Work Text:
There was something off about the new transfer student. So off it made Tom…feel off.
Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The boy had no trail of dark magic, no suspicious habits, nothing obviously criminal besides the haircut - but Tom’s instincts screeched. And Tom Riddle always trusted his instincts. They were sharper than his cheekbones. So it was best to keep an eye on him - this Henry Evans guy.
The breakthrough came one lazy evening in the Slytherin common room. A few students were doing homework, others just chatting. Tom didn’t fancy socializing and was tactically passing by -when he noticed that someone called for Evans, shouting across the room, “Henry!”
Evans didn’t react.
Didn’t even flinch. He just kept staring out at the lake, one hand absently stroking a cat that had curled in his lap like a permanent fixture and dared to look dastardly comfortable.
But then-
“Oi, Henry!” Someone called him again.
This time Evans turned.
Tom narrowed his eyes, cogs in his brain already spinning.
Why hadn’t Evans responded the first time?
Tom’s eyes widened as an idea crossed his mind.
What if that’s not his real name ?
It made a lot of sense. It made the most sense. That would be proof that he was shady. Wicked, even. A positively insidious little bastard with the face of perfect innocence.
Tom started paying attention to what happened when someone was referring to Evans or called him by his name.
In total, across three days, Henry was called by name seven times. He ignored it at first four of those times. Turned late twice. Only responded normally once - and even then with a suspiciously slow blink.
That was enough. It was practically an admission of guilt. Tom had to bring it up during his next Knights of Walpurgis meeting.
“I mean, why would he be hiding his name? People don’t just do that for no reason. He’s obviously hiding more - probably a criminal record, or a disreputable inheritance. What if he’s a spy for Grindelwald? And Dippet, the dolt, does not even bother to check his background! Apparently anyone can just stroll into Hogwarts and assume a fake name now. Does Dippet even realize how dangerous this is? And more importantly, what is his real name? I think it is imperative that we find out and-” Tom was pacing, arms behind his back like a war general mid-breakdown.
Across the classroom, Abraxas slipped a pocket watch from his robes and muttered to Orion, “He’s been at it for forty-three minutes.”
Orion leaned over, checking the watch. Their fingers briefly brushed before they both withdrew.
“Are you surprised?” Orion whispered back. “This morning he went on about Evans’s hair for fifteen minutes. Fifteen. I timed it.”
“What are you two talking about?” Tom barked.
“Nothing,” Orion said innocently. “Just, what if he just dislikes his name? Maybe it’s... Pollux. Or Pyxis.”
He considered that. After all he could relate to an extent. "Tom" wasn’t exactly striking. Still - Evans didn’t give off the aura of someone secretly called Pollux. This was deeper.
“I issue a mission,” Tom declared ominously. “This time I will personally participate. We will uncover the truth behind the alias known as Henry Evans. And when we do-”
“You’ll what? Call him finally by his real name?” drawled Orion.
Tom scoffed. “Please. I’ll do something useful. Coax his secrets out like poison from a wound. Blackmail him, humiliate him, and eviscerate him emotionally. In that order.”
“Ah,” said Orion. “The classic Riddle method.”
“Exactly,” Tom said, unironically.
Tom decided to embark on the mission the very next morning. His strategy was simple: to call out all kinds of names to see which one Evans would respond to. Ingenious, but highly effective.
At breakfast, Tom seated himself within striking distance of the target. He observed Evans, already halfway through his scrambled eggs.
Tom cleared his throat and said, loud and pointedly, “Harold, can you pass me the salt?”
No reaction. Evans shoveled in another forkful of eggs and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
What a brute. Possibly feral. Definitely, definitely suspicious.
Tom had to suppress a shiver at the sheer, unrefined barbarity.
He leaned closer. “Harold. The salt.”
Still nothing. Evans didn’t turn to look at Tom, not even to check why he was asking for a Harold when there had never been one at the Slytherin table.
But Tom noticed - there.
A twitch. A tiny, barely-there twitch of those rosy lips.
