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Leaning against the cold stone wall of the Owlery, Harry reads over the note he means to send to Hermione — a tricky, theoretical defensive thing involving ‘heart-bonds’ that even Harry’s cannot fully grasp. It’s definitely not entirely legal; and please keep this to yourself, Harry, Hermione had written in her previous letter. It’s basically need-to-know.
It’s Department of Mysteries work, Harry’s not entirely stupid. It helps that Hermione is particularly good at slipping past censoring spell. Need-to-know.
He’s got presents for her and Ron and the kids ready to send too, and a vague apology that he won’t be able to make the Weasley family celebrations this year, even if he knows the research means more to her than platitudes and gifts. They’ve been friends for two decades now.
They were hard pressed to find anyone this year, he had explained anyway. Anyone without children and direct family got the short end, which means I'm stuck with all sorts.
Just as Hermione has learnt to speak in carefully worded code, so has Harry.
All sorts translates to Tom Riddle, who is a bastard and an arsehole, and who, for some unknown reason, hates Harry. Having mostly grown out of being a child, Harry tries his hardest not to care.
Their animosity is not exactly a secret though, and there have been far too many instances of students getting over involved in what is, at best a mutual dislike, and at worst a room full of dungbombs — mostly harmless but extremely unpleasant.
So Harry does his best to avoid Tom Riddle, and in kind Tom Riddle seems to do the same. And for the most part it's fine, except this year they’re two of four professors wrangled into supervising the holiday borders.
Harry folds the letter, slipping it under the twine of the brown-paper package. The address is already scrawled over the top in Harry’s messy hand, and he turns to the large eagle owl that’s been not-so subtly trying to get his attention.
“Alright,” he says, vaguely amused. “I’m done.”
He secures it to the bird with instructions, stepping back as it tests it’s wings to save himself getting a mouthful of feathers. It turns, giving Harry a prideful look, and then is out the window, dropping slightly as it soars to the Granger-Weasley house, some six hundred miles away.
Harry watches the bird fade into the distance over the snowed landscape of the Scottish highlands. When it’s barely a dark smudge against the clouds, he turns from the open window and leaves.
Or tries to leave.
Riddle stands in the archway, a slight downturn to his lips. His handsome face suits winter, high cheekbones and nose flushed a little in the cold. From a distance, he looks almost boyish, though the style of his robes — a three-piece dark pinstripe with an almost muggle cut about the neck — suggest otherwise. It’s a point of contention, Harry thinks: Riddle is always well-put together, confident and perfected as a professor, while Harry is a certified mess.
Riddle’s dark eyes follow him as Harry approaches, head tilting downwards slightly as Harry steps into his space, meaning to leave the Owlery. The height difference between them is vaguely annoying; not quite emasculating, but certainly unsettling in the fact that Harry has to look up to meet Riddle's gaze. Harry’s not short by any means, but Riddle has no right to be six foot something of long, elegant limbs.
“Would you excuse me, Professor?” Harry asks, perfectly amicably. “You’re standing in the door.”
Wordlessly, Riddle slides to the side, letting Harry pass. It’s still a tight fit, and his shoulder bumps accidentally against Riddle’s. He’s held back as he steps through the arch, and snarls, turning to Riddle to tell him off for just grabbing him—
But Riddle’s gaze is aimed upwards into the arch of the door and there is no hand Harry’s arm, tugging him back.
Harry follows Riddle’s line of sight and frowns. “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed,” Riddle agrees.
Dark green vines unfurl slowly in the pointed arch above them, enhanced by magic as red flowers become white berries and the plant's maturity hastens unnaturally. The mistletoe seems to creep, invading the space above them, and Harry makes a face.
“They’re poisonous, apparently.”
“I did not realise you were a herbologist as well as a defence teacher,” Riddle replies, voice a mild sneer.
When Harry lowers his gaze from the ceiling to look at Riddle, his face is pinched, and there's a dark look in his eyes that speaks of vitriol. For once, however, none of the anger or resentment seems to be directed at Harry. Instead, it's all aimed to the plant, still unfurling lush stems, berries and leaves spreading outward.
“I'm not,” Harry says honestly. “Neville told me.”
Riddle's eyes, dark and cool, flicker back to Harry, his handsome face tilting back down, the sharp angle of his jaw and attractive triangle of his submental less visible.
“Professor Longbottom. Told you.”
“Er, yes,” Harry admits. “He was annoyed at Dumbledore — not that he voiced it to him — for requesting some of the more magical varieties. They're apparently even more poisonous than the normal ones and he was worried that a student or a pet might try and eat them.”
“Mm,” Riddle says, a little less of the cool fire burning in his eyes. “I find myself agreeing with Longbottom, much to my surprise. Although I did take up the mistletoe with the Headmaster for entirely unrelated reasons — not that it did much good.”
Harry blinks. “What? What for?”
“For situations like these. I may not find any issue in… acting amorous with you, but for others? Trapped under a plant until they exchange a kiss? It is dangerously close to sexual assault.” Riddle's mouth is flat, now, frown pressed deep into his features and making him look all of his forty-something years. Harry clenches his jaw tight. “And I do not approve of it being allowed to run riot at Hogwarts.”
“I…" Harry says, mind caught on I may not find any issue in acting amorous with you. “I agree with you.”
“Good.” Riddle's mouth twists into something sharp and he whips out his wand, aiming it at the mistletoe. “Fiendfyre.”
Harry lets out a surprised shriek as hot, burning flames leap from Riddle's wand and swallow the mistletoe in the arch and spreading upwards to the pointed ceiling of the Owlery. Around him, the owls shriek too, some leaping from the windows, sent into panic.
"Jesus fucking Christ!”
Riddle smirks. “You are a wizard,” he says vaguely disapproving, and with a flick of his wand, vanishes the raging inferno above them. “Never fear, the birds and yourself will not need the son of God.”
Harry lets out a shaky laugh, trying to steady his hammering heart. Riddle's not wrong, he supposes — the owls are also settling now that the immediate danger is gone — but he doesn't like being grouped together with animals who shit without consequence, no matter how intelligent they’re said to be.
That and the fact Riddle cast Fiendfyre — and its counter-spell silently — a spell that's notoriously difficult and dark. Harry buries it for now, swallowing roughly.
