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Chapter Text

It wasn’t until the fall of his senior year, amidst the spines of the blackberry bush behind the school, that Harry really saw Tom Gaunt.

Harry had been in orchestra with Tom for years, of course. Serving as first chair violin since their sophomore year, Tom was ludicrously talented, academically gifted, and beautiful like a faraway mountain range – distantly lovely, but never in the foreground of Harry’s life.

Long ago, Harry had sorted Tom into a neat box labelled “Preppy Stuck-up Nerds with No Life (totally not jealous)”. But all of the violins were in that box; that Tom was their king didn’t make him special.

Harry looked at Tom and saw someone who had read the script of his life and fully committed to his part: he smiled more than he talked, practiced his instrument with religious fervor, sat with perfect posture and spoke with banal charm. He had the resting face of someone so burdened with secrets that he could hardly breathe, someone competent to the point of boredom.

For years, Harry, who had no patience for repressed, arrogant prodigies, paid him no mind. Tom was just the back of a head in the string section, a snatch of half-remembered gossip, the high notes of a violin solo.

Maybe that was all he was to anyone. The more he learned about Tom, the more certain Harry became that no one had truly seen Tom before that lonely autumn afternoon.

It all started with a missing football – later, Harry would find this fact absurd.

“We’re meant to have six of them, right?” asked Ron, knowing as well as Harry that they were missing one. “You don’t reckon someone kicked it into the street?”

Harry itched his ear, scowling. “What do you want to bet Cormac pulled that stunt again? Bloody typical. It’s probably rolled halfway to the freeway by now.” He looked up. “Oi, Wood! We’re short a football.”

Their assistant coach jogged over, frowning at the clutch of balls. “D’you have any idea where it might have gone? I’d rather not need to buy a replacement. We spent most of the season’s budget on those new uniform socks.”

“I don’t have a clue,” Ron said. “I’m going to miss my bus if I wait around here any longer, though.”

“Go on, then.” Wood shooed him away, sighing. “Right, Potter, looks like it’s just the two of us. Where d’you figure it went?”

Harry exchanged a grim salute with Ron, then cracked his knuckles and surveyed the field. “Either it’s somewhere in the forest or it rolled into the street.”

“Oh, not again.” Wood looked suddenly exhausted.

“Or it went through a window,” Harry offered weakly. “Look, Snape’s lab window is open. Can you imagine how perfect it would be if he came back to a bunch of smashed vials?”

Wood gave a passable imitation of a smile.

Harry shuffled, considering. “Hey, it’s Friday. Why don’t you head home? I’ll find the ball, bring it back for Monday practice.”

“Really?” Wood’s smile morphed into less of a grimace.

“Yeah. Captain’s duty, right?”

“Thanks, Harry. You’re a good bloke, y’know that?” He thumped Harry on the shoulder and set off for the parking lot, slinging the remaining footballs into a bag.

Harry wandered off toward the woods, feeling oddly cheerful. There was a special quality to the empty school, the air crisp with the impending weekend, the leaves of the forest starting to turn.

He’d scan quickly for the missing equipment, then get home. Wood’s obsessive personality could be useful on the pitch – but in practical matters it got in the way. Whereas Harry had a nasty feeling that the ball was truly lost, Wood would have the two of them combing the streets until sundown.

The woods behind the school were really no more than a stand of grimy trees, stained with pot smoke and clogged with brambles. This would not be the first time they had absorbed a stray ball, nor would it be the last.

Now, with the school a husk and the sun edging towards the horizon, there was a kind of grand mystery to the snarled foliage. Harry could almost imagine the briars were guarding something fantastical – a sleeping maiden in a tower, a dragon egg, the true name of an elf king. He stepped gingerly around their thorns, craning his neck for a curving flash of plastic-y white. Nothing but moss, beer cans, an abandoned old rainboot. Not fantastical in the slightest.

He was about to turn around when he noticed the figure standing among the trees, in the thick of the brambles, hands in the pockets of his dark coat.

Looking back at him.

Harry startled badly – there was nothing quite as terrifying as thinking oneself alone, then finding something watching.

