solemnity

It starts, as most things with Tom do, with a hand on your lower back and his voice, soft and low in your ear, “I’d like to try something tonight.” It’s really incredibly unfair that he chooses the moment when you’re about to walk into Potions to whisper this to you because now you’re going to be distracted all through your assessed brewing of Veritaserum. Judging by the smirk that curls Tom’s lips as he takes his place next to you at the front of the class, he’s fully aware of this. He lays his equipment down neatly in front of him, looking for all the world, like every teacher’s wet dream: prepared, inquiring, and engaged in the lesson. You know him better though, you know that he’s actually the devil incarnate, and is currently enjoying your flustered attempts to pay attention to what Slughorn’s saying about the forthcoming lesson.

Slughorn waves his hand to signal for you all to start gathering ingredients and Tom leaves to fetch the things you’ll both need. You’ve been brewing your batch of Veritaserum for the past month and today will reveal whether or not you’ve succeeded. The mark you get in for this potion will count for a family large portion of your overall grade, and it’s a good thing that you’re partnered with Tom, because whilst you might be one of the best in the class, your mind is so far from the task at hand that you know you’ll be relying on him for most of the more focussed aspects of the brewing today. You also know that Tom is probably cognizant of this fact and planned it as such.

Damn him. If he didn’t make you so weak at the knees, you’d have hexed him by now.

“Was that really necessary?” You ask when he returns, snatching the caladium root out of his hands. You start shredding the delicate roots with a little more force than is probably good for them, and besides you, Tom tsks.

“I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, but you should be a little gentler with those,” He gestures to the roots. “We wouldn’t want to do poorly on this test because you’re a little riled up, would we?” Gods, you hate it when he teases you. Well, no, that’s a lie. Most of the time you love it when he teases you, but usually, you’re not in a Potions class with half your grade hanging over your head.

He chuckles lowly at your expression which is one of annoyance and indignity and spends most of the rest of the class alluding to the plans he has for you whilst expertly managing your potion so you can continue to daydream about what he might mean. It doesn’t escape your notice that Tom pours an extra vial of the Veritaserum when the time comes to present Slughorn with your finished product. He slips the extra into his pocket and raises a finger to his lips before you can question him.

You manage to avoid Tom for the rest of the day, which is good for your sanity for two reasons: firstly, whenever he had spotted you, he had given you a knowing look and found a way to touch you that from an outsider perspective would look entirely innocent but had left you dizzy with anticipation and unable to focus on anything other than the mysterious things he had in store for you. Secondly, and you’ll never admit this to him, your overactive imagination has run away with itself fantasising about the night ahead, and the way that he looks at you makes you think that he somehow knows exactly what you're thinking. You’d rather save yourself the embarrassment of his smirks and wry hums of amusement.

***

Of all the evenings for Tom to be busy with his Head Boy duties, it obviously has to be today. You’re fairly sure he’s planned it like this because you know him well enough by now to know that that he likes it when you’re a little on edge. His desire for control and power over the people he surrounds himself with manifests itself in multiple ways: with his friends, he leads with an iron fist, viewing disobedience as a betrayal; with his professors, he charms and manipulates until he has them wrapped around his little finger; with you, it’s slightly different. Your family, whilst not doing badly, cannot open doors for him the way the Maylfoy’s can, and you’re smart, but not outrageously so, so the impetus to use you for your talents isn’t there either. When Tom tells you that he wants you for your company and your companionship, you believe him. No, with you, his want for control manifests in slow touches, whispered commands, and a desire to see you fall apart in a way you refuse to do for anyone else.

His dormitory is empty when you enter, which is hardly a surprise; his roommates know when to make themselves scarce and to leave you privacy. You take a moment to gather your wits and to try and calm your nerves before you take a seat in the centre of his bed. The minutes tick by excruciatingly slowly, and you fight with your school tie, trying to guess if he would like it if he found you naked and waiting or if he wants the pleasure of undressing you himself. It all depends on his mood which can as mercurial and changing as the tides. You settle on a compromise, more because you’re impatient and excited and restless. You abandon your robes, leave your tie on the desk beside the bed, and unbutton the first three buttons of your shirt before settling back against the soft pillows and try to focus on the book you’ve brought with you.

The door clicks open and shut and you startle at the noise. Tom leans against the doorframe, half-hidden in shadow, a tempting and dangerous sight as he appraises you slowly. You swallow around your nerves, and your throat constricts as he loosens his ties and walks over to you, predatory and sleek, like some sort of wild cat, all tightly controlled power ready to be unleashed. It makes your mouth water.

