Edited as of JUly 2018.

Enjoy!

-:-

Winter at Hogwarts was always something else.

During even the coldest of days, Tom could be found outside at irregular hours sat in his usual spot under the willow by the lake. The trailing fronds were bare of any green, but Tom sat under them anyway, framed by the naked branches. His knees would be pushed up to his chin and skinny arms wrapped around his shins that shook from cold. All his exposed skin paled into a sort of fish-belly color that exposed his veins in stark blue relief. He never covered his arms when he was outside, and he never cast a warming charm. He let the flakes of snow melt in his dark hair and the cold air bite into his skin with winter's ferocity.

The frigid lake always held his passive stare. The edges were frozen but the center remained clear of ice, the water a flat calm. Even the squid barely breached the surface during the unforgiving Scottish winter. Only Tom remained outside during the twilight, allowing his body to shut down into a freezing numbness.

He would remain there, staring at the lake for hours, disregarding his surroundings completely. Then he would suddenly stand and retreat back into the castle's warmth as night fell and curfew drew close.

He only did this during the winter.

Every other season he became a shade, moving listlessly about the corridors to his classes and to the Great Hall. He would stare straight ahead, unfocused and dull, yet he always seemed to know exactly where he was going and who was surrounding him—he would never run into anyone, and nobody would run into him.

In class, he never spoke. He would sit in the back, isolated from his fellow students, yet he would complete his work almost perfectly every time. As far as anyone knew, he had top marks. Throughout the years, however, he had sunk into the mortar of Hogwarts, always there but completely overlooked by his year-mates and the rest of the students. Even the professors often forgot his presence.

Tom Riddle was a forgotten boy.

Only one other person ever seemed to remember him, dug up like an old photograph and gazed upon with fascination. Only now, finally, he had gathered the courage to approach Tom Riddle.

-:-

"Excuse me?"

The voice was so small, almost distant. It easily slipped through one of Tom's ears and out the other, completely discarded.

He kept walking, steadfastly avoiding the few bodies in the main hall. He hugged the wall, blending spectacularly with the stones. It was almost an art, at that point.

"Excuse me," the voice cried again, louder, even closer. Tom was prepared to ignore it again until—"Tom Riddle!"

He whirled around, startled. He had not heard his name from another's mouth in quite a long time. Hearing it now it felt almost like a stranger's name, but his reaction was instinctual. His passive gaze fell upon the one who had called him out, and he immediately placed the boy before him, inwardly sighing heavily as he did so.

"Potter," he stated dismally. His posture all but screamed that he wished to be anywhere but there talking with the boy, but Tom also did not consider himself rude enough to simply walk away. He had good reason to believe Potter would simply follow if he did.

Harry Potter had never been someone Tom took much interest in—Tom did not really take interest in anybody. But, like he knew about the rest of the students that surrounded him, Tom knew about Harry Potter. He did enjoy knowledge, after all, in any way he could get it, and about anyone or anything. Potter was a Gryffindor as opposed to his own Ravenclaw. He displayed the classic traits a bit like a male lion displayed its great mane; proud, stubborn, and quite a bit lazy. Potter had grown taller, more male since their first few years of school, but so had Tom. He had never paid much attention to the boy before, but now he could not stop his eyes from unraveling Potter's figure.

The other boy was eye-level with him, perhaps even a touch taller. His black hair was a curly, thick mess that curled around his ears and fell into his green eyes. He knew, from the pictures and visits from the boy's father, that it was inherited. He had, at some stage, gotten rid of those ghastly glasses he wore when he was younger.

Tom absently rubbed his own jaw upon spying dark stubble under Potter's skin.

He still had not spoken, and Tom found himself growing a bit irritated.

"What did you want, then?" he asked thinly, glancing over his shoulder longingly. He had an essay due; he should really be at the library.

Potter had the grace to blush—he had been observing Tom shyly yet excitedly, just as much as Tom had been observing him.

"Um, I actually wanted to ask about that Transfiguration essay," he said hastily, hesitant to meet Tom's eyes. "I don't really understand what McGonagall asked for, and Hermione refuses to help me this time, and I just…I know you're good, so…can you help me with it?" The request was nearly breathed out in his rush. The red on Potter's cheeks was still ever present.

He raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't have much time to help you, though I'm sure you can find—"

"Please," Potter breathed, his eyes shining with something akin to desperation. "I'd like your help."

Tom pursed his lips into a thin line, considering the boy before him. While his request was sincere, he couldn't help but think something else was fuelling Potter's desire to ask him, of all people, for help. He wondered why Potter even noticed him. Everyone else in the school had forgotten about him long ago.

He wasn't sure if he liked this sudden attention, much less being asked to spend time with another person. Nonetheless, he sighed resignedly.

"Fine. I was actually heading to the library to work on it now before you…interrupted me. Are you free?"

Potter gave him a sheepish smile but he nodded, hitching his bag further up his shoulder. "Thank you so much! I'll repay you for this, I promise."

"I hardly doubt you have anything I want," Tom said blandly as he turned and began the trek to the library. Potter followed dutifully at his heels.

"I'll find some way," Potter promised eagerly. Tom scoffed lightly but did not press the subject. Quite frankly, he had not spoken aloud so much in quite a long time; his jaw was beginning to ache from the disuse. He rubbed it again.

"How did you know I'm good at Transfiguration?" Tom asked abruptly.

"You get top marks, of course. Better than Hermione, even. She gets into a right fit if anyone mentions her being second of her year," Harry said casually. He was managing to keep up with Tom's quick, fluid gait, now having drawn level to the other boy.

"And she won't help you, you said?"

"Yeah, in fact she suggested I ask you. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure she was just being spiteful. She sounded kinda mad, but I just took her on," Harry shrugged. Tom caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, but still he did not look at the other boy.

"Pity," he murmured, more to himself than Harry. He barely caught the small grin he received as a response from the corner of his eye.

"You don't like talking to people much, do you?"

Tom pursed his lips slightly, sparing Potter a sidelong glance. "How ever did you guess?" His attempt at sarcasm sounded rather strangled and stiff, even to his own ears.

Potter's grin widened, still lacking any trace of mocking. In fact, he seemed rather delighted about something. "Just a hunch, I guess," he replied, keeping to the sarcastic banter.

Tom sighed gently. "People have long since forgotten about me, and I owe no one my attention. I do not receive it in return and I find myself agreeable to this unbidden arrangement." He was unsure as to why he was explaining himself, and to Potter, of all people, but the words sprang to his lips quite without his permission. His mouth twisted with harsh afterthought.

"Ah," Potter said, frowning slightly. "That works, I guess. For them, I mean. Not really me. I mean to say, um," and he hesitated, his tongue struggling around the sentence and clearly attempting to strangle itself.

Tom very nearly rolled his eyes at Potter. "Spit it out," he snapped. He could feel the patience he had not used in years wearing thin.

"Well, I mean I've…noticed you, haven't I?" Potter shrugged, an attempt at casual carelessness, though he was still blushing. Tom cast him a wary look but continued to walk. The library was nearing. The sooner he could help Potter with his homework, the sooner they could put this interaction behind them.

He hoped, at least.

"Unfortunately," Tom muttered in response to Potter's almost-question.

"You really don't like talking to me especially, do you?" Potter piped up, astoundingly astute in his observation.

"How ever did you figure it out," Tom scowled, yanking open the door to the library and making to walk inside when he felt the weight of Potter's hand on his shoulder. He tensed. So few ever touched him, and fewer actually did so purposefully. The few times he had ever been touched had never been very pleasant.

"Sorry," Potter mumbled, quickly dropping his hand, but he had gained Tom's attention regardless. "I just wanted to ask you to give me a shot. You don't really have to like me yet, I just want a chance to talk to you…you know, get to know you. I want to be your friend."

Tom turned to stare incredulously at Potter, arching a delicate eyebrow at the boy. "You want to be my friend?" he asked, disbelief coloring his words. "Who put you up to this?"

"What?" Genuine confusion crossed Potter's face for a brief second. "Nobody! I swear, on uh, my broomstick or whatever. Honest, I just think you're…interesting," he trailed off at the end with a slight shrug, though his cheeks again colored suspiciously.

Tom stared incredulously, unsure of whether he should take Potter at his word or not. Finally, he settled on shaking his head and turning away to walk towards the back of the library. "Your loss, Potter. I'm about as exciting as pointy rocks," he griped over his shoulder, though he could hear Potter's footsteps scampering behind him.