“I’m not an owl,” he tells Riddle, although it comes out weaker than he expected, voice cracking on owl.
Riddle gives him an amused look. It’s the most casual thing Harry has ever got from Riddle and it disarms him completely.
“Believe me,” Riddle says, turning and stepping away. “I do not think you’re an owl.”
Harry blinks at the response, his turn to hover in the archway. Riddle moves to one of the wide, open windows, and Harry watches curiously as he slips a thick letter from his pocket, looping it to a small, mottled-brown owl's leg.
“Who’re you writing to? I didn’t realise you had friends.”
Riddle doesn’t even deign him a look. “Bathsheda Babbling.”
“What?” Harry says, baffled. “The runes professor you forced out of a job?”
Riddle turns, resting against the ledge of the window. His fingers are curled around the stone, bracing, and the tendons in his hands are visible.
“You seem to have a very bizarre understanding of who I am,” Riddle says, all amusement gone from his voice.
Harry drags his eyes upwards. Riddle’s mouth is flat and unimpressed.
“When she retired ten years ago,” he continues, “she backed me for the ancient runes job. Without her support, I doubt I would have made it through the interview.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He feels shaky and uncertain, unsure of what to say. “I’m—”
“Do not apologise.” A sneer tugs at his lips. “Do not try to appease me. We are not friends, Professor.”
Harry blinks, anger rising in him at Riddle’s dismissal and tone. “No,” he agrees, equally vitriolic. “I don’t suppose we are.”
He’s being stupid and petty when he turns on his heel, shoving his hands into his pockets, but Riddle has the annoying habit of being an absolute prick. Burying his nose in the upturned collar of his coat, Harry leaves the Owlery, stepping out into the cold.
Hermione writes back surprisingly quick, more of her research revealed: soulmates. They aren’t a mythical thing, her thesis aims to prove, although their existence is rare and the symptoms — symptoms, like it’s a medical paper instead of a deeply scientific and magical theory one — are confusing and nonsensical. He’s not sure he believes it, or even wants to believe it, but Hermione cites Enkidu and Gilgamesh, Merlin and Arthur.
Harry reads it in the main cloisters, swaddled in warming charms. There is already a build up of snow on the ground, and the elves haven’t managed to keep the walkways clear, flurry spilling into the covered path and forming puddles of water in places.
Several students have started a snowball fight with complicated rules in the quad, having been told to keep close to the castle in the bad weather. Harry supervises them from his nook, mostly invisible and forgotten.
Movement on the other side of the cloisters catches Harry’s attention, Riddle striding forward with a sixth year student matching pace by occasionally skipping, talking to him.
Harry leaps to his feet, stuffing the letter in his pocket, determined to apologise for the weirdness of the Owlery, eager to be the better person. He catches Tom and the girl as they round the corner.
“Riddle,” he says, slightly breathless. “I wanted to apologise to you for the—”
“I thought I told you not to,” Riddle interrupts.
Harry blinks, falling silent. His eyes lock on Riddle’s, unable to break away from the dark brown. They suit his face, Harry thinks, dark and arresting in the sharp handsomeness of his features. They’re cold most of the time, but on rare occasions, there is a warm amusement to them that never fails to stop Harry in his tracks.
“Apologise for what?”
Harry turns his head with Riddle’s, startled. He’d forgotten about the student — a clever if distracted girl who’d dropped DADA last year. Maisie Williams, he remembers, just about placing her.
“What?” Harry asks, completely baffled, at the same time Riddle says, “that is none of your business.”
Williams’ eyes dart between them, something calculating in her gaze.
“Sir,” she says, turning to Harry. “Do you celebrate Yule?”
“Er,” Harry says, confused. “Not usually. I know how to, though.”
Yule is not a tradition he’s grown up with, although he had an ex-boyfriend years ago who followed the celebrations very devoutly.
“I need a teacher to supervise me for the rune circle. A couple of us are going to hike to the other side of the lake, and seeing as it’s technically off grounds…”
“If it’s runes, surely Ri— Professor Riddle would be better suited?”
Williams grins. “You can both come along,” she tells them. “The more the merrier.”
Harry blinks. “What?”
Beside him, Riddle pulls a face, and Harry turns his head to look at him. Riddle’s face is surprisingly expressive — Harry had always thought it flat and impassive — but emotions flit across his handsome features; a furrow of his eyebrow, a twitch of his lips. It’s almost endearing.
Harry smiles then frowns.
“I suppose…” Riddle says, finally. His dark eyes flick to Harry’s. “If Professor Potter is amenable.”
“Er,” Harry says. “I… yes.”
Riddle’s gaze is hard to look away from. What Harry had believed were flat, brown eyes, are in fact a myriad of shades, from almost black to golden, and in the pale winter light, they seem almost magical. There’s a river running through them — a river of gold — and Harry leans in to see them better, shimmering and shining and twisting and—
“Look,” Williams says, delighted as she points upwards. “Mistletoe!”
Harry flushes.
Looking up, Riddle aims his wand at the offending plant and casts fiendfyre. It’s incredibly difficult not to make a noise of choked appreciation.
They trudge through the snow on Yule anyway, following Williams and a few other students celebrating the solstice. Their pilgrimage to the other side of the Black Lake is a quiet affair, and Harry watches from afar as they set up the rune circle, Riddle offering advice.
“You’re good at that,” Harry tells him as Riddle comes back to join him.
Riddle raises an eyebrow. “I am Professor of Ancient Runes.”
“I know,” Harry says.
They stand in silence as the students do their ritual, calling on the dead, remembering them on the solstice. Finally, they pass a large goblet around, each drinking from it, and Harry frowns.
“I hope that’s not actual wine.”
Riddle hums. “It is traditional. Let them have their celebrations.”
“You’re the one explaining to Dumbledore if any of them end up sloshed.”
“They will not end up sloshed,” Riddle says, amused. “They are sipping from it. Look Potter, one little drink and they past it on.”
Harry huffs, crossing his arms and fighting the smile threatening to creep onto his face. “I didn’t know you condoned underage drinking.”
“I do not.”
“What’s this then?” Harry asks.
Riddle gives an exaggerated sniff. “Respect of other’s beliefs and traditional holidays.”