He more or less crawls up the bed and you let your legs fall open to accommodate him. He reaches forwards and cups your jaw in his hand, his fingers splaying so that he cradles your head and you instinctively press your face into his hand, seeking contact and heat and protection. “Have you been waiting for me for all this time?” He says and you nod, eyes slitting to watch his pleased smile at your response. “Good girl. Are you ready for me?”

“I thought you might like to take care of that,” You murmur and you can’t deny the way excitement leaks into your voice. He hums approvingly and pulls away, just a for a moment as he reaches inside his robe to retrieve a small vial of clear liquid. Your eyes widen slightly at the Veritaserum dangling delicately between his fingers. “Is that what I think it is?”

His smile turns wolfish at the slight tremor in your voice and he cocks his head to one side, the hand that isn’t holding the vial, moving slowly up your calf, up the curve of your knee before flattening across the meat of your thigh and stroking the sensitive junction where your thigh meets your pubic bone. “Do you trust me?” He asks, which isn’t exactly an answer, but you think that’s maybe the point. Tom has a strange thing about trust; he likes it when you prove your loyalty to him. Drinking a potion where you’re not entirely sure what the effects will be is definitely something you can see him enjoying.

Slowly, hesitatingly, you nod and he pushes you back against the pillows. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip and pushes two fingers inside your mouth. Heat and desire lick like flames across your skin and your thighs clench in anticipation and need. He lets you run your tongue over them, suck them slowly before he removes them and pinches your chin to keep your mouth open as he pours a few drops onto your outstretched tongue. “That’s it, such a good girl for me,” He says, barely more than a whisper in the heavy silence that surrounds you. His eyes are dark with want and gratification, and he begins to undo the buttons of his shirt, revealing smooth, pale skin that you want to lick.

He leans over you and kisses your jaw and trails bruising kisses against your neck, humming softly when you gasp. “Do you want me to touch you?” He murmurs into your skin and the potion, which you can now confirm was Veritaserum, works its magic and you feel a compulsion to answer.

“Yes, please, I want—” Your words are cut off by a low moan as he brushes his fingers over your underwear which are already damp with your desire for him.

“So wet for me, already.” He’s playing with you at such a leisurely pace that your pleasure is mingled with frustration but when you try to shift your hips closer he pushes you back against the mattress. “So impatient, tell me, darling, how do you want me to touch you?”

You begin to realise exactly why he wanted to use the Veritaserum because you want so many things, you want his fingers and his mouth, you want him to kiss you, to undress you, to play with you until you can’t think let alone talk. These are not uncommon wants when it comes to Tom, but you’re normally too embarrassed to voice them to him, no matter how much he enjoys listening. Now, with the Veritaserum, it’s as though your voice acts without you telling it to, the words tumbling from your lips unbidden and a deep flush rises up your chest and neck as you whimper, “I want… I want you to take my clothes off now, and I-I want you to, fuck, I want your mouth.” You feel overexposed and vulnerable admitting this to him and your eyes are squeezed shut tight because even looking at him is too much right now.

He rewards you for your forced honesty by giving you exactly what you asked for, peeling your underwear down your legs and burying his head between your thighs, lapping at your folds like a parched man. It’s glorious, it always is and soon your clothes are discarded and you keep babbling away, asking and requesting until you’re incoherent. Even though he is the one acquiescing to your every whimpered desire, Tom is still firmly in control. Every sentence out of his mouth is framed as a question, forcing you to answer honestly even when it makes you blush and squirm. Every one of your fantasies is laid out in front of him and the fact that he could ask you anything and you would be compelled to answer truthfully is never far from your mind.

“Look at you, if only you could see yourself,” Tom mutters, his voice rough with exertion, sweat beading in the dips of his collarbones as he pushes you against the pillows, one of his hands reaching and pinning both of your wrists above your head. “Do you like the sound of that? Would you like to see me fuck you? Do you want to see how wrecked you look?”

“Yes.”

