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What happened was a complete accident, one hundred percent of it due to chance and a whopping zero percent of it accredited to his own actions.
At the back of his mind, Tom knew that he should have been extremely irked by that. He was a methodological man who worked systematically and was three, ten steps ahead of anybody else in the room. He did not and could not rest until he felt like he had complete control over his environment and himself, until he was certain that he either had all the cards or could plainly see all the other decks, while still h aving the best one. He was no god, it was only natural for things not to go exactly as they should have gone, but he made up for that by making as many back-up plans as he could and subtly manipulating the field himself.
While he believed that yes, no plan was ultimately perfect as there were too many variables to keep in check in every environment, he also believed in chaos theory.
He believed that the complete disarray of certain systems, the seemingly random sequencing of events and even the world’s most baffling phenomena could all theoretically be attributed to hidden patterns or a sort of order that was merely unseen.
Which was why he had taken to intensively studying which of his plans succeeded and failed, what he had originally taken into account or considered insignificant in the bigger picture, basically all the things that could help him grow asymptotically closer to perfect order and to an ideal, predictable world.
He protected this sixteen-year philosophy with his everything, culminating his personality and setting his goals around this very belief. If nothing else, he would have this, this fundamental doctrine that was the most guarded of all things that were his. It was something that no other orphan at Wool’s Orphanage could ever steal, no other condescending fool of a pureblood could try to dissuade him from believing. It was his own way of living that only Tom could fully understand.
Which was why Tom should have been responding with fury at The Accident, capitalization required, instead of freezing stiffly, both mind and body screeching to a halt with his almost irrational thirst for control eerily quenched. With something other than the satisfaction of a plan gone right.
It happened directly after dinner. Tom entered the library with the intent to finish the assigned readings and to go over his notes for the upcoming Ancient Runes test. He bowed his head slightly in polite greeting to the stoic Madame Pince before automatically heading towards a secluded area in between the tall shelves.
However, before he could duck into the shadows to do his schoolwork in absolute solitude, he was met with the sight of Harry Potter sitting in the middle table amongst the many unoccupied ones, glaring at a piece of… paper.
Not parchment, mind you, but paper, muggle bond paper, its bright and untainted shade of white a stark contrast to the old and antique atmosphere of the library. It looked terribly out of place, and Tom was about to make a comment on how Harry himself certainly stuck out, glaring at an inanimate, blank piece of paper with such ferocity that was unbecoming of a person who had explained Animagi transformations to Professor McGonagall. With such borderline intimate knowledge. Tom’s eye had twitched unreasonably that time, although he was unsure if he had simply been irritated at the Gryffindor for coincidentally knowing something Tom did not, or if he had just been jealous of that tidbit of information that perhaps, unlike Tom, was always at the back of Harry’s mind—
“Refrain from trying to burn a hole through one of the library tables, if you please,” drawled Tom, cutting off his own train of thought while gracefully slipping into the seat beside the raven-haired boy. Harry jumped, his wired glasses slipping off of his nose as he quickly turned to face him.
“T-Tom, good God, you move like a fucking ninja!” Morgana, the Gryffindor still used muggle references in a school full of wizards and witches? No wonder half of the castle feared that the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain was truly unhinged.
Well, considering the rather suicidal stunts that he had pulled in the past and will most likely continue to perform, Tom couldn’t really blame them.
“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replied smoothly, setting his bag down on the table.
“It’s a’ight,” he mumbled, eyes diverting from Tom’s form to stare back at the unresponsive sheet of paper. Tom noticed that Harry had his wand in his hand, twirling it absent-mindedly as he considered the piece of paper in front of him. “Hey, Tom, what do you think of when you see the colors red and gold?”
“Gryffindor,” he answered automatically, unsure where this was going but resigned to the fact that Harry was a bit of an idiot and tended to get fixated on unimportant, trivial things. The best course of action would be to let him at it and play along if need be.
“Yeah, thought so. Even Hermione gave the same answer.” he scrunched up his nose, and suddenly Tom’s chest was scrunched up just as much. It had been a while since their once tentative friendship started to flourish, a while since he realized that the Gryffindor, while extensively knowledgeable about the oddest of things like Animagi transformations and absurdly difficult, showy flying techniques, was incredibly dense in matters pertaining to himself—which, by the way, made Tom’s pursuit 4.83 times harder than it was originally, and any more would make it downright impossible. Tom wanted to irritably curse something into oblivion.
Or throw something. Preferably the foolish bespectacled boy in front of him. In his lap.
That would certainly make Tom’s irritation dissipate.