Harry lets out a laugh, shaking his head. Riddle is… surprisingly fun to be around, and he can’t help the warm, fluttery thing that blooms in his stomach. It does little against the cold though, biting and harsh as Scottish winters are wont to be.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, and his fingers bump against a flask he’d forgotten he’d slipped into his coat this morning. After a moment of hesitation, Harry pulls it out, flicking it open.
He takes a quick sip, ignoring the uptick of Riddle’s mouth. If Riddle refuses to condemn ceremonial wine drinking among teenagers, he can hardly tell Harry off for drinking on the job.
And hardly reject it for himself; Harry offers the silver flask to Riddle.
“What is this, then?” Riddle says, anyway. “Hypocrite.”
Harry scowls. “We’re adults. They’re children.”
“I did not know you carried alcohol around with you.”
Harry nudges the silver flask against his hand, again. Slowly, Riddle plucks it from his hand, eyes shining with something like curiosity.
“Something my godfather taught me.”
A godfather who is long gone.
“Sirius Black,” Riddle supplies.
Harry blinks. “How did you know?”
Riddle’s mouth flattens into something vaguely uncomfortable. “I research the things I find… interesting.”
“You find me interesting?” Harry asks, incredulous.
Riddle’s mouth grows flatter still, as if trying to prevent himself from speaking. There’s something vaguely uncomfortable and vulnerable about him, and Harry’s heart jolts painfully.
“It doesn’t matter, hones—”
“Yes.”
Riddle tilts the flask back then, lips sealing around where Harry’s have been time and time again. It shouldn’t be attractive, but Harry watches Riddle swallow, his Adam’s Apple jumping upwards in his throat.
Harry coughs, glancing away. “He’s dead now.”
Dead like his parents, although that’s common news — the victims of some arsehole who believed a prophecy that Lily and James Potter would be the one to kill him. It came true of course, in a huge explosion of combatant magic that the Muggles blamed on a gas explosion.
Harry remembers Sirius better though, was raised partially by him and remembers how he burnt out and blazed through the sky, shooting into oblivion like any other star. It’s been a long time since, but the holiday makes something raw of it.
“If we are following tradition and speaking of the dead this Yule, my parents are too,” Riddle says, handing the flask back. “Come to think of it, the only family still alive is my uncle. Though he is in Azkaban for murder of said family…”
Harry blinks at him. “Merlin, that’s fucked. No wonder you got roped into staying the hols.”
“No wonder,” Riddle agrees.
Harry doesn’t entirely know what to say in response to that, and so he leaves Riddle’s words hanging in the air, the weight of them like the snow that blankets them.
For a time, he watches the students completing their Yule ritual and their acceptance of death. It took a while, when Harry was younger, to reach that point. He’d been surrounded by death as a kid, reminded of it constantly, but actually coming to terms with it and realising his own mortality, caring about it, hadn’t happened until a strange, waking nightmare of walking to his end when he was eighteen.
Trying to chase the buzzing memory away, Harry takes a sip from the flask. It is only when the thought is gone that he remembers the way Riddle had drunk it too — a similar desperate drowning.
They have more in common than Harry had first thought, and he offers the flask to Riddle again, only for it to be rejected. And yet—
And yet Riddle’s face is impassive, almost cold. His handsomeness is not soft, the sharp features weaponised. Harry can admit Riddle’s attractiveness, but it’s too distant and disconnected. He is beautiful, but not entirely human, Harry thinks, and the brief moment of vulnerability has passed.
Hermione’s request for more information leads Harry to the restricted section on Christmas Eve. Anything, she begs, on the state of souls. The Restricted Section is a repository of knowledge I cannot get elsewhere — or at least it’s quicker to go through you. Anything by Frosc if you can find it.
Magick Moste Evile mentions a type of soul sharing called a horcrux, although it doesn’t seem to be what Hermione’s looking for. Harry moves on, careful not to touch the chained books, more-so after a particularly vicious bestiary attempts to bite off his fingers.
There’s a curious lack of books on soul magic, titles scribbled out on the shelf lists and a few spaces replaced by wooden blocks. Still, whatever purge the restricted section faced for books on souls, there’s a couple that were missed and hidden away by what seems to be purposeful misfiling. Harry finds Scriptum Animarum.
The chain on the book is unconnected to the shelf, the loop at its end broken. Harry slides it from the shelf carefully, half-afraid the vellum will fall apart in his touch, before remembering the preservation charms used on the library. Still, he opens it gingerly, flipping through pages of tight Latin script and odd marginalia, and he settles against one of the wooden benches.
Engrossed as he is, he doesn’t notice Riddle come around the corner, until he’s nearly upon Harry. He jumps at the shadow of him, then flushes slightly at his reaction.
“Fuck, you scared me.”
“What are you doing here?” Riddle demands.
There’s something skittish and unsettled in his gaze, completely at odds with his usual disposition. His cheeks are flushed with embarrassment and his eyes are wild, like he’s been caught, one hand in the biscuit tin.
Harry holds up the book, distracted by Riddle’s mood. “What about you?”
“I was about to do something monumentally stupid,” he confesses.
Then he lets out a harsh bark of laughter, completely foreign to his entire personality. Harry’s bafflement grows.
“About to?”
Riddle blinks, suddenly steeling himself. “Well, you are here, Potter,” he says, cryptically.
Then, he steps closer, features smoothing over, and picks the book from Harry’s hand. He presses into Harry’s space almost purposefully, standing a little too close, refusing to step away even after he’s taken what he wants. It’s baffling and startling and Harry gets the distinct impression that Riddle is trying to destabilise or test him.
“Scriptum Animarum,” he reads. “What are you looking at souls for?”
“Hermione,” Harry says. Then he remembers Riddle has no idea who she is. “My friend. She’s working on a paper that proves soulmates are real and that they manifest through truth-telling— well, here.”
He offers Hermione’s letter to Riddle. Raising an eyebrow at Harry, Riddle takes it, dropping the book to one of the benches to look at the letter with both hands.
He reads quickly, still standing close enough to Harry that he can see Riddle’s eyes jumping from line to line. Harry takes the time to study Riddle’s face unabashed: sharp at the cheekbones and jaw, smooth skin even with small signs of gentle aging. Handsome, Harry thinks. He’s been thinking it a lot lately, and he tries to swallow it down and bury it again.