Neither of you lasts very long after that. You cling to him desperately, your legs locked tightly around his waist as his breathing grows erratic. Your entire world is narrowed down to Tom and the feeling of his body moving against yours. Everything feels strangely floaty and distant, yet still incredibly intense as if your mind and body can’t quite comprehend what’s happening and is just rolling in sensation and emotion and feeling. The heat that had encompassed you before he even entered the room grows hotter and the flames of your desire burn brighter. You feel your orgasm build low in your belly, a tight ball of tangled nerves that snowballs and crashes over you as you shake with barely contained need. Tom grips your hip, pulling you somehow closer, and licks a wet stripe between the valley of your breasts, his teeth catch your earlobe and you shudder with overstimulation. He lasts another three strokes before he comes with a shaky gasp, his lips brushing yours.

For a moment after, you just lay there, a tangle of limbs and sweat and body heat. Eventually, though, he rolls off of you, and you stretch your aching limbs before snuggling into the duvet. It’s when he passes you a small vial of a swirling grey-silver liquid that what you’ve just done truly hits you. You swallow the antidote hastily and the empty vial falls from your grasp. You feel suddenly overwhelmed and strangely bereft. Blindly, you reach for Tom, searching him out for contact and comfort and reassurance.

“I… Was that okay?” You ask unable to hide your worry that you’ve somehow let him down. Tom immediately moves to wrap you in his arms, dropping a soft kiss to the top of your head.

He tilts your head to face him and his eyes search yours, a small frown marring his forehead. “Darling, you were perfect,” He murmurs, seemingly understanding implicitly what you’re really asking. He tucks you closer and presses his lips to your cheek. Considering what you’ve just been doing, it’s all very chaste. “Come here, let me look after you.”

Feeling slightly more relaxed, you bury your head against his chest and allow him to do just that.

Pain like you've never imagined blisters across your skin. The pain feels hot and alive - a sentient creature making its home in your bones, an unwelcome, unwanted houseguest, its shoes at the front door, its food in your kitchen, its clothes in your wardrobe. It drags a knife across your heart, the delicate tissue of your lungs, every synapse awake and screaming with the eclipsing nature of your burning.

Worse, is that you cannot scream. You think you might try to but your mouth refuses to open, jaw locked and tight, molars clenched and ground together. Dimly, you realise that you're being carried somewhere - where you could not say, not for love nor money nor life itself. There isn't any space for thought for understanding beyond the fire and brimstone that snakes through your blood. You might be moving - not of your own volition, but because there is no way that your body can contain the weight of your feeling. You want to fling your body over the edge of oblivion because then you wouldn't feel anything, or maybe you would, maybe you'd just stop being aware of the feeling.

It would be a relief.

No matter how close you get to the edge, however, you don't tip over. There is no relief and that in itself is too much to comprehend - how could anyone withstand this? The human body is not designed to hold out against this level of pain. You think you might be fracturing, splintering. You wish you were, wish you were breaking apart because then maybe it would be manageable. But something keeps you firmly held together. It can't be you - you're not strong enough to do it yourself. Something or someone outside of you must be holding you together. There's no way you could manage it by yourself.

You're not sure how long you stay like this - floating in a sea of fire, burning up from the inside out, your skin crawling and tearing and unthreading itself in a seemingly unending spiral of torment. Somewhere, far away you think there might be someone holding your hand. You think there might be voices - curt and angry and maybe a little afraid.

The pain doesn't fade but eventually, it changes. Something darker, heavier, and ultimately, more powerful begins to seep through your body. A wave of cold - dark where the pain is bright washes through your veins, lapping at the shores of your mind until it starts to drown everything else out. You think you might prefer it but it's still unsettling, the heavy darkness and the numbing cold.

Finally, you sleep.

***

"Forgive me for interrupting, Madam Montague, but I thought you said she would be awake by now." It should be a question, but even in your addled state, it sounds more like a threat.

Really, a charming way to wake up.

Except, you're not even sure if you are awake. If you don't open your eyes, then you can pretend that you're still unconscious. Honestly, that would be better, because whilst the pain has receded a great deal, you feel scooped out. Like if you opened your eyes and looked around, you'd see your intestines and lungs in sterile pickling jars in neat little rows in front of you.

Phantom shocks of fire still zing across your skin, causing you to shift and squirm in discomfort, and then, when moving causes you more pain, to moan weakly. It's honestly unfair, how pathetic you feel. As if clutching at death like a child clutching their favourite toy hadn't been bad enough, now you feel embarrassed.

Immediately, there is a cool cloth over your forehead, large hands blocking out the light of the room and you whimper in relief. The sudden dimness has only made you aware of the fact your head is pounding and you're grateful for whoever it was that had the foresight to recognise your needs before you have to try and figure them out for yourself.