That was something. A proof that Tom was right and the name was wrong.
Later, their year had gathered at the locked Potions classroom, waiting for Slughorn to arrive. Tom spotted a book on the floor beside Evans and seized his moment. He cleared his throat and asked, with deceptive casualness, “Hadrian, is that your book?”
Dead stare. Direct eye contact. Oh no.
Those weren’t eyes - they were swamps. Treacherous pools of green, thick with deception, full of fen-fire and drowning mire.
Tom couldn’t breathe. He was sinking, lungs tight, pulse frantic-
Evans blinked. “It’s Henry,” he said, evenly.
That helped Tom claw his way out of the swamp. He smiled - sweet, innocent.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He wasn’t. He was elated.
Evans had responded to him. Spoken to him.
During Potions, Tom wasn’t really listening. He was thinking of other names that started with an H. And later, he noticed that instead of writing potions notes, he had doodled a large H on his parchment, decorated with winding green snakes. His desk mate Orion leaned over, took one look, sighed audibly, muttering, “Seriously?”
Of course he would be amazed by the extent of Tom’s hidden talents.
But admiration alone wasn’t enough. Tom needed control.
“You’re expected to participate in the mission,” he said sternly, starting to draw little red roses among the snakes. “I want five more names crossed off the list by the end of the day.”
Orion looked skeptical. “There’s a list?”
Right. There wasn’t. Well, the list was only in Tom’s head, and it was rather short.
Had he really launched a mission without proper documentation? Salazar help him. He needed to fix this before his Knights strayed beyond the pale - straight into the claws of that savage thug.
“We’ll have an emergency meeting for the Knights. This evening. Tell everyone,” Tom hissed.
But time until the meeting was not to be wasted - Tom tried “Harriet” and “Harrison” on Evans, each time receiving not so much as a flinch, even though he was certain Evans had heard him. Heard, and deliberately ignored him.
That, or he was deaf. Selectively. Which would be catastrophic for the mission.
And yet, Evans never seemed to miss a whispered joke from across the table. Or the sound of someone unwrapping a chocolate frog three seats down.
No, he could hear just fine.
Sooner or later he will slip up. And I will be there to catch him. In the act, Tom thought as he walked to the emergency meeting.
The idea of catching Evans’s shape in any manner was quite tolerable. At worst.
The Knights were already there - Malfoy, Black, and Avery. Avery looked puzzled, while Black and Malfoy looked tired. Even more so as Tom unrolled a long, empty parchment like it was a royal decree. Then he handed each of his knights a separate sheet of clean parchment.
“You will now write all the male names you know that begin with the letter H,” he said crisply. “Each of you must produce at least ten names. No one leaves until this is done.”
A moment of silence.
“What if his real name doesn’t begin with an H?” Malfoy asked.
“Yes, what if it’s… James, or Charles? Or Edward?” said Avery, finally catching up.
Tom turned to them slowly, letting the weight of his disappointment to fill the room. He furrowed his brows and sighed dramatically.
“No. It starts with an H,” Tom said, matter-of-factly.
“How do you know?” Malfoy asked.
“I just know. It’s this… feeling I have,” Tom explained, annoyed. Why did he have to spoon-feed everything to them?
The writing began - though not before Black and Malfoy, seated together, exchanged a round of elbowing after catching each other trying to peek at the names.
For a long time, nothing else was heard except for the quills scratching the parchment.
Like students, one by one they submitted the pages to Tom. When they were done, Tom gestured for them to leave. He wanted to curate the final list in peace and quiet.
First, it was Malfoy’s list.
He had written some regular names, like Hubert and Humphrey. Tom supposed that was fine.
Then he had added some pureblood names - Hector, Horatio, Horace. Acceptable. Toward the end, it seemed Abraxas had run out of steam and resorted to surnames: Harcourt, Hargrave, Havelock.
Tom tapped his quill approvingly.
Good. This was useful.
Next: Avery.