“Huh,” Riddle says, finally. His eyes jump to Harry, fixing him with an intense gaze that Harry cannot decipher. “Soulmates… that’s…”
Riddle wets his lip and Harry’s eyes snap to where the pink skin glistens slightly. Harry forces his gaze away, sliding the book back and flicking through the pages. Not that he takes anything in; Riddle’s proximity means Harry can feel the heat radiating from him and it’s just as distracting as the slight scent of sandalwood that comes from whatever perfume or cologne Riddle is wearing.
“That’s what?” he asks, as nonchalant as he can manage.
“Enlightening,” Riddle says cryptically.
Whatever Riddle means is lost on Harry, but he tilts his head like he thinks that Harry might understand, might catch on. It’s a baffling movement and Harry blinks at it. Riddle’s expression grows a little tighter, more exasperated perhaps, and he swings around to leave—
Only to pause, stopped by the same invisible barrier that had been present in the Owlery.
Hesitantly, Harry looks up.
Mistletoe. Of course it fucking is.
It sits innocently, flowers long bloomed into berries that small baubles. The green of it is dark and rich, and it hangs low between Harry and Riddle like a taunt.
Of course it’s fucking mistletoe.
“I don’t think you can cast fiendfyre at it without risking the whole library,” Harry drawls, amusement lacing his tone, though there’s something uneasy in his stomach.
Riddle wears a pinched face. “No,” he agrees. “This only proves my point that Dumbledore should not have allowed mistletoe into the castle in the first place, let along a magical breed; you obviously do not wish kiss me.”
“Come on, we’re both adults.” Harry gives a tight laugh, stomach tying itself in knots. “A kiss on the cheek is fine, right? Friends do it to each other, and well… I suppose we’ve never been exactly friendly, but I feel like we’re at least a little closer.”
Riddle’s look is unreadable. “We do not even use each other’s first names.”
“Ah,” Harry says. He frowns a little, trying not to look too uncomfortable. “Well, at least closer physically? And the mistletoe—”
“Leave the bloody plant out of it,” Riddle snaps. “I’m saying you can call me Tom.”
“Oh.”
Harry stills, body near frozen by Rid — Tom’s — offer. An olive branch, unexpected and slight, is extended between them. Harry had just never expected Tom to be the first one to offer it.
Harry wets his lip, hesitating for a moment in his response. His cheeks feel warm — embarrassed — and his entire being awkward. He forgets how to speak, what to say, and the noise that follows is a garbled hum of consideration, another exclamation of surprise and something uncertain.
“Well,” he says finally. “Erm. I don’t know if you… well, if you want. You could call me Harry, Tom.”
The corners of Tom’s eyes crinkle just slightly, mouth shifting into the most genuine smile Harry has seen from Tom yet. It makes Harry’s palms hot and sweaty, even in the mostly well-maintained temperature of the library.
Harry clears his throat. “A kiss on the cheek is enough, right?”
Tom blinks. “Ah yes, I suppose…”
Slowly, as if offering an escape at anytime — or perhaps more like a snake testing for weakness — he bows his head down, hand on Harry’s shoulder. Then, with no escape possible, he presses the corner of his mouth to Harry’s cheek and, belatedly, Harry does the same in return.
The withdrawal is slow, the smell of Tom lingering in the aftermath. The hand falls, and the gulf between them widens slightly.
“Is the mistletoe gone?” Harry says, breaking the silence abruptly, even with his soft murmur. “Can…?”
Tom looks up, the angle and the height difference allowing Harry’s nose to quite nearly be pressed to the pulsing jugular that is his throat. Harry’s own throat works with a click, hopefully inaudible with the sound of Tom stepping backwards.
“Ah, no,” Tom says, coming up against something. His gaze returns to Harry’s, something in his dark brown eyes. “I think…”
He does not finish the sentence immediately, stepping closer again so he’s in touching distance. His look is unwavering and apologetic, reluctant but also vaguely hopeful. When he speaks, his voice is almost inaudible.
“All those fiendfyres have probably boosted the force of the blasted plant’s intentions for us,” he says. “I could burn it still. The library would be a right state and Dumbledore would probably murder me, definitely fire me, but I could do it. If you do not…”
“I really don’t mind kissing you at all,” Harry says, truthfully.
“That’s good,” Tom murmurs. “I am not opposed either.”
His hand comes to Harry’s jaw, tilting it up, height difference forcing Tom down a little. Not daring to even breathe, Harry’s eyes flutter shut.
The brush of Tom’s lips against his is imperceptible. Although soft, delicate, it’s gone before Harry can push back, and Harry is left wondering — as Tom steps back and away, slight crinkle to his eyes as he abandons Harry to the quiet of the restricted section — if the kiss ever happened at all.
But Tom’s retreat and, Harry thinks with sudden clarity, teasing, are sure signs that it did. Letting out a harsh sigh, the back of his head thumps against the bookshelf.
Harry groans. Of course he fancies Tom — it’s just fucking typical.
“Harry, Tom,” Dumbledore says, eyes twinkling. “Two of our attendants — Miss Williams and Miss Dawson — seem to be a tad inebriated. Would you mind helping them back to their dorms?”
Harry turns around, spotting the two girls at one of the tables, bright paper crowns on their heads and flushed cheeks. They giggle loudly over something, William lying flat on the long bench.
Christmas lunch long gone and the day afternoon extended into the early parts of dusk, the hall is lethargic and pleasant. The large fires heat the room and the ceiling is charmed to snow, making a White Christmas somewhat possible even with the horrid weather late December has brought.
It’s cozy, and Harry stuffed with turkey and ham and roast vegetables, chased with pudding, does not feel particularly like moving.
Perhaps Tom feels the same. His handsome features twist into a considering frown.
“Why the both of us, Albus?” he asks.
But the sickle Harry had found in his slice of the plum pudding doesn’t seem to bring luck. Dumbledore temples his fingers, half-resting his chin on the point of them, and looks over the top of his half-moon spectacles with a genial smile.
“Two are better than one when it comes to confronting the plotting of teenage girls,” he tells them. “And I believe their understanding of Hogwarts’ rules when it comes to underage drinking were challenged rather recently by a pair of lenient professors and should be reiterated.”