"Don't try to talk," You recognise the voice - deep and threaded with something that sounds like it could be concern or anger. You're so out of it that you don't even recognise where you are - you could be in Hogwarts or at home, or somewhere else entirely, but oh. Oh, you recognise his voice. You think you'd recognise Tom's voice and his personal brand of care anywhere.

It's funny how often Tom's worry presents itself as anger, as though he's so unused to the emotion that he doesn't know how to recognise it for what it is, let alone express it.

The damp cloth stills against your forehead and you can feel the way that Tom has stiffened, the way that his fingers have clenched around the rag and you realise that maybe you're even more out of it than you had thought because it's possible that you said all of that out loud.

You'd cringe at the embarrassment of it all if you weren't so tired.

"Just. Just go to sleep," He says and even with your eyes already closed, even with the cloth covering your eyes, you know he's wearing that purposefully flat expression. The one that makes him look like marble - perfect and distant and cold and unknowable. The one that he only wears when he doesn't know how else to react.

This time, sleep comes for you like a parent with a soft blanket.

***

When you next wake up, you're surrounded by a gentle white light, blinking sleep and the aches and pains from your ordeal away, the world comes into soft, hazy focus. The neatly made beds, dark wooden floorboards and stone walls of the hospital wing are calming in their familiarity and the realisation that you are safe. That you haven't been transferred from the castle to St Mungo's. That the people in charge of your safety and health have managed to pull off the impossible and save you from the clutches of the poison that has been ravaging your body.

With all the steadiness and strength of a newborn colt, you try to push yourself up only to find yourself being pushed gently but firmly, back into a supine position. Tom's face swims into sight and something settles in your chest at the sight of him.

He looks... not great. You wonder what it means that this is the closest you've seen him to undone in the years that you've known him. Of course, for many of those years, it had only been on the peripheries, barely touching each other's awareness before last year, but still... Tom has always seemed untouchable. Like the world could collapse into ruin around his ankles and he would remain standing and pristine even ash collected on the ground beneath his shoes.

Right now, however, he looks as human as you feel: frail and aching and tired. His already pale complexion is practically ghostly, his eyes are ringed with purple-grey shadows, but it's his expression that startles you the most. Eyes wide and dull, mouth pinched and downturned.

"Don't try to get up," Tom says and obediently, you stay where you are, your head resting against the fluffy pillows, your eyes trained on the slow bob of his adam's apple as he works his jaw around words that remain unspoken. When he goes to move his hands from where they're pressed against your shoulders, however, you cannot stop yourself from reaching for them, clumsily grasping at his wrists with limp fingers the way a child might reach for their favourite toy.

His touch is grounding in a way that you can't quite verbalise. A reminder that you are here and so is he and that you're safe. You're safe so long as you have him with you. You're safe so long as he's close.

You keep your eyes closed, in part because you're tired and the light, as nice as it is, hurts your sensitive eyes, but mostly, it's because if your eyes are shut you won't have to see whatever is playing out on Tom's face as you cling to him. Your self-imposed blindness does nothing to stop you from hearing the sharp intake of breath, however, and stubbornly, you hold onto his wrists tighter, the steady beat of his pulse a lifeline that you find yourself entirely unwilling to give up.

You can feel the way that Tom forces himself to relax. It happens in increments, the tension leaching first from his fingers, then his palms, then his wrists and forearms. His weight on your shoulder is a comfort and one that you are desperate for. It doesn't take away the pain, or the terror of slipping back into that dark artificial sleep, but it does wonders to keep you present, even as your body begs for sleep.

"How long's't been?" You ask and frown at the way your words slip and slide out of your mouth in a slur of sleepiness. Somewhere above you, Tom makes a sound that might be laughter and you pout. His laughter becomes more pronounced, a low hum of amusement that does little to cure your indignation but goes far to settle you with the familiarity of the sound.

"About a week," He says and his voice is a lot closer than you thought it would be. "Montague was practically drip-feeding you draught of the living death. You were barely breathing." He doesn't sound particularly happy about that and you suppose you can understand why. It must be - well, unsettling doesn't cover the half of it - to watch someone lie still and soft as the dead even if you know logically that they're alive.