The watching face was pale and angular, bright in the dusky gloom of the woods. It made an expression of mixed amusement and pity, the kind of expression that only truly beautiful people could pull off. And then, at last, Harry recognized it.

“Hi, Tom,” he said, awkwardly.

The first violin examined him, invasively curious, knife-sharp under the cathedral of the briars.

Harry sunk the spikes of his ratty football cleats into the dirt and ran a hand through his hair, hoping that the sweat cooling on his body wasn’t immediately discernible.

Tom had brown eyes. Harry had never noticed this before, in all his years of staring at the back of his head in orchestra class. Harry had always liked dark eyes. As Tom stared at him, that fact seemed suddenly very relevant.

“Oh,” Tom said suddenly, snapping his fingers, like he’d cracked some code.

Harry couldn’t fathom what he was doing here, tangled among these bramble bushes where most people came to get high, two hours after school had let out. Alone.

This did not fit the script.

Tom was pointing, now, with an uncannily long index finger. Harry wondered if he was high. “You’re the French horn, right? The one Flitwick is always trying to pressure into taking up tuba.”

“Yeah,” Harry said warily. Flitwick liked to make speeches during rehearsal. Speeches about the importance of the trumpets projecting. About the cellos learning to play pianissimo, goddamnit, that was at best a mezzo forte. About how crucial it was that the lower brass section have a good sense of rhythm – ‘The tuba is the heartbeat of the orchestra,’ he would say, ignoring the betrayed outcry from the percussion section. The tubas all had terrible senses of rhythm. Everyone did, according to Flitwick – other than the flutes (somehow), and, of course, Harry.

“What’s your name?”

Then it was Harry’s turn to stare. “We’ve literally gone to school together for three years.”

Tom shrugged.

“Are you high?”

“What? No.”

“I – my name’s Harry Potter. What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same. Harry.” Tom smiled, dazzlingly out of place among the jagged edges of the wood.

“I’m looking for a football.” Harry gestured to his practice uniform, biting down an incredulous laugh. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen one…?”

“Nope.”

Harry didn’t like the way Tom was looking at him. He was behaving wholly unlike a Preppy Stuck-up Nerd with No Life. The free feeling of the empty schoolyard was taking on a new, dangerous shape.

Then Harry looked up.

Caught in the bramble roof was a clump of black feathers, stark against the autumn sky. A beak, knife-sharp and glinting. The arc of talons curving into the heavens.

A crow pinned into the thorny canopy, dry in death, a messy papercut.

Harry blinked. “You’re telling me Tom Gaunt, Flitwick’s darling, renowned far and wide for his fiddling ability, has been standing around in this weed-smelling patch of thorns for the past two hours, staring up at a dead bird.”

Tom’s false smile flickered into oblivion. “No.”

“You’re lying,” Harry realized, tearing his eyes away from the crow. “Why are you lying?”

“It’s fun.” Tom suddenly looked as trapped as the carcass rotting away above him.

“What’s fun? Lying? Or…” Harry found his gaze once again pulled up to the delicate lines of the crow. “Or birdwatching?”

A new smile, this one lopsided. “Both,” Tom said.

It occurred to Harry, then, that Tom was very tall. For all Harry’s athleticism, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to fight back if Tom became violent. Which Tom wouldn’t, surely – that would be –

Tom started laughing. An abrupt sound, almost unpleasant in its intensity. There was a violence in just that, the sound of it, how unfitting it was for the moment. “ Birdwatching – who are you, Harry Potter?”

“I’m the third horn,” Harry said. “The one with a sense of rhythm.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all you need to know.” Harry took a step backwards, wincing as a thorny vine wrapped around his leg. “Who are you?”

“The first violin. They tell me I have exceptional musicality.”

“Right,” Harry said, feeling a pang of disappointment fracture his wariness.

Tom hesitated, looking him over again. Harry wondered what he saw – grass stains, bruised kneecaps, the beginnings of an irrational panic beginning to take root. “Don’t you think there’s something beautiful in death?” he said, voice softening.