He pulled out a chair at one of the tables in the back and sat down gracefully, immediately beginning to pull out the necessary books from his bag. Potter flopped down in an ungainly sprawl in the chair beside him, earning a withering stare from Tom before the he smoothed out a piece of parchment to begin the essay.

"Well?" he asked softly, raising a single eyebrow at Potter, who stared dimly back.

"What?" he intoned dumbly. Tom glanced at the spread on the table before staring pointedly back at Potter.

"You wanted my help on the essay, did you not?" he inquired tonelessly.

"Oh!" Potter sat up as though lightning had struck him. A blush instantly blazed across his face, even turning his ears a rather remarkable shade of red. Tom pursed his lips. "I'm sorry, yeah, yeah, let me just..." He bent over and pawed around in his bag, which Tom could see was an absolute sty of assorted books, snapped quills, discarded unbreakable ink bottles—at least, he would be surprised if they weren't seeing how they had somehow managed to survive the mess in Potter's bag—and what looked to be some thin, shiny, silvery material poking around a few of the tattered books and pieces of parchment. Somehow, the flustered boy managed to extract their Transfiguration text, a clean piece of parchment, and a good quill, complete with a full ink pot, and placed it all on the table.

"Are you finished preparing?" Tom asked blandly, but did not wait to see the other boy's answer as he turned to his own book and flipped to the necessary chapter.

"Sorry, didn't mean to get…distracted," Potter mumbled, and Tom could practically hear Harry's embarrassment at having been caught off-guard.

"If I'm to help you, it will not do to get distracted. Please, pay attention." He cast Potter a stern look. The other boy ducked his head, listless fingers immediately beginning to fiddle with the quill in his hand.

"McGonagall wants at least thirteen inches on the major differences between transfiguring living things as opposed to transfiguring non-living objects, as well as situational benefits and consequences of both. Have you at least got that much?" Tom recited slowly, as though Potter were a small child.

The other boy's mouth twisted appropriately. "I'm not completely daft, you know. I'm not Ron, I at least pay attention and shit."

Tom scowled at the swear but said nothing about it, choosing instead to turn to their text. "Then why do you need my help?"

"Like I said," he began rather exasperatedly, his previous confidence having bled back in, "I'm not entirely sure if I get the whole picture, I mean thirteen inches is a bit much for what she's asking, isn't it? I thought you could help me…understand it better, I guess," he shrugged, though he was staring despondently at his blank parchment.

"Understand it better?"

"Yeah, I…," he sighed explosively, shaking his head and suddenly snapping his book closed. "Maybe this was a mistake, I'll just badger Hermione until she caves or something." He made to stand, looking frustrated and put-off.

"Sit down," Tom commanded, waving vaguely at the seat Potter had just vacated. "I offered my help and I won't go back on my word, no matter how much I wish to be left alone. If you came to me you must have a good reason, now sit."

Potter sat. "Sorry," he mumbled, casting a cursory glance at Tom. Said boy barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

"Shall we get started?" he stated placidly. At Potter's jerky nod, Tom immediately launched into explaining the basics of their assigned topic, making sure he was using as dim a vocabulary as possible so that Potter could easily follow—not to say he thought the boy completely useless, but that Potter was more or less easily distracted. Smaller, more precise words would help him pay attention.

Potter, to his surprise, was jotting down several notes as Tom spoke, whereas he had thought Potter would simply listen with his usual vacant expression and spin his teaching into a passable essay. He actually appeared to be paying attention, which struck Tom as both out of character and oddly flattering. Potter never paid attention to schoolwork.

Not that he noticed, really.

"I would suggest taking a lot of your source material from these paragraphs," Tom spoke, quickly leaning over to tap said paragraphs in Potter's text with his wand, which immediately highlighted them. His shoulder brushed against Potter's with this movement and the other boy shifted suddenly at the contact. Tom quickly drew back, eyeing the subtle blush on Potter's cheeks, but said nothing.

"Um…thanks," Potter mumbled latently, fumbling for his book and beginning to read the highlighted paragraphs.