"Mmm, felt weird," You murmur, relaxing against the pillows. "Like I was swimming in nothing." He digs his fingers into the meat of your shoulders for a second before he relaxes again and you shake your head in an attempt to reassure him. "Wasn't bad. Felt better than the other stuff." He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and you frown at how much distress he manages to fit into that one aborted hum.

Cracking open an eye, you offer him a tired smile. "S'alright, Tom. I'm awake now."

"You should probably try to sleep." Despite his words, he doesn't look or sound like he wants that and you shake your head. You don't want that either.

"Already slept for a week. Everything in moderation."

You're not sure how long you both stay like that, silence and stillness making space for the two of you to exist with one another without the need for worry or stress. Tension leaches out of you, leaving you heavy and peaceful. In the chair beside your bed, Tom slumps back, his head tilted back to reveal the long column of his neck which is practically glowing in the early morning light.

You wonder how long he's been here - if he's left your side at all. You hope he has. You hope he hasn't spent the last week with you in his own version of suspended reality, alive but not living. "Tom?" You murmur, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You want to give him this moment of quiet, of peace. You want to give him space to be vulnerable without a witness.

"Thank you."

You don't see what his face does and he doesn't speak but his fingers tighten momentarily, pinpoints of pressure that says enough.

***

Later, Madam Montague sends him away, tutting under her breath when he refuses to move from his seat. It's only when you shake your head and tell him to get some rest that he finally relents, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. He exits the hospital wing, a mix of pride and stiff joints making his gait somewhat rigid.

You let Madam Montague fuss with your pillows and force a mug of vile tasting liquid into your hand. "What is that?" You ask, gagging slightly as the thick oily liquid passes down your throat.

"A mix of dandelion root extract and bezoar bile." She tells frankly which. Gross. Truly awful. You wished you hadn't asked. She must read your distaste in your expression because she raises an eyebrow and says, "Better than being dead. It's practically impossible to survive a manticore attack - you're incredibly lucky these were just pups."

"I guess."

"Honestly, we probably wouldn't have gotten to in time if it hadn't been for Mr Riddle. He got you here in record time, carried you himself." She pauses and glances towards the door, a thoughtful expression flitting across her face before her features settle into a small, knowing smile. "The only time he wasn't by your side, he was in the potions laboratories, brewing more of this stuff."

She leaves you slumped against the pillows, smiling dazedly up at the ceiling.

There have been no new petrifications in the three weeks since you ran into Riddle outside the Prefects’ bathroom. You would have hoped that the lack of new attacks would do something to calm the student populace down a little, but it seems the opposite is true. The atmosphere in the corridors and the Great Hall is tense and uncomfortable. It’s as though everyone is waiting on tenterhooks for something to happen. Even the professors, who are all trying to put on a brave facade, are concerned. Your Heads of Houses have taken to sitting in on prefect meetings, reminding you all that it’s your job to make sure the rest of the students are safe. Despite the vastness of the castle and grounds, Hogwarts feels claustrophobic.

It’s at one of these meetings, on an otherwise nondescript Monday evening, that Dumbledore asks you to stay behind. You can’t quite hide the mix of surprise and reluctance that crosses your face at his request, though Dumbledore just continues to smile in that slightly unsettling way of his. You think of the way he’s looked at you in the past, as though he can see through all your defences and knows that you’re hiding something. He looks at you as though he doesn’t trust you. You’ve never liked being looked at like that, especially by someone for who you’ve never given any reason to doubt your integrity.

Next to you, Riddle stiffens slightly in his chair and you don’t like that either. Because this is real. Everything up until this point, you could minimise and justify. You’ve been tricking yourself into complacency for weeks, months even, why both telling the professors your suspicions about Tom when you don’t have proof?

You nod mutely and stay behind whilst everyone else files out of the room. Once you’re alone, Dumbledore smiles. “Please, take a seat, I wouldn’t want you to get sore feet, heaven knows that is an ailment that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.” You sit down and he stays standing, and, whilst his posture is casual, hands clasped in front of him, the height difference makes you feel anxious, like a small child about to be chastised. “Now, I imagine you’re wondering why I wanted to talk with you?” You nod and he smiles, “An easy question to answer, I’m glad to say. I’m wondering how you’ve been since the day we found poor Miss Wheatley. I apologise for not checking in on you sooner, though I daresay, young Mr Riddle has been making his shoulder available to cry on, should you need it.” You don’t miss the way his gaze sharpens at the mention of Riddle’s name.