He had added some normal names like Malfoy - Hugo and Hugh before he had gone full ancient mode - with names like Hercules, Heracles, Hades, Hieronymos and so on. Some of the names sounded made-up, like Horimedes and Hilarius.
“Hilarius?” he muttered aloud. “I’ll show him Hilarius.”
However, Black’s list was even worse. He had abandoned the effort to come up with proper names from the beginning.
His list included inspired names like Hlorofilius, Hieroglyphus, Hazzardius, and Hysterius. Even Horntailus and Hexus.
The absolute sod, Tom cursed, and thought about revenge.
However, he wasn’t in a position to hex anyone, as he had run out of ideas himself and needed the help of his vassals, however incompetent it was.
In the end, Tom’s precious parchment held twenty-four names -a nice, even number - carefully chosen, meticulously ordered from the more ordinary to the more… inventive, each letter inscribed in his impeccable calligraphy. He rolled it up like a sacred scroll and tucked it gently under his elbow like a sleeping dove. This was no mere list. It was a strategy. Possibly even evidence in the making.
The common room was empty.
Or was it?
On the couch that wasn’t facing the entrance, he noticed a suspicious shoe dangling over the armrest.
That strange kind of shoe with laces he had only seen on one student.
Tom approached cautiously, peering over the back of the couch like a fox approaching an unattended picnic. He was half-ready to deploy another name on the unsuspecting occupant of the couch.
But Evans was asleep. Lying there, face relaxed, he wore neither his usual defiant expression nor that maddening blankness. Instead, it was soft. Open. His lashes were long and dark, resting like ink strokes against his cheeks.
He definitely doesn’t look like a Hector or a Horatio, Tom thought.
No, he looked like-
Evans shifted, turning in his sleep. His shirt rode up slightly, creasing in a way that revealed a sliver of soft skin at his waist. His lips parted slightly, a slow exhale escaping. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm Tom could not unsee, nor unhear.
It was, for some reason, mesmerizing. No. Unsettling...annoying, even.
Suddenly, there was a presence behind Tom. He jumped, but it was only Abraxas.
Abraxas looked at Tom with a knowing expression and whispered, “Don’t take too long figuring it out.”
Oh, how helpful of you, Abraxas, Tom nearly spat.
As if Tom didn’t know that. Time was of utmost importance now, especially with Grindelwald acquiring more power. He needed to uncover the secret behind Evans as soon as possible.
Over the next week, Tom worked through the list with growing obsession. He had long abandoned any hope that his so-called vassals would be of help. If he wanted something done properly, he had to do it himself.
And the progress was undeniable.
He documented each reaction with meticulous precision:
- Hubert - no reaction. Disappointing.
- Humphrey - he sputtered pumpkin juice all over me. Undignified. Note to self: must wash that shirt soon.
- Hugo - wrinkled his nose. An observation: he has a few freckles.
- Hugh - rolled his eyes
- Hector - fluttered his lashes. Disturbingly so.
- Horatio - said, “Too posh,” and tipped an imaginary monocle.
- Horace - did a scarily accurate Slughorn impersonation and called me “m’boy”. It was rather impressive.
- Harcourt
- Hargrave - nodded as if I had confirmed something, then opened his palm to reveal a single acorn and whispered to it, “And so it begins.” Refused to elaborate.
- Havelock - just raised an eyebrow. Elegant, but inconclusive.
- Hercules - flexed his biceps. So absurd.
- Heracles - did it again. Double-flex. Salazar, he is shameless!
- Hades - closed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Had to explain that’s not how dead people look.
- Hieronymos - flinched and looked around. Then whispered, “Say it thrice and he awakens.” Refused to clarify. Very concerning.
- Haelion - nothing. Suspicious. By now he reacts to everything.
- Hyperius - grinned. Far too wide to be innocent. An observation: His teeth are too white.
- Horimedes - waggled his eyebrows at me in a too expressive way. Uncouth.
- Hilarius - once again, pumpkin juice. This time it even hit my face. I’ve stopped approaching him during meals.
- Hlorofilius - threw a potted plant at me! (Admittedly, we were in Herbology.)
