Archive of Our Own ^beta

Near the tail-end of summer, once the sun had relented: once the forests did appear like signatures on the horizon, scrawling with ink bleeding pink and lavender; once the lights began to dim as they swung in those compartments, like fireflies in the evening and growing softer with the night; and once their backs were then turned and while they rummaged at the hip, tugging robes then ties then shoes then shirts and then peeling from the shells that they wore at the platform: once or twice he might’ve looked when curiosity knew the best of him. Once or twice he might’ve stared and traced the outline of his friend, and more than once — were he honest — was it anything but sincere.

Sincere in its not: many assumed it to be honesty but rather, in its innocence. And there was nothing innocent in what Tom was doing as he buttoned his buttons and tied his tie, as he fetched every star and constellation on Harry’s back that were sewn there by the sun and afternoons of playing quidditch.

As he sketched the Northern Cross and there was Cygnus at his neck, its entire wingspan on his shoulders and merely moments ‘til it flew again. As he spotted near the ridges and every stair step to that spine, the Summer Triangle like a house for an inconspicuous, little fox that was as faint as any star while roaming through its tracks. And then smaller but not fainter beneath the wings of Aquila, with the thunder and the lightning hers for her to beck, traversing from a hip as she climbed Mount Olympus — Tom knew of Delphinus and could score it from memory.

Having burned it to his eyelids and then sculpted the image every time he fell asleep because out of all of them, it was his favorite.

Because it was the first one he ever noticed, it was in a picture sent with Hedwig: when she pecked at a window and the only barred one at the orphanage, and then slipped through with magic that might’ve been intentional, and then fluttered to his footsteps as he paced around with theory. And then he eared the Numerology: Acts of Division with his thumb so that the owl could perch up and nibble him if she wanted. So she could preen him like a mother pulling twigs off of an owlet and in turn, Tom returned this with a few scratches at her feathers. And then he hissed to her hoot before he kissed her on the forehead, and perhaps he imagined that instead of her it could’ve been — and then the letter at her wing seemed interesting all of a sudden.

Because it was Harry’s — from Harry’s — and meant for Tom’s eyes and his only: and his scrawls were even messier than the essays he would proofread but fear not, he was an expert in all things that were Harry that the mess didn’t do anything as Tom read this with leisure.

Strolling around his room and with Hedwig on his shoulder, quirked with every sentence and eyes of warm honey as he heard Harry near his ear, narrating his adventures from the pitch, to the cottage and everywhere with Sirius. From every game and that of practice as he played on a team, as a Seeker in some League, and Tom remembered it was the Howlers and that Harry’s nickname was Thunderbolt. And that the real games were in a week’s time so very soon, he’d have many letters: of every win, every loss, every draw and injury, and every gameplay that excited the serpent inside of Harry.

And there was a lion within Tom when he read the second half, when he turned to the parchment hid behind the very first: because taped there and in the middle, he saw the entirety of Harry’s back. And his shoulders making room from all the training he had done, his neck behind a curtain of the softest dark hair, his arms and his tan and the sweat to his person, and with a galaxy as a baby through the freckles Tom could see. And where the first constellation was like a dolphin near his arse, riding above the sweatpants that were battered during practice, as Harry shimmied into a shirt and finally noticed he was on camera.

And the only person who would’ve caught this had to be none other than his godfather, that at the time Tom considered getting him a very generous birthday gift.

Because it wasn’t the back nor the freckles nor the muscles peeking through — though certainly, they were a bonus and there was no denying about that — it was the humor behind his eyes and the crookedness of Harry’s mouth, how it quirked towards his right and was as gentle as the sun when it peeked through the blindings to arouse you to get up; that smile was the definition of who Harry would always be and to know he was friends with and was as close to it as one could be, it kindled something inside of Tom that if you rhymed it, it might’ve been love.