What a disgusting, human desire that Tom had to deal with. He would have never even acted on this, this ephemeral desire if weren’t for —
“But to me, it just looks like McDonald’s,” the aforementioned foolish bespectacled boy sighed ruefully, waving his wand a little depressedly until the very modern, very muggle paper started folding itself shakily into a box while dyeing itself in a most vibrant shade of primary red.
Did… did he just say... McDonald’s?
Tom blinked apprehensively as Harry slashed the air, a phantom golden ribbon escaping from his wand and wrapping itself snugly around the now red cube. “I tried putting a ‘W’ on it, but it ended up looking more like McDonald’s. Here, watch.” The translucent ribbon perked up at Harry’s incantation, twisting itself into a fanciful “W” on top of the red box. It looked as if Harry had procured the unnervingly excited paper container from a parallel universe where McDonald’s was WcDonald’s, and Tom, for all his intelligence, couldn’t formulate a coherent reply.
He cleared his throat, his mind too befuddled to concentrate on asking a single question, but the red box levitating cheerily and a little unsteadily beside Harry’s despondent expression was too comical for him to even figure out what exactly he should be asking.
The red box jiggled before zooming to bob up and down and make carefree circles around Harry’s head. Tom stared some more.
After much internal difficulty, he decided that the first and most pressing problem was that he was severely lacking in context. “Why… why would you put a ‘W’ on it?” he inwardly struggled to ask neutrally, his mind trying to assess his previous interactions with Harry and trying to pick up on any signs of budding insanity that he may have missed in the past. Tom’s lips twitched as he noticed the way Harry’s trademark baggy shirt slid down as he shifted, revealing his collarbone. He hated how Harry’s questionable state of mind did nothing to repel his sudden desire to touch and be touched.
Perhaps it is my own state of mind that I should be more concerned about , Tom withheld a deep, irritated sigh, remembering the rather pleasant way that Harry’s arms fit snugly around his torso. But I am afraid that I am willingly at a loss when it comes to Harry Potter.
“I’m trying to think of the perfect wrapping paper for Ron’s birthday gift.” Harry rested his cheek on the desk miserably, and the ribbon which looked far too intelligent to be real swooped beside his face and patted his temple with its frayed ends. It appeared to be trying its hand at comforting its caster.
Tom was almost, almost impressed. However, the extraordinary display of magic didn’t look half as remarkable as it should have been, due to the spellcaster’s wand getting plucked out of his relaxed fist by a sentient ribbon. The ribbon started twirling Harry’s wand around in what interestingly looked like a rather sensuous tango while Harry himself continued to morosely pick at his sleeves.
Finally, Harry’s words registered.
“Wrapping paper?” he didn’t bother masking his incredulity.
“Yes! Do you wanna see what other colors I’ve tried?” Without waiting for a reply, Harry perked up to a sitting position and snatched his wand back. He flicked his wrist a couple of times with a rather frightening level of energy considering his earlier state, while pointedly ignoring the disturbingly visual deflation of the ribbon as it was robbed of its dancing partner. This time, the box shook before flickering to a glassy, gold color, not unlike the ribbon’s original hue. The ribbon shuddered as well, before melting into a lush purple. “I think these colors are rather pretty, and since I know that Ron doesn’t really like patterns much, this could be the next best option!”
“Am I not mistaken in assuming that you are spending your time pondering on... what kind of wrapping paper to use?”
“Of course I am.” Harry shot Tom a look, as if Tom was the one who was incompetent for not glowering at bond papers and making knockoff Happy Meal takeout boxes in his spare time. To decide on the most appropriate color for wrapping paper. How in the world did this idiot catch his attention in the first place anyway? It was times like these that made Tom seriously reconsider if the raven-haired boy was worth the effort. His actions were nonsensical and can be described as “random” at best. Harry was like some sort of hurricane with no regard for the consequences of his own actions, doing as he pleased like falling off of his broom . “It’s for Ron.”
Tom had already opened his mouth to snark about other more productive, sound ways for Harry to spend his free time. However, he found that he couldn’t make a single demeaning remark, nor a single sound for that matter.
It’s for Ron, it’s for Ron, ran through his mind repeatedly. He suddenly remembered.
He and Harry had only spoken a handful of times before Tom had boldly stepped inside the Quidditch Pitch for the first time in his life. But the very first time that they had spoken was in their first year. It had been Christmas Day, and they were two of the very few first years that had opted to stay in the castle.
“You didn’t want to go home either, huh?” And Harry had left a perfectly wrapped package beside Tom. “It’s for you, Merry Christmas.” After untying the silver ribbon and ripping one end of the carefully Spellotaped emerald green paper, a single Chocolate Frog slid into his hand.