Tom sighed exasperatedly. He turned to his own parchment, quickly scratching out a few more sentences, but suddenly Potter was proving to be a distinct distraction that kept him from focusing. Nobody and nothing distracted Tom Riddle. He was quickly growing frustrated with this new development.

"Um, so…should I add in something about animagi? Like its differences from transfiguration, and maybe as an example of human transformation?" Potter suddenly asked, sounding oddly confident yet again.

Tom glanced up at him and was immediately met with a broad, charming smile. "Yes, an excellent point to make. I'm sure McGonagall will appreciate the mention, being an animagus herself."

"I thought so." He seemed almost proud and quickly bent over his parchment, writing furiously.

"Do try to write more carefully, Potter. I don't think the teachers enjoy deciphering your unintelligible scrawl."

"Huh?" Potter reared back, staring at his half-finished essay rather blankly, his head tilted. "It doesn't look all that bad to me."

"Oh, please." Tom leaned over to peer more closely at Potter's essay. He did not miss the subtle intake of breath from the other boy. "Your handwriting is absolutely dismal. The professors take points off for illegibility, you know. You really should work on that, or at least buy a handwriting-corrector quill."

"They make those?" Potter breathed, and Tom turned to look at him. He barely caught Potter's inhale as he turned.

"Were you sniffing me?" Tom asked, eyebrows climbing his forehead in complete disbelief.

Potter looked away for a moment before staring straight at Tom, quickly plastering a cocky grin on his face. "Maybe," he shrugged carelessly. Tom's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You smell nice, it just kinda happened."

"I smell nice," Tom repeated in dull astonishment. He eyed the other boy warily before retreating a considerable distance. "Whatever gets you off, Potter. Just don't make it a habit," he mumbled, attempting to once again focus on his essay.

A quiet huff sounded next to him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to smell you, really, you just…," Potter shrugged half-heartedly, now looking thoroughly put out. "Sorry if it freaked you out."

Tom sighed and carefully placed his quill down yet again before turning to stare with pursed lips at the Gryffindor. "First off, you did not freak me out. As disconcerting as you smelling me may be, I was honestly expecting to endure far worse during this impromptu tutoring session. Second, and to be rather frank, I still cannot quite understand what this sudden," and here he paused, rolling his eyes upward as he searched for his chosen word, and then finally, "fascination with me is, and it leaves me understandably perplexed. So tell me, Potter, in lieu of my own figuring your bloody motives out, what are you doing here?"

Potter blinked rather stupidly for several moments, leaving Tom in impatient turmoil. Just as Tom's mouth opened to continue chewing the other boy out in his impassive manner, Potter cleared his throat rather awkwardly, appearing to steel himself for his next words.

"I…I get that you're always alone and stuff and, hell, today is the only time I've ever heard you speak, even in classes. I'm not really sure what made me do it but, I dunno, I've been watching you for ages, just trying to understand you. I don't like mysteries I can't solve, you know? You are the mystery I've never been able to solve and it drives me crazy!" He laughed suddenly, as though in disbelief that he had just admitted all of that to Tom, and ran a large hand down his face.

"You've been watching me?" Tom parroted in slight amazement. He wasn't quite sure how to feel about that particular development.

"Huh? Yeah, I…for years, I guess. I've just always noticed you because you tried so hard not to be noticed. My mom says even though I take after my dad some, I was always creepily observant. I'd make a good stalker, she says." Potter's lips twist fondly at the mention of his mother, but at seeing the blank expression on Tom's face, he jerks in his seat and quickly attempts to mend his words. "Not that I'm stalking you! Or anything, no, I don't, like, sit outside of your door and memorize your class schedule. Our schedules are the same, that doesn't even make sense—oh my god, shut up, Harry," he babbled, a sort of trickling brook of spewed words and apologies that were giving Tom a slow, dull headache.

"You stalk me?"

"No!" Potter nearly shouted, but seemed to remember he was in a library halfway through and lowered his tone considerably. "No, I don't stalk you. I just find you interesting, really, I…oh, this isn't going well at all." Potter sighed despondently and slumped back into his chair, defeated, before jumping up again. "I'm gonna go, I'm sorry I wasted your time, Tom."

Tom had heard Potter apologize, watched him leave, but no words, no thoughts formed inside of his head beyond the fact that he loved the way Potter had said his name. It had curled off the other's tongue like a sharp wine, both bitter and sweet and it tasted lovely.