- Hieroglyphus – muttered something about “scraping the bottom of the barrel.” Rude.
- Hazzardius
- Hysterius - burst into maniacal laughter, head thrown back. It went on far too long. Very suspicious.
- Horntailus - roared at me like a dragon. Eyes sparkling. It was… deeply uncalled for.
- Hexus
By the end of the week, Tom called the Knights to their usual classroom. He unrolled the parchment on the desk with flourish. “Some entries are still left, I know, but I’ve gone through almost all of them,” he announced, preening just slightly. “None of you could have done it so efficiently. This is what commitment looks like.”
“I tried though, but both times when I started to talk to him, you appeared from nowhere and interrupted,” Black muttered.
“The same happened to me,” Avery joined.
“I did it out of necessity. Couldn’t let your incompetence ruin the mission.” Tom waved their complaints away. “Now, read the list.”
They did. Silence fell on the room. And it continued after they finished reading. Tom assumed they were stunned by his brilliance yet again.
Black made a strangled sort of noise that quickly turned into a cough. Merlin, some of his knights had the most fragile constitutions. He really needed to get them started on those contrast showers in the mornings. Or ice baths.
“That’s… very thorough,” Black managed, holding a hand in front of his mouth.
Malfoy leaned forward, squinting at the parchment. “The descriptions are a nice touch,” he said softly, though the corners of his mouth twitched a bit. “Very… evocative.”
Avery was biting the inside of his cheek, clearly fighting something off. “So apart from the, um…,” he cleared his throat, “bicep flexing and dragon impersonation, none of the names really worked? He didn’t respond normally to any of them?”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you understand? He’s a seasoned criminal. Those were distractions. Psychological manipulation tactics.”
“Did they work?” Black asked, voice far too casual.
For a moment - just a split second - Tom remembered the way Evans had looked at him, chin tilted, eyes gleaming with mischief before letting out that dragon roar, teeth bared in a grin. Or the moment those biceps had flexed, sleeves clinging to his arms….
“Of course not,” Tom said hoarsely. “I saw through those tactics. Crystal clear.”
Black coughed again. Malfoy murmured something that might have been “good for you.” Avery gave up buried his face in his hands.
Tom sighed, the weight of inevitability settling on his shoulders. It was clear - he and he alone was destined to finish the mission. Only he possessed the spine of tempered steel and guts of toughened basilisk hide to withstand the kind of psychological warfare Evans so casually wielded.
He had three names left and decided to use them all at once. For maximum effect, of course. To increase the odds of success, he made a strategic detour to the bathroom, where he ensured he looked impeccable-smoothed his robes, styled his hair into something effortless, even pinched his cheeks for a touch of color. Briefly, he wondered how Evans’s cheeks often looked so flushed. Probably Glamour.
He smiled at his reflection - sharp and disarming. His smile could coax out secrets from the Head Unspeakable.
He went to look for his target, ready to deliver the final blow.
And there he was. Evans.
Sitting at a stone table in the courtyard with a few Gryffindors and some books, looking obscenely relaxed for someone actively committing identity fraud and house treason.
Tom approached gracefully like he was preparing for a duel. In a sense he was.
The courtyard seemed to still. Even the birds and wind paused out of respect for Tom.
“Hexus Hazzardius Harcourt the Third,” Tom said crisply, “would you mind lending me a quill?”
Evans didn’t look up at first.
The Gryffindors exchanged looks. One of them muttered something that sounded like “not this again.”
And then-
Evans rose. For how crumpled his clothes were, Tom had to admit that his movements were annoyingly smooth. Feline, even.
He strolled up to Tom and stopped much too close.
“Ah yes,” he said, voice maddeningly calm. “I do go by Hexus Hazzardius Harcourt the Third on Wednesdays.”
Was it Wednesday? Tom wasn’t sure. What day was it? What month? What year?
That’s when he noticed it: a quill. Behind Evans’s ear, nestled into that mess of dark curls.
“Take it, then,” Evans said, smiling cheerfully.