The next time they had spoken, they were just Potions partners for a single, quick assignment.
It’s for Ron. It’s for you. Tom mentally translated that in his head. What Harry meant to say was that he prioritized the happiness of his friends, and would even focus on the smallest of details for others. Perhaps five years ago he would have found that abhorrent, but here in his fifth year at Hogwarts, it was almost refreshing. Suddenly, Harry’s investment in wrapping paper didn’t seem that ridiculous anymore. Honestly, Tom should have known better from the start.
Tom hummed, changing his course of action. “Ah, I see. Well, how about you mute down the red a bit, and make the ribbon silver or white instead?”
Harry tilted his head and paused for only a second before swishing his wand. The box and the ribbon shifted once again, before they changed into the hues that Tom had suggested. Chancing a glance at the Gryffindor’s face, Tom couldn’t help but stare at the slow grin that played on his lips.
Harry was glowing.
“Thank you, Tom.” Merlin, have mercy, the boy had turned to ogle at him instead of the paper box, which now clattered on the table lifelessly as the ribbon faded out of existence. His eyes were the color of emeralds, nearly identical to the color that Tom had only seen in textbooks describing the Killing Curse. But the main difference between them was that Harry’s eyes were alive, sparkling with warmth and burning with the strength and fearlessness of a proud lion, very and undoubtedly distinguishable from the Killing Curse’s sickly shade.
When Tom had become such a poetically sentimental disaster, he did not know. He blamed Harry.
When I finally get through to you, I will have you regret every second you allowed me to waste on chasing after you.
Tom would never admit it, but even though the Slytherin’s malicious thought promised severe punishment, one look at the troublesome Gryffindor and Tom was suddenly the idiot, even in his own brain. His finger twitched as Tom tried to hide his frustration at his own traitorous brain sending these bothersome chemicals around his body.
No. He would make Harry pay deliciously for all the instances in which he had to play the fool.
But those plans must be saved for another time.
He nodded sharply, his hands apparently faster than his mind and already pulling out his books. He vaguely remembered having to finish reading chapters eleven to twelve, but it didn’t seem as important as it once was.
“What do you think I should get him?”
What.
“You have yet to purchase a gift for Weasley?” And of course , just as Tom was moved by Harry’s immeasurable and unconditional kindness, he was doubly reminded of Harry’s idiocy. At Harry’s clueless, eager nod, Tom sighed. “And you decided to think about the wrapping paper before you acquired his gift, because…?”
“The next Hogsmeade weekend is three days before Ron’s birthday.”
Tom allowed a bit of silence, before morphing his expression to one of dawning understanding. “Ah, I see.”
No, Tom did not see.
… but what Tom did see was an opportunity. No, it wasn’t exactly his most planned move, and no, this wasn’t The Accident that Tom would claim never happened for the rest of his life.
But this was the opportune moment for a friend to come swooping in.
“Would you like me to personally assist you in Hogsmeade?” he asked casually instead. “I can suggest certain items and help steer you away from Weasley. Granger will accompany him, I suppose?”
“Funny how you already knew how me and ‘Mione were planning to handle Ron.” grinned Harry. Even though Tom knew for a fact that First Years could’ve figured that particular one out, a twinge of smug satisfaction still rose up in his chest.
Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
“So is that a yes?”
“Of course! I’d need all the help I can get. Thanks, Tom.” beamed Harry. “What are you in the library for, anyway?”
Tom looked vacantly at Harry’s genuine smile, before blinking and dropping his gaze down at the books in front of him. “I was going to study.” Tom counted himself very, very lucky that he didn’t sound like he was asking a question.
“Don’t let me distract you then. I was supposed to be preparing a new training plan for the team, but thinking about the team led me to think of Ron, and well…” Harry rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I won’t disturb you any longer.” The raven-haired boy summoned a thankfully very wizard-like piece of parchment and a quill, leaning forward on the table. He then proceeded to draw several small, irregularly-shaped oblongs with a whole lot of arrows, and one look confirmed it was significantly more difficult to decode Harry’s Quidditch scrawls in comparison to the messy notes he was so fond of giving.
Without further prompting, Tom turned to his own things and began to work. Thankfully, studying was easy, and the fact that it could suck away his full attention and drown out the rest of the world was a much needed source of respite from the green-eyed boy beside him. Harry, to his credit, stuck true to his word and didn’t engage him in conversation again.
A few hours passed just like that, with the two friends (most probably friends) from different Houses working alongside each other quietly. A very unlikely yet inevitable pair of friends, most would say, complementing each other in a contradictory sort of way. Tom finished his schoolwork in record time, but side-eyeing the Gryffindor beside him and spotting the textbooks and messily scattered sheaves of parchment that weren’t there before, he decided to pull out his own Prefect paperwork.