Tom stared at the seat Potter had recently vacated. It occurred to him that he should have stopped Potter before he went on about his life, hating himself for trying to butt into Tom's own little world—Tom was realizing that, against all odds, he didn't really mind. He should have said something. He wanted to hear his name on Potter's lips again. He hated his name.

"This is not good."

-:-

He found Potter in a window, his legs curled near his body as though they were comforting him. The window had a wide sill that Potter was perched upon, and an arched frame, like most of the windows of the castle. It overlooked the lake, which was glinting cheerfully in the April sunshine.

"Potter." His voice sounded soft, unsteady, and he cleared his throat with more than a little nervousness behind it. Why, he wondered dimly, was he nervous? It was only Potter.

As the other boy turned towards him, and those intensely green eyes stabbed at his own, he quickly retracted that thought. It was Potter and his heart was suddenly hammering against his chest, threatening to secede from his own body.

"I wanted to apologize for the library. I wasn't offended, or put off, though it was my impression you took it that way. In fact, I had reason to believe you would have avoided speaking to me for the rest of your life unless I approached you to amend the situation. I admit that I found speaking to you…enjoyable. More than I can say for anyone else." He let out a shaky breath, one he hadn't realized he was holding.

Potter blinked slowly. "Oh. Um." He shifted in his makeshift seat, his eyes darting everywhere but directly at Tom until he finally seemed to muster up that Gryffindor courage and locked eyes. Tom's stomach flipped, maybe, he wasn't sure. He didn't eat breakfast. "You mean that?"

Tom, by some titan effort, managed to stop himself from saying "huh?" and instead said, "About enjoying your company? Yes. I meant it. I enjoy you."

Potter's lips quirked, and Tom frankly didn't find any part of this conversation funny, but Potter cut off any further indignant thoughts rather effectively. "That's good to hear. I enjoy you too. Would you like to sit?" He gestured to the empty space across from him. It was a wide sill, and Tom contemplated the merits of clambering up like an ungainly heathen to sit across from Potter before he inwardly shrugged and did just that.

"Sorry about running out on you the other day, then. I mean," and here he shrugged, momentarily at a loss, "I thought you wouldn't want me around any longer after that."

"As much of a freak as you are, Potter, I can honestly say you're the first person that has spoken to me like I'm a human in a very long time. Very few ever do." Tom sighed, leaning against the hard stone. Their cool touch seeped into his back and he shivered.

"Call me Harry," the other boy said slowly, unintentionally nudging Tom's foot—or maybe it was intentional, what with Potter—Harry?—biting his lip and staring up at him through his lashes like a bashful doe. "How else was I supposed to treat you?"

Tom snorted. "Ignore me? Like everyone else? That's what they do. I was under the impression our library excursion was some sort of joke on my behalf, and you'd have your laughs with your little friends after getting close to me or some such. Which, for all I know, you may still be doing that…"

Harry smiled slowly, softly, and the sun highlighted some more of that stray stubble lurking under the skin around his jaw. Tom thought Harry must be pretty dismal at shaving if he always missed, or maybe his mirror was a pathological liar. "I may be a Gryffindor but I'm not cruel, Tom. My mother always made sure I never ended up like my dad when he was in school. He bullied, apparently, he and my godfather and Remus. I think I inherited her heart anyway—I never could stand to be mean to anyone. Even someone that's invisible." He shrugged, and his green eyes found Tom's once again. Tom's heart was beating impossibly fast. "I think that's more the reason why I noticed you."

"Oh." Tom glanced down, refusing to blush, especially not for Potter. "I guess I'm not doing my job so well anymore, then. That won't do, being noticed and all."

Harry laughed, and Tom couldn't stop the small smile that pulled at his cheeks. It wasn't a very big smile, hardly at all, but it somehow made Harry stop laughing and his eyes roved over Tom's face like he was some fascinating work of ancient art.

"You should smile more," he said softly. "It's really cute."

Tom scoffed. "I am not cute, Potter. Don't you know anything about me?"

Harry grinned wider this time, his face splitting with that boyish grin that crinkled his eyes at the corners. "Are too," he laughed, nudging again at Tom's foot. "You're adorable. I could eat you up."