Whatever he might say, you’re certain that Dumbledore doesn’t care about how you’re holding up. He suspects something, and his mention of Riddle makes you worry that he suspects that the two of you are in cahoots. The thought would be laughable except… Well, you’ve been keeping his secret for him, haven’t you? You could have gone to Dumbledore at any point and told him what you know. He’d believe you. He’s probably the only member of staff that isn’t fooled by the act that Riddle puts on.

This is your chance. Your chance to come clean and stop all this madness.

“Tom’s been very helpful,” Is what you end up saying. You don’t meet his gaze but your voice doesn’t waver either. “He’s, ahh, really made me feel quite looked after.” And the thing is, you’re not lying. Even if his motivations are suspicious, he has looked after you and made you feel oddly safe. You’re not sure what to think of it. Judging by the darkness that flashes ever so briefly across Dumbledore’s expression, he isn’t either.

There’s something about the way that he watches you - congenial and sympathetic - that you neither like nor trust. “Trust is a wonderful and strange thing - it can help build even the most difficult of bridges. You two have grown quite close, haven’t you?” You frown at the question and have half a mind to tell him that it is entirely inappropriate to ask about one’s students’ dating habits. More than that, it feels like he’s speaking in innuendo, every word out of his mouth has a double meaning and whilst you can’t figure out what he’s trying to tell you, you’re fairly certain that it’s nothing good.

“I guess you could say that, Professor.” You try to keep your answer as vague as possible because you know what people are saying, you know that the rumour mill has gone into overdrive regarding you and Riddle. There are plenty of girls in Hogwarts who would try anything to snag a date with him but until now, Riddle has shown little interest in anyone. The fact that he is displaying such outward devotion to you speaks volumes to anyone paying attention. You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t make your pulse quicken, didn’t send a fission of fire - too fierce and feral to be considered innocent, down your spine. You’d be lying if you said that there isn’t a part of you that enjoys the attention, enjoys the way he looks at you like he doesn’t quite understand you but wants to.

You’re not naive enough to believe that Tom doesn’t have his own motivations, that he isn’t pulling the strings of public opinion for his own ends, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re interested. The mystery he presents, the truth of who and what he is… And maybe this is naive of you, but everything you’ve Seen has related to him and you refuse to believe that that doesn’t matter. Your finely honed instincts for self-preservation have well and truly flown out of the window when it comes to Tom.

He is, quite literally, your dream boy. Of course, you’re going to throw caution to the wind.

Your brevity doesn’t seem to bother him and you’re unsure if that’s a good thing or not. You don’t have time to overthink the issue though, because Dumbledore asks, “Before I bid you goodnight, is there anything else you wish to talk with me about?” He lowers his head slightly as he talks like he’s trying to catch your gaze, and you’re not sure why but you feel goosebumps prick your skin and the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. You keep your eyes averted, directed just beyond his left shoulder, counting the cracks in the stone walls as you attempt to keep your nerves in check.

You push yourself up from your chair and turn to walk towards the door. “No, Professor. Like I said, I’ve been doing alright and Tom is just looking out for me.” It feels foreign and strange, though not necessarily unwelcome, to refer to him by his first name. It feels like another one of your carefully erected barriers, designed to keep you safe, is in the process of being demolished with all the grace of a mountain troll on a rampage.

You’re half expecting Tom to be waiting for you, but he’s isn’t and relief wells in your chest. You have some soul-searching to do and you’re not sure if you’d be able to face him right now. It’s only once you’re back in the safety of your dorm that you finally allow yourself to fully comprehend what has just happened. Students are being attacked and you’re fairly certain you’ve just aligned yourself with their attacker.

***

Three days later, at seven o’clock in the evening, you enter the entrance hall in a hurry. You’d been caught up in a lengthy conversation with Lucas about whether or not he should ask Deliah Bowers on a date and now you’re running slightly late for your prefect rounds. As you skid into the entrance hall, you see that Tom is already waiting for you. He’s sitting on one of the benches by the entrance to the dungeons, head bowed over a small book which he’s writing in, his legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles and you take a moment to admire the lean line of his body, the elegant curve of his neck, the way he taps the end of his fountain pen in thought when he pauses in his writing. You’re reminded of why he has the reputation that he does; sitting there he looks like the embodiment of a perfect student: smart, quiet and, dedicated.

If only they all knew.