Gods.
Tom swallowed.
He extended a hand - slightly trembling, not from emotion, obviously, but from being this close to the epicenter of deceit - and reached for the quill. He even let his fingers brush past it, just a little. Just to touch a bit of that soft - so very soft - hair tucked behind Evans’s ear before he plucked the quill and lowered his hand.
Evans winked.
Then he turned and went back to the table like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just melted the inside of Tom’s brain.
Tom stood there for a full three seconds, stunned, and then fled with the dignity of a startled deer.
____
It would be a lie to say the Quill Incident left Tom undisturbed.
No. He was deeply, obsessively disturbed, possibly traumatized. The traumatic event replayed in his mind on a loop, especially at night, when he tried to sleep but felt his fingertips burning from where they’d brushed Evans’s hair.
Possibly toxic pomade, Tom reasoned.
Then again…he could’ve washed his hands since the incident. But he hadn’t.
Also, the quill was now lying on the pillow next to him.
From time to time, he took it and brushed it against his cheek. Or his neck. Once, across his lips.
He told himself it was just a harmless quill.
But it did make him wonder. If Evans’s hair felt that soft …what about his fingertips? Or his lips?
Merlin’s decaying beard, that quill must be cursed, Tom thought, and sat bolt upright.
He yanked his bedcurtains open and hurled the quill across the room with as much fury as he could muster.
Not that it went far. It fluttered gently and landed right next to his bed.
Scowling, he looked up-
Only to find Malfoy and Black curled up together on one bed, sharing a book.
Cuddling.
“What are you two doing?” he demanded.
“Reading,” said Malfoy.
Tom narrowed his eyes. “You’re cuddling.”
“Yes,” said Black, not even looking up. “And?”
“Why are you cuddling?”
“Because it’s nice. You should try it.”
Tom blinked. He hadn’t considered that. Ever.
But as he returned to his now quill-less bed, haunted and mildly insulted, he found himself wondering if maybe they were right.
Cuddling could be nice.
But the question was - whom to cuddle?
He tried to imagine someone vague. A theoretical person. A vague outline.
But no matter how hard he tried… a certain shape always settled into his mind. Lean muscles under soft robes. Dark lashes and maddening smile.
Tom glared at the ceiling. Then muttered, “Somnus,” knocking himself out before his brain could sabotage him further.
—
Having gone through the entire list might have made some people feel relieved, or convinced that the mission had failed to uncover Evans’s real name and thus his real name was Henry.
But not Tom.
No, Tom was already plotting the next move. Perhaps he’d catch Evans alone, press him into an alcove, and press the truth out of him. Or trick him into writing his name repeatedly somewhere - surely the real one would slip through eventually.
In the meantime, he could still use the old tactic. Just walk up and say a name. It would still be efficient.
There was just one problem.
He’d run out of names.
Still, when he spotted Evans sitting in the common room, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of the sofa like he owned the place, Tom found himself walking over anyway.
Evans looked up, sighed, then straightened, clearly preparing for whatever ridiculous name Tom was about to throw at him today.
Tom stopped in front of him. Opened his mouth. Nothing came.
“Hello…” he began.
His mind blanked.
Seconds ticked. Evans raised a brow.
H… H… what name starts with H??
In a flash of panic, Tom went with his instinct.
“…Honey.”
Evans froze. His eyes widened. And then, slowly, his lips spread into a grin so bright and sharp it should’ve been classified as a close-range weapon. Or the fourth Unforgivable.
“Honey?” he repeated, delighted. “Well. That’s new.”
Tom wanted to snatch the word back, throttle it, hex it into oblivion. But it was out there now - hanging in the air like perfume. Or lethal potion fumes.
Evans leaned back into the sofa, stretching lazily like a cat. His shirt rode up.
“Quite the pivot,” he said. “No more Horrendius or Humdingerus…?”
Tom cleared his throat. “Just… testing a new hypothesis.”
“Mhm.” Evans said amusedly. “And this hypothesis involves pet names?”
