sober-you.”
Harry turned his head, pressing his face into Tom’s stomach. “As if you didn’t already.”
Tom hummed, his hand returning to stroke Harry’s hair. “There’s really not much to tell. She was reprimanding me for one infraction or another, told me to put my hands on the desk so she could bloody my knuckles with a ruler, I screamed no, and the desk burst into flames.” He paused. “From that angle…I suppose I can’t blame them for thinking I was the devil’s child.”
Harry made a muffled sound of displeasure. “From any angle it’s still shitty, pigeonholing you like that…No kid is beyond saving, and to say a young kid is a devil—“
“Some are.”
Harry paused. “What?”
Tom twirled a lock of hair around his finger. “Some are beyond saving.”
“No, they’re not.” Harry leaned further into Tom’s touch. “You’re not.”
“I’m not?” Tom echoed. “Think I need saving, do you?”
Harry looked up at him, trying to meet the boy’s eyes. He was unsuccessful. “Do you?”
Tom…didn’t answer that.
*
It was Tuesday, three days before Christmas…and Harry was actually feeling pretty all right. The potions Madame Fern had been giving him were actually working, and he felt almost back to normal for the first time since Friday.
So, naturally, he was going to go ruin all of his progress.
“Thoughts on going to Hogsmeade today?”
Tom held stock still, his lip curling as his tea threatened to slosh over the edge of his cup after Harry flopped down on the couch beside him. “…Thoughts on leaving my warm, comfortable spot by the fire to go traipsing about in the cold and the snow? I think not.”
Harry sighed heavily. “Tom, we’ve been holed up here for days.”
“If by ‘holed up’ you mean ‘very comfortably reading on a couch in front of a fire while you make sure your brain doesn’t herniate out of your skull,’ then yes, I have been holed up and I have no intention of being anything else. Neither should you.”
Harry pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I’ll keep saying it as many times as you need to hear it. I don’t blame you for this.”
Tom said nothing.
Harry ducked his head in frustration before lifting it. “Would you please look at me?”
Tom decidedly did not look up from his book. “I look at you every day.”
“But you haven’t looked me in the face since Friday.”
Tom slammed his book shut. “What do you want me to say, Harry?!”
Harry let silence fall over them for a moment until the stiff line of Tom’s shoulders relaxed. “Come to the Christmas market with me,” he said. “It’s outside, so it won’t be that loud, and we could both do with some fresh air—“
“What will I get from a Christmas market?” Tom muttered, reopening his book.
…A fair enough point, considering he had no money.
“Look,” he pressed. “We’ll go, get some fresh air. We can walk around, stop by the bookstore and you can look for ‘something someone dropped’. I won’t even complain when you make me drink earl grey tea at The Three Broomsticks.”
“I don’t make you do anything. If you want to drink butterbeer over tea, that is your prerogative.”
Harry stared at him for a while longer.
Finally, Tom gave a long suffering sigh. “…Fine.”
Harry smiled.
*
In his short eighteen years, Harry had experienced a lot of awful, awful days. What he found was that more often than not, those days —the days he spent in survival mode putting one foot in front of the other just to make it through— were not the worst part. It was the days after, when the adrenaline faded and the reality came crashing down, when all he could think about was that yesterday at this time, last week at this time, the awful thing hadn’t happened yet and he had no idea what was coming, what he would have to live with forever… those days were worse than any day spent fighting for his life.
Outwardly, Tom looked fine. He was well dressed as he always was, spent his days reading by the fire or going with Harry to his appointments, the perfect picture of normalcy…but he wasn’t okay. When Harry looked closely, he could see it plain as day.
He still wasn’t sleeping. Harry supposed he didn’t know that for sure —he’d very much doubted that the other boy would want to share his bed after…that…so he stayed away— but Harry could see the exhaustion lining his face, the dark circles having returned to stain the skin under his eyes, how he was jumpier in a way he only was when he was dead tired. He wasn’t eating either, barely touched any food when they went down for meals.
As much as he could with his mind addled by potions and fragmented by headaches, Harry had tried again and again to think back to the worst periods of his life and figure out what he could do to help Tom, and the only answer he came up with every time was…nothing. Nothing different anyway.
What had his friends done for him after Sirius died? Brought him back to school, taken him to Quidditch, Hogsmeade, made sure he came down to Friday nights in the common room, even if he did nothing but stare at the wall. What had they all done during the tense days in the tent as they hunted for Horcruxes? Sang and danced when they had the strength to, told stories when they didn’t. Acted normal.