Tom blushed and Harry beamed smugly like he had just won some grand prize. "You couldn't. I taste like old socks. You wouldn't get far at all."

"Bet I could," Harry purred, leaning forward far enough to nearly invade Tom's space—though, Tom found, he didn't really mind the nearness as much as he had expected to. Harry smelled like oak trees. "Wanna see how far I can get?"

Tom wasn't sure if this was flirting, he had never been flirted with, but he was blushing enough for the both of them. "You smell like trees," he blurted, the only thing he could think to say, and Harry jerked back, startled. "Oak, I mean. Very Gryffindor. I have to go to class."

A large hand grabbed at his arm before he could slide off of their makeshift seat and go drown himself in the lake. "Don't, please? And it's Sunday, you ass, we don't have any classes today. Nice try." His smile was so easy and forgiving that Tom could feel his body relaxing despite himself. He tried to replicate that easy smile so his muscles would relax, but his lips quivered a little at the strain and he immediately stopped.

Harry, to his credit, only smiled, more gently this time, and patted Tom's leg. "See? We don't have to run away from each other all the time. I bet if we just sat and chatted like old friends we'd be old friends in no time at all."

"Really, you need my company that bad?" Tom rolled his eyes, but it lacked his usual bite. As much as he was loathe to admit it, Po—Harry was growing on him, like the growing stubble that Harry constantly missed. Tom couldn't resist a quick swipe at the darkened hairs, still lurking near Harry's sharp jaw, and he jerked his hand back just as soon as he realized what he had done. His eyes widened with mortification, and he froze.

"What, do I have something on my face?" Harry's own hand ghosted over the spot curiously, and his fingers scratched at the rough stubble once they found it. "Ah, I always miss a spot on my face after a shave. I'm tempted to stop and let it grow."

"And look like a lumberjack? As if," Tom sneered.

Harry chuckled, toeing at Tom's feet. "You're a right princess, aren't you, Lady Tom?"

"Excuse me?" Tom spat, sounding somewhat like a terribly offended cat.

"You know, a diva. Hell, you could be a full-scale queen if you wanted to be." Harry's voice was light, teasing, and Tom couldn't really find it in him to be truly offended at the words. He tended to take things personally, and often, but Harry Potter's easy, laid-back grin and deep, teasing tone of voice somehow dissolved that particular personality trait.

"Good to know," he sniffed, opting instead to tease lightly back. "At least someone acknowledges my status over the rest of these common people."

"That sounds about right. I imagine you don't even know most of their names—common people, indeed." Harry was still grinning, still teasing, but Tom looked down. He suddenly realized how little he knew about Harry, and how little Harry knew of him. He found himself wanting to change that.

"I know their names. I know everyone's names," he said quietly, and Harry leaned forward as if to hear him better.

"Really? Why?"

Tom looked up—a mistake—into Harry's too-green eyes. His stomach flopped uselessly. "I'm smart, and I'm observant. I know everything. I know names, family trees, I know who is friends with who, and who isn't. I like to know things, Harry. I'm more observant than people realize."

"Oh." Harry paused, seemingly a little stunned by the bluntness of Tom's words. Tom thought Harry had probably been set to drag every little fact about Tom out of him kicking and screaming. He found he didn't want that to happen either. He wanted to tell Harry everything, and willingly. It bothered him, but only slightly, because he had never experienced it before. "What do you know about me, then?" Harry said after a few beats of silence.

Tom smiled serenely, leaning back against the stones. "I know you're almost a perfect example of a Gryffindor on the outside. You're a little brash, headstrong, determined, and proud. You are greatly loyal to your friends, and honest almost to a fault. Even your eyes give you away. But you also have Slytherin cunning to you, a sly streak most people wouldn't see coming, and it's that quality which makes you a surprisingly devious person. You're very smart, but you don't really try as hard as you could. You don't feel the need. You're easy-going, you like to work with your hands, and they're constantly moving. They've got callouses, here—" and he turned Harry's hand over in his own, the dark, calloused skin a stark contrast to his own delicately pale skin—"right here, and here. You aren't quick to judge, like your friends. You like to watch, to come to your own conclusions. It's very admirable."