“Please. It’s not a pet name. It’s an insult,” Tom lied flatly.
Evans blinked. “Is it?”
“Obviously. Honey is packed with sugar. Sugar rots your teeth. Which you must know well, considering how blindingly white your teeth are.”
Evans snorted. “You’ve noticed my teeth?” he asked, his lips twitching.
“Impossible not to. They could glow in the dark.”
“If you say so…” Evans grinned - with his white teeth.
Tom’s collar suddenly felt too tight. His ears too warm. His spine buzzed with something vile and chemical like a very bad batch of potion.
Evans was watching him now with that unbearable glint in his eye - mischief mixed with glee, and something else Tom didn’t have the emotional vocabulary to name.
“I think I like this new tactic,” Evans murmured. “You should keep at it, Riddle. See what else slips out.”
“I never slip,” Tom snapped.
“No?”
Evans stood. Came closer. Far too close in fact. Tom didn’t step back. He was many things, but a coward wasn’t one of them.
Evans leaned in, voice soft and velvety.
“Well. In case it was a slip…”
He smiled.
“…I’ll keep it between us. I promise…Honey.”
He winked. Walked past. His shoulder brushed Tom’s as he went, and Tom felt it like a burn.
He stood there, arms rigid, thoughts scattered, soul temporarily disconnected from his body.
Someone coughed.
Orion, somehow, had materialized in a nearby armchair - how long had he been there? - lounging with the most heinous, self-satisfied smirk Tom had ever seen.
“Well done,” Orion said, sipping an infuriating cup of tea. “One more off the list… unless, of course, you’d like to keep using that one.”
Tom scoffed, scandalized. Words failed him again. No insult came to mind strong enough to crush Orion and his knowing smirk.
Orion, clearly on a menacing streak, gestured languidly toward the teapot.
“Tea?” he offered. “It’s with honey.”
“If you value any memory you’ve formed in the last six months, you’ll learn to shut your mouth.” Tom hissed.
That worked. Orion visibly recoiled.
“I do… I do value,” he muttered, his hand flying instinctively to his neck.
Only then did Tom notice it - a bruise on Orion’s neck. Tom would have thought that maybe it was some bug bite, but it was distinctly mouth shaped. And Orion wanted to keep a memory of it?
Oh.
He realized he had stared for a moment too long.
Orion noticed and asked defensively, “What?”
“Nothing,” Tom said quickly. He looked away. He found himself briefly considering how it would feel to get such a bruise. Or give it to someone.
But why would he do that? And to whom, even. It was ridiculous notion, Hilarius, even.
——
The Honey Incident lingered in Tom’s mind so persistently, he’d all but abandoned the mission.
Whether it was temporary or for good, he didn’t know yet.
He resumed sitting farther away from Evans during meals and not approaching him in the common room.
With their interactions reduced to non-existence, he felt strangely… empty. It was a bizarre feeling. It wasn’t like Evans was his friend, or his knight.Then why did not speaking to him leave Tom so… unsettled?
And worse - sometimes, when he allowed himself to look at him, he saw that Evans seemed quieter than usual, not flashing his grin as much as he used to. He’d gone back to that expression of blankness, even somberness.
Tom noticed that his housemates were shooting strange glances at him - sometimes encouraging, but sometimes pitying. He glared back with passion at both, throwing in a few hexes for good measure.
But the glances didn’t stop, especially when the Hogsmeade weekend came.
At Friday supper, he allowed himself to look at Evans for a moment -to see that he was stabbing at his food absentmindedly, biting his lip. He then raised a glass of pumpkin juice to his mouth.
Tom briefly wondered - purely academically of course - whether it was possible to transfigure oneself into a glass.
“You know,” Abraxas whispered next to him, “you can always just ask him.”
“Ask what to whom?”
“To Evans. To go to Hogsmeade.”
“Now why would I do that? The mission is in cessation.”
Abraxas sighed but didn’t say anything more. He raised to his feet. “Just forget about the damn mission Tom.” He said and left.