So…that’s what Harry did. He asked himself what he and Tom might have done on a day like that Tuesday had that awful night never come to pass…and his first thought was go to Hogsmeade.
What was your biggest fear when your friends saw the worst parts of you? he thought as he put on his coat, poking just a little bit of fun at Tom for all of the layers he was dressing himself in. That they would see you differently, treat you differently.
He had already told Tom that what happened did not change the way Harry saw him (only that wasn’t true, was it? It changed everything—) so now he had to show it.
Harry was grateful for the cold air on his face as they walked to Hogsmeade. It cleared his head, and the snow always brought him joy. He knew Tom, who was already shivering, would not say the same, but he maintained that a bit of fresh air and a change of scenery wouldn’t hurt him.
Given the cold, Tom disagreed with that, too.
“There is absolutely no reason a market such as this could not be housed indoors,” the boy groused, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his coat as he shrank down as far as he could under his scarf.
“That would destroy the ambiance,” Harry quipped in reply, smiling as he took in the lights circling the market and the snow falling around them.
“Do you know where you can stick your ambiance?”
Harry rolled his eyes, catching the boy by the arm. “Look, there’s some books over there. Go look at those.”
And he thoroughly ignored the stink eye he got in return.
Tom did not stop his griping the entire time they traversed the market, making their way up and down the aisles…but after a while, it became clear to Harry that he was only continuing to do it to keep up appearances. Though he was still shivering and looked overall quite miserable, Tom had actually begun to look at things, running his fingertips over the spines of books or along the edges of trinkets.
“You can get something if you want,” Harry offered when Tom paused over what appeared to be an intricately painted bookmark. “I’ve got some spare change—“
He cut himself off at Tom’s positively reproachful glare.
“You think I need your charity?” he snarled, letting the bookmark fall back to the table and storming off.
Harry sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face…before an…idea came to mind.
It was harebrained. If Tom caught him doing it, it had a good chance of offending him enough to destroy a fair amount of the trust that had built between them…
But Harry did it anyway.
He’ll go over to that stall next, he thought, glancing over where Tom was currently flipping through what appeared to be a diary at the stall before it (him and his diaries…). He bypassed the stall Tom was at himself just as the boy was putting the diary down, dropping a few coins just in the footsteps of a man who was leaving the stall, and continued on to the next. (The idea was that Tom would turn and see the coins, think the man who just left had dropped them, and would pick them up for himself…)
By some grace of God (or, more likely, Fate)… it worked.
Two stalls down by then, Harry watched out of the corner of his eye as Tom spotted the coins in the snow, quickly stooping to pick them up and smoothly pocketing them, somehow none the wiser.
Harry hid his smile.
He had never been much of a thief himself, even during the years he lived (and starved) with the Dursleys. A few times, he had been so hungry he resorted to stealing food, but otherwise, he always found having to steal made him feel more inferior than doing without. He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe sometimes Tom felt the same way.
Well, now he can at least pay for something he wants, even if it is just with money he found…
He didn’t know if Tom actually ended up using it or not, caught up in a lengthy discussion as he was about the origin of a particular crystal he had lingered over for a bit too long, only for Tom to come save him, once again complaining of how cold he was and insisting they go inside.
So on to their next stop they went.
“No,” Tom said as soon as they opened the door to The Three Broomsticks. “It’s too loud.”
Harry didn’t immediately answer, taking in the pub.
He didn’t often see live music playing there…at least not music of this caliber. The floor was absolutely packed with couples dancing, and almost everyone at the tables were cheering and singing along.
To absolute hell with his head.
“I don’t care,” he answered. “Let’s go—“
Tom snatched his wrist. “Harry—“
…only for them both to be rather rudely pushed aside by a very drunk trio of men pushing their way out.
It was Harry’s turn to grab Tom’s wrist before he could run. “Come on,” he said with a grin. “We’re already inside.”
“I hate you,” Tom stated. “Do not come crying to me later when you can’t bloody see.”
Oh, Harry would absolutely regret every last second of this later…and he did fully intend to make that Tom’s problem…but for right now, he couldn’t be arsed to care.
I guess this was a good idea, he thought as a small table with two chairs magically freed up in a back corner, almost like another act of Fate.
“What are we drinking?” Harry asked as soon as he sat down, shrugging off his coat.
Tom raised a brow, elegantly removing his outermost layer and scarf. “I suspect tea for me and butterbeer for you?”
“…Or…” Harry’s smile widened at Tom’s quizzical look. “I’m seventeen and you’ll be eighteen in a week and a half…”
“Your point being?”
“…The point being we’re both above the age of majority.”
“And?”
