Rock, Paper, Scissors

By: Provocative Envy

###

Tom Marvolo Riddle was drunk.

Abraxas Malfoy, Tom's second-favorite henchman, stood frozen in the doorway of the pub—the fucking Dragon's Breath, honestly—and stared at the frankly shocking scene unfolding before him.

An empty fifth of firewhiskey was teetering on the edge of the bar and leaking a smoking amber puddle onto the scarred linoleum counter. The cinnamon red label had been torn off haphazardly, sticky scraps of parchment littering the grimy floor below—they looked like ants, actually, the sort that liked to bite—and a half-full, foggy-rimmed glass was hanging from the uncoordinated clutch of Tom's fingers.

"Abra—Abrah—Abraaaxas!" Tom shouted blearily, swinging his arm up in an astonishingly graceful arc. "You came for me! That's—that's excellent, you are an excellent comra—comrah—comrade! Comrade. Much better than Ed—Edmahhnd. He left me here. Like a traitor."

Abraxas puffed his cheeks out and released a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at the center of his forehead. He would not get wrinkles over this. He would not.

"You sent him to talk to Hermione, Tom," he drawled, stepping gingerly around a rather suspect brown stain on the threadbare carpet. "Well—no, you actually sent him to stop her from removing her belongings from your flat, but—either way. He didn't abandon you."

Tom's expression soured and he flung himself off of his rickety barstool, body swaying precariously as he tried to stand.

"Which I wouldn't have had to do if any of Nott's ide—ideeeah—ideas had worked in the first place," he slurred, angry and vehement.

Abraxas loosened the knot of his tie and rolled his neck around, squinting up at the strangely off-balance, dusty old rafters. There was an obvious spot of wood rot in the far corner. He shuddered, because—the fucking Dragon's Breath, really.

"To be fair, it wasn't technically Nott's fault that she was allergic to roses," he mused. "Also, I maintain that the first-edition Hogwarts; A History was an incredibly thoughtful gift."

Tom twirled his index finger through the air, scowl deepening.

"Not—not a gift," he said, collapsing back onto his stool, legs wobbling.

Abraxas dragged a single, white-gloved fingertip across the puckered edge of the bar. It came back yellow, which—did not seem sanitary. He frowned.

"What? What do you mean, not a gift? I had to Floo to fucking Switzerland to find that book—I nearly got arrested for stalking the bloody auctioneer. Of course it was a gift. It was a wonderful gift."

"She said—she called it a bribe," Tom moaned, enunciating carefully. "Accused me—accused me of trying to buy her. Why would I try to do that? Already—I already have her. Had. Had. Is that—past tense? Must be, since I—I don't have her anymore, do I? Oh, God."

Abraxas's mouth fell open in an admittedly unattractive pout. He was not prepared for this. Tom and Hermione—no one talked about them, ever, because there wasn't anything to say. They were a constant. They were a unit. They were a them, forever, and Abraxas had always privately assumed that their fights—which were myriad in nature and occurred roughly every other Sunday—were foreplay, not—not anything serious.

Because Hermione had shown up during their seventh year at Hogwarts, skirt perfectly hemmed to regulation length, hair neat and accent crisp and Tom had been entranced. It had been unprecedented, and their courtship had consisted of almost nothing but thinly-veiled threats and coldly-delivered insults—there had been screaming matches in the Transfiguration corridor, a rather memorable month of increasingly creative hexes over breakfast, and a peculiarly understated admission of mutual attraction on Christmas morning. Tom had narrowed his eyes, tossed an unwrapped cardboard box full of muggle toothpaste into her lap, and said, "Here. It's peppermint." It had been the first genuine smile Abraxas had ever seen from her, and he had not pretended to understand what had caused it.

Years had passed since that day. And feelings—emotions—they were there, everyone knew that, but no one talked about them. It was an unspoken rule.

Until now, apparently.

"Tom," Abraxas said sternly. "I need you to concentrate. What happened tonight? Why are you under the impression that Hermione has—er—terminated your relationship?"

Tom scratched at the side of his jaw, gaze settling, unfocused and hazy, on the chain of Abraxas's pocket watch.

"She asked me if I loved her," he said morosely. "Which is—we've been—years, Abra—Abrah—Abraxas. Years, we've been together, and she—she should know, shouldn't she? It's a—a bloody stupid question."

Abraxas felt his chin drop onto his chest and his eyes flutter shut.

"You didn't say that to her, did you?" he asked, pained.

"'Course I did," Tom replied, indignant. "Because it was. It—it was the stupidest question she could've asked."

Abraxas inhaled deeply, grimacing at the pungent odor of rancid frying oil and week-old trash—the fucking Dragon's Breath, God, why was he there—and wondered how he was going to fix this.

###

He paid the bemused boy behind the chemist counter with a brand-new hundred-pound note while Tom wandered listlessly through the family planning aisle, gait unsteady and jacket rumpled.

"—never have argued with her about the tampons," Tom warbled, hiccupping. "Never."

The bell above the exit jingled merrily.

"You are in no position to be judging anyone," Abraxas told the cashier, tone imperious.

###

Hermione answered the door to her and Tom's flat with an unimpressed glare.

"Was he at that ridiculous pub again?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "He only ever goes there when he's feeling sorry for himself—and I told Edmond he shouldn't have left him alone, last time he tried speaking Parseltongue to the jukebox, can you even imagine? It was a disaster."

"You—you're still here," Tom said, surprisingly earnest. "I'm—you're still here."

Her face softened, and Abraxas winced—no one ever looked at Tom like that, like he was special, like he was something to be protected, and it was…odd. Abraxas was used to mindless fear and unadulterated rage and patently horrific amounts of bloodshed; he was not used to this quiet sort of affection. He was unashamed to admit that it made him uncomfortable.

"Give it to her," he muttered, clearing his throat and nudging Tom in the ribs. "The—just give it to her, Riddle, she's right bloody there."

Tom blinked.

"I—I got you something," he blurted out, shoving the crinkly white chemist bag into her hands. "It's not a present, though! It's—just—here. Take it."

She huffed and took the bag, snapping it open and reaching in with an exasperated sigh.

"What have you—" She broke off, holding up the neon pink muggle toothbrush, still in its plastic packaging. Her lips parted soundlessly.

"I am hopeless without you, Hermione," Tom said, fidgeting awkwardly. "I resorted—I had to ask Nott for advice, alright, I can't—you can be furious with me as much as you need to be, I'll even—I'll let you do the crossword first, every weekend, ever though I'm better at it, and I'll let you—we'll get that ugly fucking kneazle you're always cooing at and you can name it whatever you like, even, even Crookshanks, just—please, don't leave. Please."

She spun the toothbrush around, inspecting it from every angle, and Abraxas began to creep backwards—if their reunion went in the direction he expected it to, his presence would certainly not be appreciated.

"You're the cleverest man I've ever met," she whispered eventually, smiling—the same smile she'd smiled all those years ago in the Slytherin common room, the small, happy, intimate one that Abraxas would always associate with them. But then she sniffed. "Somehow, though, you're also the most idiotic, because—I wasn't leaving you, Tom, God, I was trying to tell you that I'm pregnant."

Tom paled.

Abraxas resolutely shook his head and Disapparated.

He'd have to have a box of congratulatory cigars sent to the Dragon's Breath—it was Edmond's turn, anyway.

###