“Oh, Merlin,” Harry murmurs, a tad humiliated at Tom and his lax supervision. “Sir, I apologise for that, really—”
Tom nudges him, and Harry’s mouth snaps shut. Dumbledore’s smile widens a little, sparkle becoming more fond. He taps the side of his nose with a finger.
“Merry Christmas,” he says cheerfully. “And many happy tidings on the both of you, too. I do like to think of this as the season of love.”
“Merry Christmas,” Harry echoes automatically, brain no longer functional.
Tom echoes it too, sounding a little more put together.
Dumbledore’s guilting — or perhaps punishment — works at any rate, and Harry walks with Tom, guiding the girls back to the Slytherin dorms.
Embarrassingly aware of himself, Harry can barely even look at Tom — Tom who stands in his space, who steps a little too close and brushes, once, twice, his hand against the back of Harry’s. It’s terribly endearing and equally frightful, and Harry just barely stops himself from jumping at every casual invasion.
Without a word, they drop the students off and head off again. Harry steps a little quicker and longer, eager to escape the uneasiness that has stained and strained both Christmas lunch and now.
But Tom catches Harry’s wrist in his hand, stilling him. The action is awkward, and Harry stumbles, uncoordinated, as Tom spins him.
They meet each other’s gaze. Then, Tom’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and Harry's eyes catch on it.
“I was thinking,” Tom says, “about your friend's research.”
Harry blinks. “Hermione's? What about it?”
“I think we may be soulmates.”
Harry lets out a surprised laugh. “What?” he asks, incredulous. “What do you mean? You know Hermione is just being theoretical. There's no proof in any of her theories.”
“But there is.” Tom's eyes are huge and dark, and they glitter in the low light of the hall, reflecting the low, golden lamps. “There is. Harry, can you not see? All those things she's been writing about — the inability to hold secrets, being drawn together, near orbiting each other — that is us, Harry. We are the literal definition of her theory.”
“Chance,” Harry says, shaking his head. They can't be. “Tom. No, it's all chance. We're only seeing what we've been told, like some… some sort of frequency illusion.”
Tom lets out a rough laugh. “Do not be a fucking idiot, Harry,” he says, voice low. “Why are you so against the idea of soulmates? Do you not like me, Harry?”
Tom's eyes are large and too sad for a man in his mid-forties. He clearly perfected the look long ago, perhaps when he was student here, and it's a devastating look. Harry forces himself to look away, bowing his head until all he can see are their shoes and legs standing far, far, too close together.
And yet, despite all his attempts otherwise, Harry's feelings spill unbidden from his lips.
“I do, and that's the point.” Harry grits his teeth, cursing silently, because it's true, of course it's true. Everything is fucking true; they can't hold anything back between them. “I hate the idea of soulmates, of having someone so perfect for you it's magically ordained. I hate fate.”
A hand brushes lightly against Harry's shoulder, and Harry jerks his head up. Tom, hesitantly, drops his hand.
“But why?” he asks, his bafflement naïve. “I mean, to have someone. Someone made perfectly for you…”
Harry shivers, tries to hold his tongue. It's a useless thing to attempt. And Tom didn't mean it maliciously — he knows that at least — but the why? sinks itself to the part of his brain hard-wired to obey Tom's questions: magically ordained, forced fate.
“Because fate is dangerously close to prophecies and determinism, and my parents were murdered so that some crackpot could fulfil a prophecy.”
“Oh,” Tom says, and Harry hates the way his voice has turned pitying. It's so unnatural and decidedly not-Tom. “Harry, I—”
His hands, which have drifted up again, hover, Tom tied on how best to offer comfort. Harry rejects it, tightening his jaw.
“Don’t.”
Tom's hands drop, his face — normally so passive and controlled — slips into a broken sort of frown. He looks so lost and confused, as if Harry's rejection can't feasibly make sense, unable to measure up to the his vision of the future.
Harry lets out a shaky breath. “Rather ironically,” he says, offering a wry smile, “I don't know if you actually like me. I mean, I can't tell if it's actually me or if it's the whole bloody soul—”
“You idiot,” Tom snaps. Harry blinks, alarmed at the vibrancy in his eyes. “Is your only concern my motive for liking you? Harry, you idiot, just ask me. We cannot lie to each other.”
Harry huffs, disbelieving.
“Harry,” Tom says again. “Ask me.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry tries to block the image of Tom's face from his mind. Dark eyes shining with want, begging him to give in, and a face still boyishly handsome nearing forty-five. It's no wonder that he's the object of so many student's childish fantasies — and they don't even get to see the soft parts, the needing bullying that is so uncharacteristic it leaves Harry's in ruins.
“Fine,” Harry says in a voice not his. “Fine. Why do you… want this, Tom? Because we're apparently fucking soulmates or because you actually, truly like me?”
He says it sardonically — when has Tom Riddle ever shown affection? only a week ago they were at each other's throats, pretending the other didn't exist at all — and Tom frowns, jaw ticking with annoyance. Like he can't stand the fact that Harry thinks so little of the two of them, of himself.
“I find you attractive, Harry. You have so much power and you have succeeded so much more than I ever would have as defence professor. You are brilliant, and I would think think that regardless,” Tom confesses.
Fingers find his jaw, and Harry lifts his head, blinking. He hadn't even realised he'd bowed it, weighted by the strength of Tom's words.
“I’m…” Harry murmurs. Not that.
He sways forward slightly and Tom steadies him, long fingers bracing against his shoulders. It's the firmest grip Harry has ever felt from the man who holds everything with light fingers, knowing delicacy and finesse will take him further than brutish violence.
“Stop hiding behind every excuse you can. Harry,” Tom says, “you are being cruel.”
Like a knife between Harry's ribs, Tom's words slide past his defences far too easily, body swallowing them up. The pain sends Harry back, stepping away in some mixture of surprise and shock, only to be stopped before his foot finds steady ground.
Automatically, Harry glances up.
“Ah,” he says, hysterical giggle threatening to spill from his lips. “Of course.”
Mistletoe.
“You know, I believe the fact that we are soulmates is only spurring on this stupid plant,” Tom says blandly, if vaguely amused.