Harry blinked. “…So we can drink for real.”
Almost as soon as he said it, he regretted it, wondering if it would be overstepping an invisible line.
It was barely more than a week ago that Tom had admitted to drinking himself into a stupor so he wouldn’t have to be sober when…
Tom didn’t immediately answer, his expression unreadable, but just before Harry could retract the offer, he spoke. “What do you propose?”
Harry grinned. “Drink of choice?”
“How about you share yours, oh world traveler.”
Harry…had to think about that one. “You know…” he began, frowning. “…I don’t actually know.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I…kinda just drank whatever my godfather had.”
Which was 100% true. On multiple occasions, either Harry or his friends had swiped alcohol out of Sirius’s cabinets without a care for what it was…
A smile cracked over Tom’s face. “And what was it that he drank?”
Harry inclined his head. “Ahh….better question would be what didn’t he drink…and I don’t think I have the answer to that.”
Tom snorted. “Honestly as long as it’s not firewhiskey, I’ll drink it.”
“Firewhiskey specifically?” Harry asked. “Is this a good story as to why?”
Tom’s expression didn’t change. “Not really, no.”
Fuck….
“…All right. Forget I asked.”
Tom’s smile was back. It was just as beautiful as it always had been. “Think you can keep up with me, Peverell?”
“Honestly?” Harry answered, thinking back to the nights since he was fifteen and grieving when all there’d been to do was drink. They were numerous. “Yeah.”
Tom laughed. “We shall see, won’t we?”
“Rum?”
Tom seemed to find that particularly hilarious, but he agreed.
*
So…the thing was…Tom could drink.
Harry supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by that considering how much he had seen the boy drink at Slughorn’s parties and still remain standing…but Harry was fairly certain he would stumble if he stood up while Tom didn’t even look tipsy.
“Are you even feeling this?!”
Tom chuckled. “You’re the one who picked rum.”
“I mean, you should really know by now that I don’t make good decisions.”
Tom leaned back in his chair, downing the rest of his drink in one long swallow. “Yes, I feel it, just not as much as you. And I’m better at hiding it.”
Harry sat up straight, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Okay, how drunk do I look?”
“I would give you detention without a second thought if I saw you in the hallway.”
“Because I look drunk or because it’s me?”
“Mm, a bit of both, I think.”
Harry made a face at him, slouching back down as a laugh bubbled up his throat. “Who am I kidding, drunk or not drunk, I’m still drinking in a very loud pub. Madame Fern is gonna kill me.”
Tom rolled his eyes, his smile freer than it had been in weeks. “And by extension, me.”
“It’ll be a beautiful death.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Harry laughed again, draining the rest of his third drink with a grimace as he stood. “Dance with me.
Tom raised a brow, spinning his empty glass between his fingers. “I don’t dance.”
Harry held out a hand. “Neither do I.”
Tom held his expression perfectly still. “You danced well at the party.”
It…took Harry a moment to respond to that. “…I was led well,” was what he finally settled on, his heart thudding under his breastbone. “You wanted to dance with me at the party, didn’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Might have been the way you looked like you wanted to kill my dance partners, but I’m not quite sure.”
Tom made a face.
Harry stayed where he was, his hand still outstretched. “Dance with me.”
Tom stared up at him for a long time, and Harry braced himself for rejection…when the boy took his hand. “All right,” he murmured, his eyes…soft.
Harry couldn’t help his smile. “Unpopular opinion,” he said, pulling Tom out of his chair and towards the middle of the floor where other couples were dancing. “But I actually like bagpipes.”
“Well, that certainly is a choice,” Tom grumbled, slamming his shoulder right back into someone who had almost run him over in the mild chaos.
“A good choice.”
“A choice.”
Harry turned to face him as the next song began.
“…I don’t know this dance,” Tom bit, his hand tightening around Harry’s as his eyes darted around almost…nervously.
“Me neither,” Harry answered with a slightly unhinged grin before he reached for Tom’s waist…and decided to fake it until he made it.
Tom followed him.
*
Harry would never, ever forget that night. Even if he did eventually make it back to his own time, he would forever treasure the memory of the hours he spent dancing with Tom Riddle in the middle of The Three Broomsticks.
“You filthy liar!” Harry shouted over the music as Tom spun him around to a dance he did know. “I thought you said you couldn’t dance!”
“Of course I can dance,” Tom answered, looking younger than he had in…ever. “There’s nothing else to do in the dead of winter in an orphanage with no coal. I simply choose not to otherwise.”
“You’re a good dancer,” Harry called back as Tom spun him around once more.