Tom stopped abruptly, a blush blooming across his cheeks. He realized he had been rambling about all of Harry's good qualities. He sounded like a stalker, and he was dimly amused by the irony, but more concerned with Harry's reaction.

Harry, fortunately, only laughed softly. "Well, it seems you are more observant than anyone gives you credit for. No one can say you're some distant, cold, and uncaring shrew now, can they?" His eyes were warm, when Tom dared to meet them, and it relaxed his cold body instantly.

"People say that?" It had tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it, but he found himself relieved for the slightly different topic nonetheless.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Hermione thinks you've got a stick up your ass," Tom wrinkled his nose at that, "and Ron just complains about everything. But for the most part people have written you off as some quiet, distant person who has no feelings and they just ignore you."

"But you didn't," Tom replies quietly, and Harry's eyes soften. Tom shudders.

Harry glances down at his restless fingers. "No, I didn't. I couldn't. I've never been good at ignoring beautiful things."

-:-

Hermione had thought him exceptionally crazy after he extended his friendship to Tom, and then demanded he bring the boy around so she could poke his brains. Harry valiantly refused for a significant amount of time, but he knew Hermione would eventually grow vicious enough to seek Tom out on her own. She was relentless when she got attached to a subject.

While Hermione badgered him about Tom's habits and Ron hemmed and hawed about him being friends with Tom at all, he spent as much time as he could squirreling the other boy away to get to know him on his own.

It hadn't taken him long to realize his fascination was probably a little more like burgeoning love and it scared him, just a little, and he refused to tell anyone else lest they go into cardiac arrest. He had never been very subtle when he tried to flirt, and with Tom he was about as subtle as Hagrid in a teahouse.

Naturally, Tom noticed, but each attempt made him blush and promptly clam up. Once, after Harry told him he had captivating eyes, he didn't talk to Harry for two days.

Finally, Harry decided to be even less subtle and ask. Tom's behavior towards his advances couldn't exactly be taken as rejection, but it wasn't necessarily positive either. Harry wanted to scream a little.

"Tom," he began, immediately catching the other boy's attention. They were in the Room of Requirement, a little gem in the castle that Tom had inadvertently shown him—he had followed, definitely not stalked, Tom to the door and, though Tom was initially a little upset, he had adjusted surprisingly well to Harry's presence in his little haven. "Do you like me?" He still hadn't gotten too good at the subtlety.

Tom blinked slowly. "Well, yes, otherwise I would have booted you out of this room the first time you followed me."

"You know what I meant," Harry frowned. "Like me, as like, more than friend, you know?"

Tom shifted uneasily. "That's a rather juvenile way to put it, Harry."

Harry sighed exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes. "Don't make this hard. My Gryffindor courage only gets me so far before I die of mortification. I want to know, 'cause when I try to flirt with you, you kind of take it well and kinda don't and I never can tell if you appreciate it or if I should stop. It's just…you know, I like you. So, um, I like to make you blush and stuff because it makes you look really cute. But if you want me to stop, I will."

"Harry," Tom said softly, effectively cutting off any further babbling. "I just…I've never had anyone show any kind of affection for me. In the past, if people took an interest in me, it was never good. I've learned to think of every kind of attention as negative, a ploy to use me somehow. You'll have to forgive me if I'm not jumping into your pants right away."

"Wha—no! I don't…I never asked you to jump into my pants. I don't want you just for that!" Harry ran a hand through his wild hair, looking very agitated and flushed. "I didn't know that about you, Tom, I'm really sorry. If you want me to stop, I will, I—" Tom quickly cut him off again before he could descend into another relentless stream of words.

"You're the first person in my life that I've ever come close to considering a real friend. And every day I surprise myself with how much I genuinely like having you around. I don't want to get hurt," Tom sighed, staring hard at Harry. Talking with him so openly made him feel a bit like jumping out of a window, but he knew if he couldn't trust Harry eventually, he'd probably never trust anyone at all.

"You won't, not with me. And I won't let anyone else hurt you, or if they do, they'll really, really regret it. I promise," Harry breathed. His eyes were so wide and intense that they made Tom's own eyes burn. He glanced away and felt something trek down his cheek, wet and alone, and he swiped at it. He was crying.

"Don't cry," Harry whispered, and he started crying harder.

-:-

It took another month, in which Tom did finally meet Hermione and they verbally sparred over a Potions essay for half an hour, for Harry to kiss Tom.