Harry's gaze settles on him.
Tom's head is craned slightly, the lovely, strong lines of his neck fully visible. His pulse thrums underneath his skin, perfectly weak to the harshness of his jaw. Harry has never seen Tom Riddle with any kind of facial hair, but at his throat, time shows it's hand; Harry notices it now, the slight shadow of five o'clock just visible in the low light of the hall.
Tom Riddle is a boy crafted by the gods grown into a god himself — an ancient one, fallible and likely to break and crack with age.
Harry wants.
He wants like breathing, and suddenly the things holding him back seem insignificant. Fate is a bitch and determinism horrible; prophecy the worst villain of all — but all of this does not matter. They are two parts of something whole.
But more importantly: Tom likes him and he likes Tom. Surely that is enough.
Harry steps into his space, forcing Tom's eyes back onto him. Widening for a moment, and then crinkling at the corners, they tell Harry all he needs to know. Harry's hand slides to Tom's rough jaw, tilting the man's head down just enough to kiss him.
It's nothing more than a light brush of lips, and it's certainly not a first kiss, but there's something tender about the chasteness, and when Harry pulls away half a second later, Tom half-follows him. Falling apart is unnatural.
“Tom,” Harry says.
Then he stops, unsure of what he wanted to say in the first place. Perhaps just Tom's name — it curls nicely in his mouth, he's realised. After years of professor and Riddle (and worse things still behind his back), the last twenty-four hours of Tom have been life altering.
Another life altering thing: Tom's smile.
Subtle and shy, it's the slight crinkle of his eyes, the tugging of his lips in a softer way to the smirks and sneers that Harry has known thus far.
“Harry,” Tom says. He leans forward a little, nose awkwardly bumping Harry's when he bows down slightly, clumsily. “Merry Christmas, Harry.”
Harry just about lets their lips slide back together, wanting more this time — a proper snogging — when he hears the quiet giggles. Tom steps from his grasp, aiming a glare into the dark, and Harry sighs.
“Twenty points each from whatever house you are,” Tom snaps, “for eavesdropping on a private conversation. Return to your dormitories or to the Great Hall at once.”
From the shadows, Maisie Williams and Ivy Dawson slink out looking less guilty than they should. Harry looks away as they pass, hyper-aware of the heat in his cheeks. He's caught so many students over the years making out in dark corridors and broom cupboards and niches, and finally he understands the embarrassment of it.
“Congratulations on bagging the hottest professor, sir,” Williams says when she's nearly out of sight.
Dawson lets out a high-pitched giggle, tugging on her friends wrist. Then, they're around the corner.
Harry wants to die. As quickly as possible, preferably. Merlin willing, a basilisk slides down the corridor and looks him in the eyes.
“That was…” Tom's mouth is pressed into a frown. “…humiliating, to say the least.”
“I'd rather not have students commenting on your looks,” Harry agrees.
“Mine?” Tom's lips curl a little, his voice becoming a purr. “I rather think they were talking about you, darling. But thank you for calling me handsome, albeit in a roundabout way.”
Harry's face burns. “Er,” he says at a loss for words.
Tom's smile changes into something more natural and fond. “That being said, would you perhaps come to my rooms for a cup of tea?” His hand comes to Harry's taking it lightly and circling his thumb over the knuckles. “It is Christmas after all.”
Harry looks down at their joined hands, Tom's fingers long and elegant against Harry's broader, scarred hand. Their touch is natural. It feels good to be like this, and Harry half-wonders — with an impression of arousal burning in his mind — what Tom would feel like naked, every part of his body touching every part of Harry's.
It's an addictive sort of thought.
“Er, yes,” he says, clearing his throat with a slight cough. “I'd like that. A lot.”
Tom's eyes crinkle.
Tom's rooms are as neat as Harry imagined them. Larger than Harry's — Head of House has some perks on top of corralling pre-teens and teens — they're dark and moody, although not unpleasant. Bookcases line two of the walls with a desk tucked away, and there's a sitting area in front of a large fireplace in the main room. Against a plain stone wall is a long bench, a small kettle and stack of mugs to one side, blank space to the other.
Harry runs his fingers over the kettle; what should be an electric one but there's no cord and the smooth steel is covered in lines of angular script.
Harry grins.
“Runes, Tom?” he asks. “Really?”
Tom raises an eyebrow. “I am the ancient runes professor, Harry,” he says. “And it works better than heating water over a fire.”
“I think you have a little muggle in you, Tom,” Harry teases. “Works like a normal kettle?”
Tom huffs. “My father. Yes: switch on the side.”
Harry hesitates, fingers hovering over the switch. They fall after a second, coming to the wood of the bench instead, drumming up and down. He tilts his head over his shoulder, to where Tom is, feeding logs to the fire.
“Did we really come back to your rooms for tea, Professor?” Harry asks, earlier hesitancy gone.
Tom turns his head to look at him, standing elegantly as his legs unfold from their crouch. He sticks his hands in his pockets, raising an eyebrow at Harry.
“Propriety, darling,” he cautions, although there's something fond in the twitch of his lips. “And I do like tea.”
“Frankly,” Harry says, moving towards Tom, “I like you more.”
Tom gasps, clutching his heart. “Blasphemy!” he cries. “And you call yourself English?” But when they're close enough to kiss, he doesn't shy away, and tilts his head down obligingly instead.
It's longer than before; deeper.
In the privacy of Tom's rooms, Harry can cup Tom's jaw properly, the tips of his fingers brushing the hairs that curl at his nape. They're soft and boyish, a stark difference to the usual moused quiff Tom sports, perhaps left out unintentionally. It's an imperfection, one Harry didn't expect at all from the controlled Tom Riddle, and it makes Harry's heart ache something fond. Tom is a man just as he — a brilliant man, but a man all the same.
The thought causes Harry to deepen their kiss.
He asks entrance to Tom's mouth, pleasantly surprised when it is granted so easily; Tom's competitiveness retreating as he lets Harry take control. Harry's grip tightens against Tom's jaw and the back of his neck, and his tongue licks at Tom's mouth, slow and steady.
Tom makes a noise, something throaty and unabashed, and Harry draws away. Harry watches as Tom's eyes flutter open, his pupils blown and cheeks red.