Harry’s eyes flitted back to the pinned crow, grasping for the cold blue heavens. Its eyes were ant-eaten, the down on its chest ruffled by the gentle breeze passing through the trees. “Yes,” he admitted. “I suppose there is.”

“Hmm.” But Tom wasn’t looking at the bird at all. His gaze was still fixed, unwavering, on Harry.

“Not beautiful enough to justify spending two hours of my Friday admiring, though,” Harry found himself saying. He should disentangle himself from this situation, make some flimsy excuse and run for the parking lot, turn this encounter into a story for Ron and Hermione.

He made no move to leave.

Tom’s lip curled. “You’re the one who just spent two hours running in circles, hitting a ball with your feet.”

A laugh tore itself reluctantly out from between Harry’s teeth. “You’re a sports hater? That’s rich coming from a violinist.”

“‘Hater’ implies I feel something other than apathy,” Tom said. “And I get enough of brass elitism in class, thank you.”

Harry sputtered – coming from a violin, this was the highest caliber of hypocrisy. “‘Brass elitism’? You bastard, the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Tom smiled another crooked smile. Harry realized that he was being played with.

“I hadn’t taken you for such a weirdo,” he said wonderingly, feeling his fear puff away.

Those intent brown eyes blinked, giving him another quick once-over. Harry felt heat in his cheeks. “Hey, I don’t suppose you have somewhere you need to be?” said Tom.

“What –? Well, I’m supposed to be tracking down a missing ball, for one thing, and I’ve got to get home to my guardians…”

“Liar.” Beyond the canopy, the sun emerged from the veil of a milky cloud. Light hit the side of Tom’s face, throwing the hollows of his cheeks into sharp relief.

Harry’s mouth went dry. “I’m not lying.”

“Would you like to sit with me?”

Harry’s arms erupted with gooseflesh. “All right,” he found himself saying.

Tom kicked away fallen leaves and cigarette butts, sitting down and patting the ground next to him in invitation.

Feeling that he was in some truly bizarre dream, Harry obligingly picked his way through the brambles to plop down onto the mossy forest floor.

He leaned back against Tom’s battered violin case, looking around the clearing. They were circled by stacks of papers, neat binders, a copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream dense with sticky notes. Tom seemed to have set up a little encampment here, in the heart of the blackberry bush, where the thorns grew so thick that Harry couldn’t see through them to the brick of the school walls.

“You were doing homework?” Harry said.

“Mostly.”

“Why here?”

“I’ve been observing its decomposition for the past two weeks,” Tom said, nodding up towards the feathery corpse.

Harry followed the gesture. From this angle, he could better understand Tom’s fascination. The crow’s wings spread out, each feather picked out in elegant silhouette. His serial doodler’s fingers itched to capture the intricacies of the dead form. “Say, could I borrow a pen and paper?” he said on a whim.

“Certainly.” Tom’s eyes were truly distracting up close. The fading sunlight caught in them, transforming them to drops of resin. “Aren’t you going to call me a freak again?”

Harry flinched – but Tom’s tone was gentle. “What, for ‘observing decomposition’? I – maybe you are, I don’t know. Scientific curiosity is more forgivable than hating football, though.”

Tom’s fingers brushed his as he passed him a cheap ballpoint and a torn piece of notebook paper. Harry had to bite down on his tongue to hold in a snapped ‘You’re not my type, sorry.’ This felt intimate, felt like flirting – something about being away from the eyes of the world had him itching and jumpy. Harry tried to suppress the feeling. Surely Tom didn’t have any romantic inclinations toward him.

Tom smiled again, in a way that crinkled the skin around his dark-bright eyes. He really wasn’t Harry’s type – not that Harry had a type. If he did, it would be boys with freckles on their shoulders and girls who wore floral dresses over jeans, not – whatever Tom was. He had no idea what Tom was, if not a Preppy Stuck-up Nerd with No Life.

Maybe that was the fun of this.

“Do you know how it died?” Harry considered the wayward limbs of the crow with new eyes, trying to map bones onto the twisted mass of its crumpled feathers. He scratched out an approximation of an outline onto the notebook paper, but couldn’t quite capture the precision of its disarray.