Sure. It was easy for Malfoy to suggest that. He hadn’t been fully invested in it. He hadn’t suffered through humiliating incidents involving quills and substances produced by bees.
The next morning, Tom watched as Evans left for Hogsmeade with a group of students from mixed houses.
Orion and Abraxas left together. Holding hands.
Seeing that made his chest tighten - a pang, or maybe just the chill catching him. He really ought to start wearing a scarf.
He tried to read, but couldn’t focus at all. Before he knew it, he was pulling on warmer robes and heading out to Hogsmeade. Maybe he could find Avery for company, have some butterbeer.
The streets of Hogsmeade were full of excited students, red-cheeked and laughing. He felt like a sore thumb, utterly out of place.
He wanted to go back.
He was turning around a corner when someone ran into him.
Someone whose unruly hair stuck out from under their hat, and whose scarf was wrapped around them like it was never going to let them go. That, Tom could understand.
“Tom,” Evans said, surprised.
“Evans,” he replied in a low voice.
“You’re here,” Evans stated.
“Well spotted.”
“I… um. I wanted to do it later, but…” He seemed… shy? “I have a gift for you.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Here.” Evans took something from his coat pocket, and put it into Tom’s hand.
Tom took it, inspecting it as Evans explained:
“It’s a honey quill.”
“Like a sugar quill?”
“Yes, but made from honey. Some new invention. I saw it and thought you might… appreciate it.”
Only now did Tom realize he was stupidly, widely grinning.
“I do. Thank you.”
For a moment, they stood in silence.
Then Evans drew in a breath.
“It’s Harry,” he said.
Tom frowned. “What’s Harry?”
“Me. I’m Harry,” he said, and then turned and left Tom on the street, profoundly stunned.
Harry.
Harry!!
It was perfect. It was -
Harry.
It was simple and familiar. Like Tom.
Harry.
It was soft and warm. It was disarming. It was green eyes and soft skin and parted lips and a lovely neck made to be adorned with hickeys from Tom's hungry mouth.
“Harry,” he said aloud.
The sound was beautiful. It sounded like sunrise. And honey. And the first snowflake you catch on your tongue. The kind of name you’d chant relentlessly in your mind while exploring someone’s skin with your lips. While getting your skin explored.
The kind of name you want to call when you see a falling star or a rainbow and want to show it to someone. Or, an exploding cauldron. Whichever happened more often.
The kind of name you whisper at night, sternly but fondly, as you notice that someone has taken most of the blanket.
Only then did he realize Harry was nowhere to be found anymore - not near the closest shops, not on the street.
With a slight frenzy, he searched through the further corners of the village. Nothing.
He was walking down the main street for the third time when a Hufflepuff fourth-year girl said to him, “I saw him going back to school.”
“Who?”
She just rolled her eyes and walked into Honeydukes.
How did-
It didn’t matter. He needed to get back. Quickly.
As he entered the courtyard, his heart leapt at the sight of Harry sitting at the stone table again. Alone this time.
He was sucking on the honey quill.
Tom gulped.
Ignoring the horde of images that sprang into his mind from that sight, he approached Harry, who looked up at him, taking the quill out of his mouth.
“I won’t tell anyone, you know,” Tom said. “Your name, that is.”
“Oh.” Harry shrugged. “That’s okay, you can tell if you want to. You were right, after all. Actually the whole… ruse was unnecessary.”
Strangely, Tom found that he didn’t care - not anymore - what the whole ruse had been about.
He sat next to him, their legs and arms brushing together.
“Is it good?” he asked, pointing his chin at the honey quill.
“Oh, yeah.” Harry nodded, licking his lips.
The movement was hypnotizing.
Tom leaned in, closer, breathing in the smell of honey. Of Harry. Of Harry’s mouth.
“May I taste it?” he whispered, mesmerized by the green eyes, leaning even closer.
“You may,” Harry whispered back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted.
But he didn’t move the hand holding the quill. Instead, he leaned in, too.
The taste wasn’t just good. It was better than perfect.
It was Harry.