“Ah,” Tom says. “Hello.”
It's uncharacteristically awkward, and Harry thumbs the curls at the back of his head, endeared. Tom is pretty and lovely, and handsome too — but so, so boyish for forty-four.
“Hello,” Harry replies with a grin.
“I do like when you kiss me,” Tom admits. His fingers brush against Harry's hip. “You're very good.”
Harry laughs slightly, still playing with the curling ends of Tom's hair. “I like it too.”
“I should like to know you more intimately, darling. Preferably on a bed — we are hardly teenagers, and I do not think I could survive anymore of your attention standing up.”
“Mm,” Harry agrees. “Don't want me to kneel and suck you off?”
Tom's eyes are dark. “Like I said,” his fingers taking Harry's hip more surely, “I should like to know you more intimately, but I would prefer a bed. I want you in me, Harry darling.”
Harry groans slightly at the image Tom offers: the warmth of their bodies, private and amorous in Tom's bed; of Harry sliding into him and Tom's face pressed against the pillows — or perhaps they face each other, Tom's hands clawing at Harry's shoulders — both of them unable to prevent the noises that fall from their lips. Harry's cock is half-hard and aching for more, and he's not even sure when it happened.
“Please,” Harry agrees roughly, when he realises he's not said anything. “Tom, please. Where do you keep your lube?”
Tom's eyes crinkle. "My bedroom, Harry," he says with a laugh. “I am not doing anything out here.”
Tom’s bedroom is continuation of the same dark aesthetics cultivated in his front room, although this is distinctly less neat. A pile of parchments on the dresser; a stack of books near-tumbling by the foot of the bed the two of them fall into. Getting undressed only adds to the casual spread of stuff — like a child lining up their favourite toys — as their robes and pants and Harry’s glasses are discarded and Tom presses a tin of lube into Harry’s hand.
“How do you want to do this?” Harry asks, voice a little rough from their heavy petting. “I personally don’t have a preference.”
“Me neither,” Tom agrees. His eyes dart to Harry’s cock and then his nimble fingers, a smirk tilting his lips up at Harry’s gasp. “Although, I would not mind riding you, darling.”
The words send a thrill down Harry’s spine and he presses his lips to Tom’s jaw to both hide and convey the complicated mix of affection, arousal and embarrassment at Tom’s forwardness. He draws back a little, just enough meet Tom’s gaze.
“D’you want me to—”
“—easier to open me on my back.”
Their voices, a little awkward and stilted, overlap each other, not quite used to things being amicable between them. Tom laughs and Harry grins at the crinkle in his eyes.
“Let me eat you out,” Harry tries again. “Please, Tom.”
Tom’s face creases into a frown eyebrows furrowing slightly yet his pupils are blown and Harry delights in being able to see him like this, all defences down. “We’re not young anymore,” he warns.
“Just to open you up,” Harry swears. His fingers catch on the light shadow of Tom’s jaw, feeling the slight prickle of hairs beneath his fingers. “Please, Tom. You look delicious.”
He does.
Age is kind to Tom. It leaves light kisses in the secret crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and at the slight silvery lines on his thighs from a growth spurt long ago. Yet it keeps large parts of him completely unblemished, untouched. Tom is light and trim, attractive and broad at his shoulders yet pretty where his waist tapers in. When Harry runs a hesitant but curious finger over the dip of his arse, pulling slightly at the cheek to reveal more, Tom makes a surprised sound that morphs to a groan.
“Alright, alright,” Tom huffs, face a little pink. “Fine. But only a little.” His hand hovers over Harry’s arm in the air, suddenly unsure. “I can still ride you, yes?”
Harry nods and swallows with a click of his throat. “Yes,” he agrees croakily. “Yes.”
Tom’s amused smirk and turning over invites Harry down. His fingers trail along Tom’s spine, feeling the dip of the notches beneath the slide of his palm, until they’re at the round of his arse. Then Harry’s hands are on Tom’s cheeks, curved around attractive skin.
Tom pushes back against Harry’s grip. “Darling, come on. We will be halfway to our graves before you touch me.”
Perhaps it’s cruel of Harry to laugh, but he does anyway, then coats a finger in lube and presses it to Tom’s entrance, sinking in the best he can. It’s a slow, gentle action and Tom makes a noise of protestation, pushing back on the single finger insistently.
“You promised your mouth,” he complains, amusingly bratty for a forty year old man. “At least put two fingers in.”
“I thought Slytherins were meant to be subtle.” Harry’s finger pries him open a little, just enough to slide in a second one beside it, Tom letting out a pleased gasp at the sensation.
“And I thought Gryffindors were meant to be determined and brave but here you are pussy-footing about. Do you know how to find my prostate, darling? Or are you dull?”
Harry grins, amused, and crooks his two fingers as he spreads Tom, finding the bundle of nerves. Tom’s back arches slightly as he pushes against it, soft noise tugged free of his chest.
“Yes, yes,” Tom agrees, and then he turns to syrup as Harry traces along it.
Dropped to his elbows with his arse presented upwards, Tom is a vision. He swallows at Harry’s fingers, greedy and easy, and it takes all of Harry’s restraint not to push his mouth to his hole immediately. But Harry wants this slow, wants this loving and torturous and warm because it’s Christmas and because it takes time to memorise a body that’s been so locked away before now.
Harry wants to find what makes Tom tick, and in turn wants to be learnt.
“Do you want my mouth on you now?” Harry asks anyway, unable to hold himself back. His voice is a hushed, tight thing. “I want to open you with my tongue and my fingers, you’re so gorgeous, Tom.”
“Stop talking, darling,” Tom hisses, words slipping into a moan as Harry presses against his prostate again. “Fuck, darling. Just do it.”
With Tom’s insistent approval, Harry shifts forward, mouthing first at one cheek and kissing it before slipping into the dip between them. His mouth and tongue slide past his dripping fingers, still pressed to the bundle of nerves, stroking teasingly in micro-movements that make Tom’s spine arch, face squished against the pillow.
Tom tastes of sweat and lube and skin. He makes loud noises under Harry’s tongue like he’s never been touched before — overwhelmed gasps that are akin to a wild animal’s keening — and he rocks back against Harry’s mouth, desperate and needing.