Tom was silent.

Harry blinked up at him, suspicious. “Did you kill it?”

“Do I seem like the type to kill random animals?”

Another laugh startled out of Harry’s chest. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

“You – I didn’t kill it, no. That’s part of why it’s so interesting to me. I can’t figure out how it got up there.”

“Maybe it got caught in the brambles and started thrashing around. It could have managed to impale its neck on a thorn.”

Tom frowned thoughtfully, and they spent a silent moment contemplating the bird together. It did not seem to have died peacefully. “I would have thought crows would be smarter than that. Corvids are brilliant, did you know?”

“If they’re anything like humans, all the smarts in the world won’t keep them from acting like idiots in the face of death.”

“That’s dark,” said Tom, looking troubled. “I hadn’t taken you for the type.”

“Then what did you take me for?”

“A jock.”

Harry grinned. “You were right.”

“A dumb jock.”

“Still wouldn’t argue that.”

“You’re not dumb.”

“You don’t know me,” Harry said in mock affront, outlining a feather on his failing doodle.

“I suppose not,” he could feel Tom’s eyes on him. “But I do like you. I don’t have a history of taking well to… dumb jocks.”

The heat in his cheeks was becoming a distraction. “Arrogance isn’t a good look on you. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Tom tilted his head. The sun had veiled itself, leaving his eyes hauntingly colorless. He was desperately pretty; worse, he knew it. He smiled. “Quite the contrary.”

“What?”

Tom snickered inelegantly.

“This is some serial killer shit, by the way,” Harry said loftily, looking away. “Obsessing over dead animals, lurking in bushes after hours. The counselors would have a field day with you and your ‘something beautiful in death’ speeches.”

“The counselors are all hacks,” said Tom.

“You’ve gone in to see them?”

“Narcissa made me,” he said simply.

Harry eyed him questioningly, but he said no more. Narcissa was one of the other violins, Harry remembered. A blonde girl who spent most rehearsals with her phone on her music stand, scrolling through social media. “Oh?”

“I made a joke about slipping poison into a mutual friend’s water bottle.”

“And she reported you to the administration? Sounds like a bit of an overreaction,” said Harry.

“That’s what I said, too.” Tom fiddled with the handle of his instrument case. “It was quite a detailed joke, is all. She said it seemed like I’d spent ‘a worrying amount of time thinking about it’.”

Harry drew in the dead crow’s beak, mind reeling as it tried in vain to reconcile this Tom with the poised, serious boy he’d thought he’d understood.

“I told her that I would never follow through with it – I mean, you can’t tell a joke like that and then do the crime. If I were to murder someone, I wouldn’t advertise my premeditation.”

He smiled expectantly, as if waiting for Harry to nod in agreement. For the life of him, Harry couldn’t figure out how sincere he was. “What would you poison someone with?”

“I told Cissy I’d use nightshade,” Tom said amiably. “But if I were actually intent on homicide, I’d opt for bleach. Leaves open the possibility of accidental ingestion or suicide.”

“You have spent a lot of time thinking about this, haven’t you?” Harry found himself more exasperated than horrified.

“Hmm,” Tom leaned closer to look over Harry’s shoulder at his sketch.

“You know, this preoccupation with death is kinda worrying in someone of your demographic.”

“You’re not very good,” Tom informed him, wrinkling his nose at his drawing. “Wait, what do you mean ‘my demographic’?”

Forgetting himself, Harry elbowed him in the side.

“Ow,” Tom said balefully. “That was uncalled for.”

“You insulted my art.”

Tom shrugged. “What were you saying before? I think you were trying to insult me.”

“Just that… I don’t know. I hope you don’t have access to a firearm.” Harry scowled, fighting the urge to ball up his piece of notebook paper. “It was supposed to be a joke, but it wasn’t funny.”

“I don’t have access to a firearm,” Tom said. The words wavered on the air.

Harry’s spine crawled. “You’re lying again, aren’t you?”

“It’s irrelevant. If I were going to kill someone, it would be with a knife. Murder by gun is wrong.”