Love for this boy, for his smile and energy — it didn’t surprise him; he would’ve gotten here whether later or even then, but he was there and it was now. And this smile had ruined him in the softest way possible that if Harry could see him, he’d see the pawprints of a blush smearing darkly at the corners of his cheeks and his mouth. Like those from a lion while pacing back and forth, knowing it had to wait once it knew a meal was coming. And that meal and that drink and the tray it’d be carried on would be in the confines of a platform and his on the train: in the compartment near the end of this bustling Express as he was halfway to being ready while behind him and undressed, Harry shucked into his trousers and was fiddling with the buttons.

Those Seeker hands and lovely fingers took their time as they wandered up. So did the feet when they searched for a jumper and a buttoned-up; Harry tossed them to his reach and slowly worked his way through all the fabric, all the pullings and the tucking towards the end. And every time he dipped below the waistband of his trousers, straightening his buttoned-up and shimmying to where he liked it, Tom was an eagle to those gestures and caught glimpses through the window.

Delightfully reflected in front of the Scottish afterglow, softened by the light and made beautiful by the train. And it was like a secret for only him as Tom messed with his own tie, doing and redoing to maintain his charade. Because if he didn’t, he’d have to turn — and then Harry would know the truth.

He was never a good liar when it came to this boy: when he confessed he had no one and let alone a dear friend, when he was scared of his own House and thought he might’ve been a mistake, when he was frustrated and tired and on-edge with many things because he was pulled apart by the seams and wished he lived with magic — wished he was anything but a student coming home to an orphanage, suppressing his powers and ticked-off with his peers. He wished he could’ve known better about the wixen world and magic, wished there were resources he could’ve turned to and leveraged as an escape. And Tom would wish for many things and that list had only grown that with each new addition, Harry would always come to know.

But with this wish inside him now, he didn’t want Harry to know it yet. Not until he was everything he knew he could be and this year was the start of it; so for now, he had to be patient even if it drew him mad. Having tied and dissected and done the Windsor twenty times, Tom settled for twenty-first and schooled his face into something passive, something lofty Harry knew him by.

It was their fourth year, after all, and through the whispers, he heard of something that spelled eternal glory and maybe a part of him was interested.

'For the history' — Tom would argue as his hands were full and twitching, and just before he turned around to charm his luggage from the floor he caught Harry for the last time through his image in the window. And awaiting him was a smile so faint you had to know him to know it was there in the first place as Harry played with his tie.

The crimson dark around his thumb and itching to be replaced with lips that would kiss it, that would marvel at its person. And coincidence or maybe not, Harry caught him through the window and when neither looked away, an easy grin was in his mouth. And everything about it spoke of trouble in the sweetest way possible, as if the show behind his back and had earned Tom a distraction was deliberate, Slytherin and Harry eyed Tom as he Gryffindor-ed. Thinking that the other wouldn’t notice his stare and his longing, and you wouldn’t unless you knew Tom — and Harry was something of an expert.

Which begged the questions: ‘what did you notice?’ and ‘was the sight as you imagined?’

And from Tom: ‘when did you realize?’ and ‘it must’ve started with that letter…’

Or perhaps, before then — Harry turned to meet his face: still working with his tie and not a bit of him sincere. And by that, you’d be damned if you thought this to be innocent because of all this was a play to gauge the other’s growing interest and to know it to be there when mere writing couldn’t suffice. Behind the curtain of his hair, he caught Tom’s lovely smile and it was toothsome and deadly and as genuine as Harry’s own — biting lightly at the evening and worth its weight in gold. That instead of this half-turn, or this pivot if you will, Harry turned the whole way and drank the sight of Tom’s notice.

Fingers leaving the tie undone as soon as the other broke the circle, broke the boundary in-between them and took Harry by the hand: with this tie — a substitute, Tom wandered to his collar and threaded around his thumb the fabric of this instrument and knowing that Harry couldn’t glance from him. Because in some light, he was a snitch and it wouldn’t do if he wasn’t caught. So despite the gentle grin he’d do anything to have it kissed, to have it nipped and flowered and rosy at his skin, Tom trained his gaze to the knot that had been a blur a bit earlier.

And slowly, slowly he tightened it to Harry’s neck, brushed the apple of forbidden knowledge and felt it bob behind his knuckle. It’d be so easy to lean in, but he wasn’t that distracted.

Not yet, anyway — he could wait for dessert.