Harry loses himself in the taste, in the sensation of Tom, one hand braced on his hip, the other two fingers deep. His own cock hangs in open air, aching hard and twitching with each of Tom’s noises.
“Harry, darling.” Tom’s voice is punched, far less polished than normal. “Darling, please. Merlin, that’s enough. I’ll come. I’m, ah, not sixteen ‘nymore.”
He’s got a hand wrapped around his cock, Harry realises, pulling away with a groan. He knocks Tom’s hand away, with a vague disapproving noise.
“I thought you wanted to ride me.”
Tom lets out a complaint, hole fluttering where Harry’s fingers have prised him open. “Yes, yes,” he says wretchedly. “I want to, darling.”
Harry strokes the soft skin at the back of Tom’s thigh where the hair is thicker, and Tom recoils slightly at the action, the spot ticklish. Then, he leans back into the touch, and Harry watches as he gathers himself, breathing heavily through his nose.
“Okay,” he says after a second longer. “I’m ready.”
He lets out another heavy breath and then he’s moving away from Harry, a complicated dance as Harry drops awkwardly to the mattress and flips onto his back. The two of them are ungainly, ill-fitted and unpractised in knowing how each other’s body moves, but they make it somehow, Tom hovering above Harry.
Tom drags his fingers lightly over Harry’s cock and it twitches, already ruddy and dark with a bid for attention. There’s a fine sheen of wetness at the tip where pre-come has been smeared, and Harry watches as Tom considers it, a shifting carousel of emotions playing on his handsome face.
“We ought to have thought about protection,” he says, more put together again.
They’re both men of a certain age; Harry grew up watching ads on television and he’s sure Tom, muggle-raised like him, did too.
“I’m clean,” Harry says. “If you…?”
It’s a vulnerable question and Harry can’t help but cringe at it, embarrassed by how vulgar and needing his suggestion is. But Tom’s face shifts again, eyebrows furrowing in contemplation.
“Same here,” he says slowly. “I do.”
Harry has no doubt over Tom’s words, what with their soulbond, but a shiver of nervousness wracks his body anyway, some part anticipation.
“So,” he agrees hesitantly, “if you want. I mean—”
“Shh, darling.” Tom’s body shifts slightly, muscles flexing in his abdomen and standing strong in his thighs as he hovers over Harry. “Can I?”
And with Harry’s consent, Tom lowers himself, still so, so tight after being prised apart with two fingers and tongue. Harry lets out a rough, low sound as Tom sinks down full, pushing onto his forearms so he can see Tom properly.
The lack of glasses makes Tom half-blurred, hazy at the edges in the low lighting of the room. When he shifts, dragging himself off and then plunging back onto Harry’s cock, it’s a smooth blend of skin and dark gold light.
“You’re so… so fucking beautiful,” Harry hisses as Tom sends him a lazy grin, before his head tilts backwards; hips sliding, sliding.
Harry reaches for the harsh tendons which stand clearly in Tom’s neck with violent strength, traces them, then loops his fingers around the back where the skin folds under the weight of Tom’s bent neck, and drags his face to Harry’s, mouth to Harry’s. Kisses Tom.
Harry’s forearm buckles and he falls back against the bed, Tom collapsing onto him. His cock slips from Tom, catching itself on the rim before it can fully escape, but licking at Tom’s teeth, kissing him, is more pressing.
But Tom clearly doesn’t think the same. He pushes up and realigns himself, sinking back onto Harry’s cock with a pleased noise. Back arched, he keeps close, his cock dragging along Harry’s stomach and leaving precome pooling in the plains and dips.
Harry lets out a gasp, the tightness and the angle overwhelming. His words are a babble of noise, of love and truth, praise for how Tom feels around him. His fingers dig into Tom’s sides, nails scratching at pale skin and leaving red marks.
It’s then he’s made aware of how close Tom and pleasure have brought him to the edge. A punched noise makes it’s way from his chest, a groan as Tom squeezes around his cock, urging him on with the same desperate need.
“Yeah baby?” Harry murmurs. “You close, I’m close. I’m so, so close.”
“Darling,” Tom groans, swallowed by uneven breathing. “Come for me, darling. Please. Come so deep in me darling, fill me.”
Oh, Harry thinks, wanting and wanting. Pressure twists in his gut and his balls draw up. Moan ripped from his chest, growing in his throat, Harry comes.
Tom’s close too, if the irrational pace he moves at is anything to go by. Lax and hazy beneath Tom, Harry watches and feels, cock softening even as Tom continues to use him. He has a hand wrapped around his own now, tugging himself in tandem with his thrusts.
His breath hitches when Harry wraps his hand around him too, and his hips stutter and slow, shooting his load across the dark planes of his abdomen.
It’s like breathing when they collapse into each other, tired and spent, Harry’s cock half-sliding from the space it’s carved for itself in Tom’s body.
Sleep — a poor decision — comes easier still, full of Christmas Dinner and affection.
When Harry wakes to the soft light of Boxing Day, naked and tangled in bedsheets that aren’t his, Tom is already awake and trailing a finger down his spine.
“I wondered when you would wake,” Tom murmurs. The finger reaches the base of Harry’s spine then moves to his nape, beginning the action again.
“What time’s it?” Harry asks groggily. How long has Tom been up and tracing his fucking spine?
“Late. I don’t know.” He sounds inexorably happy. “You needed it.”
Harry shifts, turning so he’s facing Tom. Dark eyes flick between his, honey-coloured in the charmed natural light of the room. There is a smile on his face, curling gently at the corners of his mouth, crinkly his eyes, and Harry’s heart doesn’t quite know what to do.
“So… soulmates,” Harry says.
“Soulmates,” Tom agrees in amusement. “It is still marvellous to me that they are real.”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck,” he groans, beginning to slide out from under the duvet. “I need to write to Hermione and tell her that—”
Tom — the arsehole — laughs, catching Harry by the wrist and stilling him.
“No, darling. You need to come back to bed. Boxing Day is meant to be spent naked and kissing each other.”
“Ah,” Harry says as Tom tugs him close, sealing their lips together. “And what about, mm, supervising the, ah, students?”
“All the more reason to stay locked away,” Tom says with a huff of laughter. He kisses Harry slowly. “Honestly, fuck them.”