And no, it wasn’t because Tom wanted to juice out whatever he could from this rare and sacred time alone with Harry. It was because… just because.
Just as Tom was about to wrap up his final task of proofreading reports and checking schedules, a jerky movement beside him caught his attention.
Harry was clearly about to collapse on the table, nodding off with his eyes half-closed and one arm supporting his entire head. He was leaning dangerously to the side, jerking every few moments or so and wiping blearily at his eyes. Tom doubted he was even seeing whatever he was trying to read, let alone processing the information.
He saw the exact moment when Harry dozed off entirely. His eyes fluttered shut and his lips parted, a soft exhale escaping. He slouched deeper into his seat with his head hanging awkwardly above the chair’s backrest. His eyebrows were furrowed, which was to be expected as he had been restlessly stubborn before his body finally succumbed. By the looks of it, the boy had been fighting off his exhaustion for a considerable amount of time.
Tom cast a quick Tempus. It was a few minutes past midnight. No wonder the boy was so tired, what with his short attention span and his liberal emptying of his own energy reserves. Tilting his head to observe Harry sleeping, he wondered if he should wake him up and take the opportunity to walk him to Gryffindor Tower. He was a Prefect, after all, and Harry was not likely to say no in his sleepy state.
But, then again, he smirked while watching the shadows from the levitating candles dance across the slumped figure. No, this was too good to pass up.
And if Harry falling asleep in Tom’s presence wasn’t a glaringly obvious clue enough, yes, this was the beginning of the tragedy known as “The Accident”.
Wickedly pleased that his innate malevolence, while grudgingly muted, was still present in the face of the object of his limited (overflowing) affections, Tom plotted.
A small prank wouldn’t hurt anyone, and with the help of a few Silencing Charms, it wouldn’t even get him in any trouble with Madam Pince.
Tom shifted and angled his wand, thinking of the appropriate illusion to frighten Harry with when he awoke. A skull, perhaps? With a snake coiling around it, coming out of its mouth? A miniature version of the gas illusion he had been tinkering with earlier in the year, then. And if there was a possibility that Harry in his alarm may scream and cling to Tom, well, that was merely a byproduct of his plan to laugh at Harry’s misfortune.
He opened his mouth, ready to cast the spell and to graze Harry’s arm with his wand, “accidentally” waking him up in the process.
Morsmordre.
A few seconds passed, and no familiar wispy gas gushed from his wand. Tom frowned.
Morsmordre.
After yet another failed attempt at casting the quite simple illusion, Tom, in his irritation, tried to jerk his wand and cast the spell more forcefully.
Nothing happened.
It wasn’t until a few more seconds later that Tom realized two things. One, his hand refused to obey him and hadn’t even moved an inch. Two, he hadn’t actually spoken the incantation aloud, even though he thought he did. His mouth was frozen in place. His entire body had gone stiff.
It took Tom a grand total of twenty-six seconds to figure out that he couldn’t move because Harry Potter had stirred in his sleep and was now resting obliviously against his shoulder.
All of Tom’s ninety-eight mental warning sirens blared into life.
A dozen thoughts passed in his head, all within a mere second. Harry was close enough for Tom to recognize the smell of the earth and of treacle tart, which attributed greatly to Harry’s “cozy as a picnic on the hills” appeal. His messy hair was even more disheveled than usual, gently tickling Tom’s cheek. His head was a little uncomfortable, digging at Tom’s shoulder at such an odd angle. A stronger part of Tom was at war with the other half of his brain, barking to call off the mean-spirited plan immediately and freezing his limbs into place. Said larger part was demanding Tom not to consider moving on the off chance that he would jolt him awake.
Casting the illusion spell was now out of the question as Tom was still not moving.
He didn’t feel anger at first, only confusion and something else that he couldn’t name. It wasn’t a particularly important scheme, after all, just something Tom wanted to pull while he was feeling a little sadistic and uncaring of the consequences. After all, this boy had caused him more frustration than Tom thought possible, endearing mannerisms or no. But just because he was on Tom’s shoulder, sleeping so openly in his presence and allowing Tom to see him in such a vulnerable state, he was now suddenly doing a full one-eighty and being considerate? T here was a physical churning in his stomach that was neither pleasant nor aggravating while a shiver ran through his rigid spine as he tried to draw his conclusions.
Was the universe truly out to get him? Yet another one of his plans, foiled by Potter. Plans of romance, plans of friendship, plans of possible mental scarring, no plan was safe from the anomaly, the glitch that was Harry Potter.