Tom kissed back.

-:-

The end of the year came shortly after, and Tom could feel genuine panic curling in his stomach. He didn't want to go back to the orphanage—he hated it there, it had broken him, and he had to go back every year. And this year he even had someone he didn't want to leave behind while he rotted at the orphanage, but he remained tight-lipped and stubborn.

Only when Harry asked him to stay the summer with his family did Tom think that maybe, just maybe, he would be alright for the next few months. He still took some convincing, because his pride could rival a Gryffindor's head-to-head, but he gave in after Harry batted his eyelashes at him enough.

After meeting Harry's mom, he decided he had made a good decision.

-:-

Lily caught them kissing—he had told Harry the sofa wasn't a very good place to make out, and he was exceptionally smug about it later—and sighed fondly before warning Harry to treat him well or else he would be disowned.

Harry had sulked when his dad said the same thing, and claimed his parents liked Tom more than their own son. When his parents denied nothing and instead asked Tom what spot on the wall would be good for a photograph of himself and Harry, Harry sulked some more.

He chose the east wall of the stairwell.

-:-

Harry's parents had gone to see a muggle movie, a past-time Lily had refused to give up and James secretly adored because he was fascinated with muggle films, and had left Harry and Tom at home.

Fumbling hands on the sofa that left burning trails across their skin and heated kisses quickly turned into Tom being shoved onto Harry's bed and their clothes rapidly disappearing into a forgotten corner.

Harry worshipped his body, trailing thin lips over his throat, chest, nipples, inner thighs, before clumsily sucking Tom's cock as though he had never done it before—he hadn't—and simultaneously preparing the other boy with some hastily acquired lotion.

The lotion felt weird and greasy, and stung a little, but Tom didn't really care about that at all as Harry whispered amazing things into his ear while he pushed inside. He had done this before, not willingly, and never so good, and he chose to think of this moment, with Harry gently holding him and groaning and asking if he was alright and his eyes so green, as his first time.

He liked that idea.

-:-

He didn't recognize the owl tapping on the window of Harry's bedroom, but he supposed it was for Harry anyway and opened the window to let the bird in.

He took the proffered letter and began to deposit it on the bed for Harry to read later when he spied his own name written on the front in a precise, curling script. He didn't recognize the handwriting either.

The owl had left, meaning there was no reply expected, and Tom gently opened the letter. Letters, especially vague and unknown ones, made him very nervous.

He relaxed, however, as he read the short letter.

Tom R.,

I wanted to say I'm sorry I was a little rude to you when I first met you. And that I was ever rude to you at all. Harry is a lot better about not judging people than I am. But you're very intelligent, and I admit that made me very jealous, and very quiet and nice and mostly, you really love Harry. Even Ron can see that. I think you deserve someone like Harry, or maybe vice versa. Harry can be a real brat sometimes. I just wanted to say I wish you both luck, and again that I'm sorry about the rude way I treated you.

-Hermione

Tom read it, and re-read it, and he couldn't stop the slow smile that spread across his face even if he tried. Harry walked in at that moment, eyeing the letter and the smile on Tom's face before raising an eyebrow in query.

"What's that?"

"A letter, from Hermione. She wrote an apology for her treatment of me and wished us luck."

"What, Hermione said that?" Harry snatched the letter and read it. He then smiled slowly as well, his eyes softening, before handing the letter back. "Well, look at that. Now that we've got her blessing she'll be asking when we're getting married and having kittens next."

Tom sputtered, and Harry laughed and kissed him softly before tearing back down the stairs to finish his cupcakes. Tom still found it a little adorable that Harry had a passion for baking, and especially Baking for Tom. Harry claimed it was his favorite pastime, short of Sexy Time with Tom.

He stared again at the letter, admiring the thick parchment it was written on, and contemplated framing it. He left it on the bed and trailed after Harry, still unable to shake the grin from his face.

Some time ago he would never have imagined he would be here, in Harry Potter's house before their seventh year, accepted and happy and loved. He had been ready to spend his entire life alone, but he didn't really mind the course it had taken instead.

He peeked around the corner at Harry, who had somehow managed to smear icing on his cheek within the past five minutes. No, he definitely didn't mind.