“You’re not,” Tom quipped, and he was smiling, Harry didn’t think he had ever seen him smile quite like that before. “Shouldn’t a seeker be more nimble on his feet?”
“Funny, my captain said the same thing.”
“Well, she’s not here, is she?” Tom shot back, clear jealousy flashing in his eyes. “I am.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat when Tom dipped him just a bit to end the dance before pulling him upright and stepping back with a very gentlemanly bow.
“It was you I wanted to be dancing with, you know,” Harry blurted, his heart in his throat. “At the party.”
The corner of Tom’s mouth curled up. “I know,” he hummed, draping an arm around Harry’s shoulders as Harry curled his own around his waist. “You never once took your eyes off me.”
He tightened his hand around the other boy’s. “So dance with me now.”
Tom’s smile grew. “I am.”
They danced until they couldn’t anymore, until both of them had shed their layers down to their shirts, until their hair was damp around the edges and they couldn’t manage a single step more. When the last song of the night ended, Harry felt like the music and the dancing —the entire evening— had healed something deep within his soul.
When he looked up at Tom…he wondered if the other boy felt the same way.
With the way Tom was gazing down at him, his expression more open and honest than Harry had ever seen it…he reckoned he did.
“Harry,” Tom whispered, an arm tight around Harry’s waist as he cradled his face in his free hand. “You are precious to me.”
Harry…smiled. How could he not, when those words warmed him all the way down to his soul?
Tom leaned down to kiss him then —once, twice— (they hadn’t kissed since before the party, Harry barely even dared reach out to hold his hand, let alone kiss him, and he had missed it, he had missed it so much), and just as he did, the entire pub began to cheer.
Caught up in the music still coursing through his blood and the feeling of the other boy’s soft lips against his, it took Harry a minute to realize the other patrons were cheering for them.
*
Tom’s arm was around Harry’s shoulders and Harry’s was around Tom’s waist as they leaned against each other on their walk back. They were red-faced and grinning like lunatics (Harry was, anyway, Tom looked too damn beautiful to be considered a lunatic), and still more than a little bit tipsy despite hours of dancing. And they were so, so happy.
Harry couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever felt this happy before in his life.
“Harry,” Tom breathed as the castle came into view, the way back well lit by the moon reflecting off the freshly-fallen snow.
“Hmm?”
When Tom spoke then, it was with more sincerity than Harry had ever heard from him. “I wish you had come to Hogwarts sooner. I wish I had known you sooner. Things would have been so different if you had…”
Things…
Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “…Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” he managed.
“Yes,” Tom murmured, pulling Harry closer to him. “Yes, you are.”
The boy did not speak again until they had stumbled into the courtyard, dimly lit by the lights in the castle. Tom stopped then, his arm slipping from around Harry’s shoulders and catching him by the wrist.
“Harry.”
The boy in question let Tom turn him around. “Hmm—“
Harry’s words cut off at the feeling of his back meeting cold stone…and all thoughts stopped as warm lips pressed to his, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.
“Tom…” he whispered before the other boy shushed him, kissing him again.
Harry let him, let Tom curl his arms around his neck and press him back against the stone of the castle, wrapped his own arms around the boy’s waist and held him tenderly.
You’ve…become precious to me, too…
He couldn’t say how long they stood there, bathed in the dim light as snow fell around them, enjoying the feeling of their lips pressed together, Tom’s tongue in his mouth, the length of his body warm against his own…
They only broke apart at the sound of an amused chuckle.
“Ah, pardon me,” came the voice of Albus Dumbledore, who —given the wreath tucked under his arm— appeared to have just returned from the Christmas market himself. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Harry felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment, saw out of the corner of his eye that Tom’s face was beet red, and he was looking anywhere but at their professor, Harry’s hand gripped tightly in his own where they were hidden between their bodies.
To both their surprise, Dumbledore said nothing more to them, merely went on his way with a fond murmur of, “Ah, young love”.
Both boys remained exactly where they were until the sound of their professor’s cheerful whistling had faded behind the castle doors.
After another long stretch of silence, Harry spoke. “Did that…actually just happen?”
Tom did not answer, his free hand coming up to cover his absolutely mortified expression.
Harry couldn’t help it, couldn’t actually think of another way to respond if his life depended on it. He burst out laughing.
After a moment, Tom joined him.
*
Back in the Slytherin common room, Tom caught Harry’s hand before he could make his way up to his own bed.
“…Stay,” he whispered. “Just…to sleep…”
Harry was not about to turn that down.
For the first time in weeks, his head resting on Tom’s shoulder, he found he actually slept well.