“Oh, but knife murder isn’t wrong? Poisoning people isn’t wrong?”

“Not in the same way.” Tom crossed his legs at the ankles, face tilting back to look at his bird. “If you’re going to kill someone, you should be subtle about it. Guns are cheating.”

“I…” Harry found himself empty of the alarm he should feel at this admission. “Come down to it, you do seem like the exact type of person who would sneak a pocketknife into school.”

Tom raised a brow. “Insightful. You want to see it?”

“Spare me. I want plausible deniability.” It was becoming abundantly clear that Tom was not kidding. “You know, I’m starting to think Narcissa wasn’t out of line referring you to the counselors.”

Tom sat up, suddenly sharp-edged again. “If you go tattling, too, I will be very displeased. I don’t know why I’m even talking to you.”

“I’m not a snitch,” Harry said. “I don’t know why I’m even listening to you.”

“Because you like me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Didn’t we establish that you can like someone without knowing them?”

This felt very much like flirting. Tom was watching him out of the corner of his eye, biting his lip, looking very pleased with himself. “Fine, yes. I like you.”

Tom hummed in satisfaction, eyes slipping closed. Harry returned to his drawing, trying to shape it into more than an incomprehensible tangle.

“Have you ever known a dead person?” Tom asked after bare minutes of silence.

“I don’t make a habit of communing with ghosts, no,” said Harry, frowning. “Why, do you?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Harry rubbed at his sketch, pulling lead dust up onto his fingertips. “That’s a really personal question, Tom.”

“So you have known someone who died? Who was it?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“My mother died in childbirth,” Tom said levelly. “My grandfather died last year. I never knew my father.”

Harry met his eyes, shocked. “I’m sorry. That’s, er, rough.”

“It is,” said Tom smoothly. “Now do you feel more comfortable talking to me?”

“You – is this how you always make conversation? By revealing personal information and then asking for other people to reciprocate?”

Tom smiled knowingly. “So it’s not working?”

“You’re insufferable. We’ve been talking for – how long now? – and I’m already completely sick of you.”

“How long – oh, you’re right. Shit.”

Harry looked up sharply at the profanity. Tom didn’t seem like he swore often. He was digging through his backpack – looking for his phone.

He pulled it out, brow creasing at the time display. “I’ve got to get home. I don’t want to be walking in the dark.”

“You walk to school?”

“Yeah.” Tom pushed papers into folders, ordering his pack.

The dead crow loomed over them, an angel painted into a church ceiling. It seemed to bleed indigo into the darkening sky.

Harry pushed himself to his feet and unthinkingly reached out a hand to Tom. For a liquid moment, they clasped hands – Tom’s fingers were warm and surprisingly strong. As he stood, Harry realized he was even taller than Ron.

“I can give you a ride,” Harry offered on a whim.

Tom dropped his hand, frowning. “Really?”

“Yeah, my car’s just out back of the school. It’s no trouble.”

“That would be appreciated,” Tom said slowly. “If it’s no trouble.”

Harry smiled politely, then began the task of extricating himself from the blackberry bush. Tom followed him easily, deceptively graceful despite his long limbs.

Emerging from the briar patch was like walking out of a movie theater, or waking up after a particularly vibrant dream. The empty football field felt like a new planet. He wasn’t sure if he was the alien, or the landscape was.

There was a moment when he could swear the encounter in the wood had been a hallucination – why on earth would Tom Riddle, violin prodigy and teacher’s pet, be sitting amidst the brambles, philosophizing about murder and felled birds?

Harry looked behind him. Thorns and growing dusk obscured the crow’s body from sight. Still, Tom remained, backpack slung over his shoulder, brushing pine needles off his jacket.

Feeling suddenly awkward, Harry set off for the parking lot. He kept his strides long, but Tom was leggy enough to keep up without any apparent struggle.

Neither of them bothered with conversation. A pensive expression overcame Tom’s face as he fell into step beside Harry, and it was on the wings of a surprisingly comfortable silence that they made their way to the parking lot.

Harry’s truck was one of the last vehicles remaining this late into the evening. It was a battered contraption, nearly as old as Harry himself. Sirius, telling Harry he ‘needed to get out more’, had given it to him a year ago now.