He looks up sharply at the sound of your approaching footsteps and snaps the book shut. “Evening,” You say and promptly flush at the way your voice comes out a little higher than usual, a little uncertain. It’s ridiculous, Tom has treated you the same since your impromptu meeting with Dumbledore, hasn’t asked you about it at all, but you still feel nervous around him, as though you’ve given him a reason to distrust you, as though you’ve let him down somehow. You offer him a small smile, your gaze sliding to his hands and his slender fingers which are capping his pen with deft precision. It’s really quite unfair that he can make even the most mundane of actions look so refined. “What were you writing?” His expression shifts slightly, becomes perfectly clear and smooth and you wonder if you’ve overstepped a boundary when he shakes his head and raises the book to the light.

It’s a small, thin diary, bound in black leather with his name monogrammed on the cover. It looks well-used but cared for, much like the rest of his belongings you realise. Now that you think of it, his robes and textbooks all share the same tell-tale traits of hand-me-downs, but he hasn’t any siblings. For the first time since you’ve known him, you begin to wonder who Tom is exactly, who his parents are, what his history is. You’ve been so focused on uncovering his future that you’ve quite forgotten to pay attention to his past.

The diary looks fairly expensive though and you wonder if it was a gift or if he had saved up to buy himself something he could be proud of owning. “My diary,” He says at last, his voice shaking you from your train of thought. “I bought it over the summer and have grown rather fond of it.” He pauses and then adds, “I suppose you could say it’s the only thing I’ve ever bared my soul to.”

Something in the way he smiles suggests he’s thought of something rather amusing, but you’re stuck on his choice of words. Without knowing why dread coils tight in your stomach. You shake the feeling off as the pair of you begin patrolling the corridors. For twenty minutes or so, you make idle chit-chat, discussing the lessons you share and the finer points on an ongoing debate between two Ancient Runes academics.

“Why the fountain pen?” You’re honestly surprised to see him use one. Quills are standard practice in the wizarding world, and whilst you have your own thoughts on their practicality, you’re shocked that Tom might feel the same way. Given his feelings towards muggleborns, you’re a little confused that he would willingly use something so muggle.

He hums in response to the question and casts you a sideways glance, amusement writ clear on his features. You get the distinct impression that he knows what you’re thinking and finds the whole thing rather droll. “Do you take issue with my using one?”

“What? No, of course not. I’m just surprised.”

“That I would prefer to use an instrument far more practical than a quill simply because the person who invented it was a muggle? I wouldn’t have taken you for a blood purist.” You bristle at his words and he raises an eyebrow, evidently having fun toying with you.

“I’m not.” You snap, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. Honestly, the nerve of him to accuse you of being a blood purist when he’s the one attacking muggle-borns. (You carefully don’t think about the fact that you are essentially condoning his behaviour by not stepping in when you have been given every opportunity to do so.) “I’m surprised that you’d see it that way because you’re the one who’s—”

“The one who has been what?” He cuts you off, and though his tone remains friendly, there’s a sharpness in his gaze and a tightness around the corners of his mouth that immediately puts you on edge. You swallow roughly, and the sudden desire to run away is almost overwhelming. When you don’t say anything, he stops walking and turns to face you fully. In the dim light, shadows dance along the dagger’s edge of his jawline. He is beautiful and terrifying and you can see the cracks in his visage where the boy becomes a man and the man becomes a monster. It probably says something about you that in this light, you find him all the more alluring.

He takes a single step towards you, graceful and predacious and you find yourself tensing as some primordial instinct overtakes you. Fight or flight except for the part of you that wants to run is diminishing by the second and the reckless desire to hook your fingers into the hollows of his collarbones and crack him open until you can see every part of him grows.

One thing is for certain: Tom is bad for your health.

“Don’t you think it’s time we stop this charade?” You lift your head to meet his impossibly dark eyes. You’re afraid but you’re past caring. “We both know what you’ve been up to. Why pretend that we don’t?” Something twists in his eyes, heat and anger and maybe a little bit of fear, but there’s also something else… Something bright and curious and pleased. You find that the most unsettling thing of all.

“You haven’t told Dumbledore.” It’s not a question, just a statement of fact and one that he obviously enjoys saying out loud. He stares down at you, smiling in a way that is not at all friendly. You’re reminded of the way Dumbledore had tried so hard to catch your gaze, though unlike with your transfiguration professor, you don’t look away from Tom. “Why is that I wonder? And, more importantly, how did you figure it out?” He’s so close that you can feel the warmth of breath fan across your cheeks, sending a bright spark of… something down your spine.