Tom should have been furious, furious at Potter and furious at himself for stopping just because Harry was tired. And yet, he had to practically force his ire out, the implications of why he wasn’t automatically fuming too complicated of an emotional disaster for Tom to consider.
He had to be angry, he had to. The alternative was to be calm, be pleasantly surprised at something so out of his own control and accept Harry’s touch and relish in these tumultuous feelings. He'd be abandoning his beliefs. And for what? For this mortal desire?
Ignoring the fluttering in his chest, he seized whatever minute anger and frustration built up at the thought, letting it simmer and boil at greater temperatures with negative thoughts. For a near month (four years) now, he had acted out of character, he had spent half the time thinking, doing things for Harry, he had gone above and beyond and now that Tom was holding on to his rage almost desperately, he was beginning to realize that his actions were greatly illogical from the start.
Was this what Tom wanted? Yes, the boy interested him, and was a powerful wizard that could go toe to toe with him. He was different from any other person Tom met and most probably will meet in his life, but did that matter in the end? Harry was kind to him, but he was kind to everyone, Harry was ridiculously brave, but so were many suicidal lunatics out there. Harry was warm, but so was the weather in May, Harry was inspiring, but so were many other wizards and witches, he was maddening, impossible to predict, he was messy and clumsy, resourceful and humble, he was, he was—
…
Perhaps he was never meant to have someone by his side. Perhaps he was never meant to rule over Harry’s heart, but to throw himself completely in pursuing his dream of taking the world by storm instead. That seemed like a much easier option, compared to knowingly choosing the sting of rejection that he tried again and again to ignore, to the way he could so easily lose control in any matter related to the insufferable, foolish idiot.
Perhaps Harry’s nonsensically chaotic ways could only be understood by someone who wasn’t Tom.
Perhaps it was time to cut his losses and fold.
Tom clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his wand tighter. He could hear his pathetic heartbeat rising, his pulse thrumming around his temples. There was a ringing in his ears and his teeth were beginning to hurt, and was that his own breathing he could hear, getting ragged with every moment that passed?
He had never felt such hatred and abhorrence for his fascination with Potter, but Tom now saw it for what it really was—a weakness. A deplorable, pathetic weakness. He could not allow himself to change so drastically for someone who was so blind, so stupid, so dense, so... so brave and kind.
With the boy that he cared for more than the aspirations he drowned himself in for sixteen years on his shoulder, his eyes flashed scarlet. Tom finally cracked, feeling his chest loosen as Harry's hold on him weakened and weakened.
Well, he almost cracked.
“... Tom?”
Harry stirred, stretching out his name so sleepily that Tom barely understood him. His body, practically a concrete wall against the smaller boy’s frame, flinched when Harry gracelessly fumbled to wrap his arms around his waist and burrow his head deeper in Tom’s neck. He was unmistakably out of it, and while Tom couldn’t exactly get a good look at him, he was certain that Harry was either only half-conscious or dreaming in his sleep.
His voice cut sharply through Tom’s growing cloud of loathing and hurt.
“... Tom, trust… me….”
Trust me.
It took an even longer while before Tom exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his body. He let go of his anger, he let go of his frustration, he let go of the uncertainty that had plagued him ever since he received his first Christmas gift, given to him by a boy with Spellotaped glasses and big emerald eyes.
He really should be ill-tempered with Harry for never acting like he was supposed to, for never fitting in Tom’s constructed ideal. Plans of romance, plans of friendship, plans of mental scarring, plans of detachment... all ruined. All chaotic. All unexplainable.
He moved his one free hand to hover reluctantly over Harry’s shoulder, before pressing his palm into the other’s bicep and holding him in a half-embrace.
Tom knew it was senseless. He couldn’t explain what exactly was happening between him and Harry, he couldn’t tell what was going to happen next.
He could either fold and forget about Potter, or he could choose to trust him despite his constant search for control. Even if Tom was never a hundred percent certain on whether Harry would fight or flee, say yes or say no, whether he would figure it out or not, whether he would win or lose.
He would have little to no way to tell if Harry would stay, or if he would go.
Trust me.
And just like that, Tom was wrecked once again.
Harry didn't hear Tom's strained laughter, nor did he stir when Tom had daringly pressed his chapped lips against the lightning bolt-shaped scar on his forehead.
When Harry awoke the next morning, he only had the memory of dancing ribbons and vague recollections of Tom snarking and nagging at him like Mrs. Weasley while dragging his unconscious arse all the way to Gryffindor Tower.
As he yawned and swung his legs off of his bed, he rubbed his scar, his eyebrows creasing. He could’ve sworn he had dreamt of something really, really important.