“You can throw your stuff in back,” Harry said, fitting his key into the door.

Tom gripped his violin case protectively. “What, unsecured? It could easily fly out.”

“It won’t.”

Still, when Tom climbed into the passenger seat, it was with his violin in his lap.

Watching him fiddle with the seatbelt, the surrealism of the moment reached a peak. Tom was a stranger, but he felt so profoundly familiar. As if sensing Harry’s thoughts, he turned and flashed an even smile, pushing dark hair out of his eyes.

Harry didn’t have a type. But if he did – well. Maybe Tom would be it.

He cleared his throat, starting the truck with a guttural roar from the engine. At the noise, Tom startled, looking momentarily very young.

“Where d’you live?” Harry asked, smiling.

“Oh – just take a right onto Bagshot Avenue, then drive until you reach 77th Street. I’ll direct you from there.”

“You live pretty far away to be walking to school.”

“I like the fresh air,” Tom said bitingly.

Harry raised an eyebrow. It seemed that he had hit a nerve. He palmed the leather of the steering wheel, pulling away from the school.

“There’s not a bus stop near my house,” said Tom, as if unable to stand the silence. Harry sent an amused glance his way and found him glaring at the road ahead. “Walking is more convenient.”

Harry tapped a beat against the wheel, weighing his words. “You said both of your parents are out of the picture.”

“I did say that.”

Streetlights flickered to life around them, lancing through the windshield. The artificial lights breathed life into the shadows of Harry’s hands, sending them into a twisted dance as the truck sped away into the dusk.

“I live with my uncle,” Tom said. Harry kept his face perfectly still. “The two of us – we have an understanding with each other, but we’ve never really gotten along. My grandfather raised me. We’ve not really been a family since he died.” He looked glum at the thought, staring up at the dimming sky.

Seeking levity, Harry cracked open the passenger window. Tom ducked and shouted, laughing as the wind lashed his hair into a curling frenzy.

“Your uncle,” Harry said as Tom rolled the window back up. “What’s he like?”

“Forty years old and still every bit the frat boy he was at twenty-three,” Tom said, the ghost of a smile still lingering at the corners of his lips as he reordered his hair. “He works at one of the local bars. He leaves me alone, for the most part – he doesn’t get why I want to go to university. He definitely can’t figure out why I spend so much time practicing the violin.”

“Can’t blame him there. Personally, I can’t fathom why anyone would want to play a string instrument.” Feigning thought, he added, “other than a banjo. Those are worthwhile.”

“I think I hate you,” Tom said wonderingly. “You are a terrible person, Mister Harry Potter.”

Harry laughed softly, coasting to a stop for a red light.

“Morfin’s not all bad, though.”

“‘Morfin’?”

“My uncle.”

“That poor man. How much did your grandpa hate him?”

“Shut up,” Tom said. “It’s an old family name.”

Harry glanced at him and found his face pinched with the effort of holding in a laugh. “What were you saying?”

“Oh. Morfin and I don’t get on, but he’s not a bad guardian. He gives me an allowance, lets me feed his snakes.”

It was a struggle not to look away from the road. “His… his snakes.”

“He’s got two pythons. They eat live rats.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“That’s wicked,” Harry breathed. “I’ve always wanted a snake.”

Tom’s grin was a physical thing, like sunlight on the side of Harry’s face. “Really? Most people think it’s weird.”

“It is weird,” Harry said. “Nothing wrong with weird, though.”

“Oh,” said Tom. In the darkness between streetlamps, Harry couldn’t make out his expression, but there was an undeniable softness to his voice.

They were only a couple turns away from 77th Street. Harry flexed his hands on the wheel, steeling himself. “My parents died when I was fifteen months old. Car crash. It was apparently miraculous that I survived.”

“Is that how –”

“My scar? Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

“Yeah, well. I never knew them. It’s hard to miss them.” Harry turned onto 77th. “Where to now?”

“Keep straight. I’ll tell you when to turn – it’s going to be a left.”