You don’t particularly want to answer either of his questions, but you know that he won’t let it go. He’s been being patient with you, you realise, waiting until a moment like this, when you’re alone and unguarded to interrogate you. The question is why? Actually, the question is how do you avoid answering him? It’s a little hard to think clearly with him so close to you and, judging by the small smirk that plays on his lips, you’re fairly certain he knows it too. “I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.” Which is the truth. It’s just not the whole truth. “As for your other question, well, I guess you’re not as difficult to read as you think you are.” Again, it’s not technically a lie, though how likely Tom is to agree with you is up for debate.

Tom’s stance grows stiff, a long line of barely contained anger and his eyes narrow. You wonder if it’s because you won’t tell him everything, or if it’s because the thought of being known and seen scares him. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither. Regardless, you feel as though you’re breathing water with how thick and heavy the air has grown around the two of you. “You don’t know anything,” He whispers, his voice is soft and low and you might describe it as sensuous if it weren’t for the way that he’s looking at you. Anger and fear coalescing and colliding in the dark pits of his pupils.

Something inside of you breaks. Tom is bad for your health. He makes you reckless and brave and that is sure to spell disaster. You laugh, and it’s not friendly. You’re not happy. You laugh and the sound is a bell toll, a chime of hysteria and disbelief. “Trust me, I wish I didn’t know anything.” And that… That is a lie. The more you find out about Tom the more you want to uncover. It’s a feral kind of hunger that overtakes and consumes you without you wanting it to. Just as he had ten minutes earlier, you take a step towards him and you’re so close that you can practically feel the tension that is rolling off of him. Your eyes trace the taught tendons in his neck, and clench of his fists, the pinched line of his lips. Something that could be glee flares deep inside you when his expression cracks, just a little, just enough for you to see surprise flit through his eyes.

He takes a step back. It feels like a victory. He looks wrong-footed, as though he is entirely unprepared for you to turn aggressor in this situation and you realise that Tom is probably aware of the effect that he has on people, has probably learnt how to wield his beauty and his intimidating personality in equal measure to get what he wants. You’re pretty sure that no one has ever called him on his bluff before. Because he was bluffing, you’re certain of that now. You can see the way nervousness plays in the barely-there shifting of his weight and in the way he’s leaning back ever so slightly. It makes you feel powerful. It makes you want to reach out and take and hold until you’re imprinted on his skin.

You don’t do any of those things. You let the tension simmer and you smile, something bitter and cynical and maybe a little taunting and then you push past him. You still have half a castle to patrol but you’re not sure you can stand to be near him right now, not until you’ve calmed down enough to sort your thoughts out. “I’ll meet you at the library,” You call over your shoulder and you’re only a little disappointed when he doesn’t follow.

***

Outside, the night air is cool against your flushed skin and you feel calmer before you’ve even lit your cigarette. You sit at the top of the steps that lead up to the castle and thumb your lighter impatiently, breathing in tobacco and nicotine and smoke. You’re not expecting to See anything in the smoke tonight - the inner eye doesn’t do well with an agitated mind and you’re too worked up to meditate. Which is why it’s all the more surprising when the smoke hangs in the air, unnaturally thick and still.

Tom is bad for your health. But you already knew that.

The phantom boy emerges from the smoke and this time, he’s clearer, more defined, a smokey apparition of bad omens to come. You watch in a trancelike state as the familiar scene plays out and the boy grows gaunt and haunted, breaking into seven until all that remains is a shade of a man, more ghoul than human. Each of the seven splinters begins to shake and you imagine that if smoke could make noise you’d hear screaming.

You’re startled from your reverie by Tom, who sits down next to you. The smoke collapses and you blink yourself back into reality. When you finally drag your gaze towards him you’re unsurprised to find that the full weight of his attention is focussed on you. He watches you with an intensity that makes the back of your neck prickle and your stomach drop to your knees. You see the instant that he puts it all together, you have a feeling he’s suspected for a while. And isn’t that a funny thing? You’ve been so focused on Seeing him, that you didn’t notice that he’s been seeing you the whole time too.

When he touches you though, his hands are tentative, like he’s unsure if he should, if he can, if he’s allowed. His fingers barely graze your skin, skittish and hesitant. But his touch is warm and human and you want him like this always. Whatever his future might be, you want him warm and human and whole.

“What did you See?”