Harry grunted in acknowledgement.

“Who raised you? Are you in foster care?”

“I spent a year with my mom’s sister’s family, but they never really wanted me… my godfather, Sirius, took me in after that. Well, after he got out of prison.”

“Prison?” There was a slight edge to Tom’s voice, like he suspected Harry was exaggerating.

“He was in on a murder charge – served almost three years of his sentence.”

Tom made a noise of abject shock.

“Sirius didn’t do it. His husband is a detective, thank god. He spent years trying to prove his innocence.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

Harry laughed. “I swear I’m not.”

“Your life is a soap opera.”

“My life’s been pretty normal since Sirius got out of prison, actually. Remus – my godfather’s husband – his life is a soap opera. He’s a novelist now, actually. Writes crime thrillers.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right? He’s really cool. I’m lucky to have him as a guardian.” Harry smiled. “Are we coming up on that turn, or…?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, we are – take the next right.”

“I thought it was going to be a left.”

“I – I misspoke, before. Take the right.” The trapped bird expression from earlier had returned to Tom’s face.

Harry took the right turn, then peeled off the road, parking the car and crossing his arms over his chest.

“We’re not there yet,” Tom said. “I’m sorry if I was unclear with the instructions – we’ve got another few turns left before we arrive.”

“You said you didn’t think I was a dumb jock,” Harry said tightly. “Why are you treating me like an idiot?”

Tom crossed his arms, too. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re obviously making up these ‘directions’. Are you trying to get me somewhere secluded so you can murder me and make sweet love to my bleached skull?”

“Graphic,” Tom said appreciatively.

“Well?”

“I have trouble with directions. We’re in the right neighborhood, but I’m having trouble orienting myself – it’s strange to be navigating from inside a car rather than on foot.”

“If you’re going to lie, at least aim for believability.” Harry eyed him suspiciously, wary for a hint of aggression. Tom had proven unpredictable – and he had hinted that he brought a pocketknife to school. Failing that, a violin case could make for a decent weapon –

“I don’t think it was all that unbelievable,” Tom cut into his train of thought. “Plenty of people struggle with basic navigation, especially with GPS on our phones.”

“So you admit you were lying?”

Tom blinked slowly. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“Are – are you going to tell me the truth?”

Another slow blink.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, holding in an incredulous laugh.

“I didn’t want this car ride to end.”

“Because of your uncle?” Harry asked. He hadn’t stayed with the Dursleys for long, but he was intimately familiar with the scars family could inflict on an unwanted child.

“No,” Tom said. “Not because of my uncle. Look, we passed my house a couple minutes ago. I’ll direct you, okay? No more tricks.”

The sky was fully dark, now. Harry, fueled by a sense of betrayal, was tempted to kick Tom out of the car. He wrestled down that urge and started up the engine once more, pulling back onto the street.

After a few minutes of retracing their route in heavy silence, Tom said, “we’re here.”

“Right.” Harry parked under the beam of a streetlight and looked up into Tom’s pale, angular face. “I honestly have no clue what to make of you, but this was – this was almost fun. I liked talking to you when you weren’t lying your balls off.”

Tom smiled thinly. “It’s a bad habit.” He looked away. “Most people don’t catch the lies as easily as you. I – I apologize.”

Harry thought of the image of Tom he’d held for so long in his head, the perfect boy who played beautiful music and had a laugh like satin. “You had me fooled for a while there.”

“Yes, well.” Tom cleared his throat. “Before I go, I should say – my wanting to prolong this car ride had nothing to do with my uncle and everything to do with you. I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to hear about your past. You were so reluctant to open up before.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, meeting Tom’s dark eyes.

“And – this sounds pretentious as hell, but – it was refreshing to speak with someone so, I don’t know. Perceptive, funny. I guess what I mean to say is that, ah. I liked talking to you, too.”

Harry felt a hot flush creep up his face.

“I’ll be going then,” Tom said, fumbling for the door. Harry could have sworn there was a hint of color to his cheeks, too. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll, uh, see you around. And stuff.”

He managed to open the door and haul his long body out onto the sidewalk, struggling to balance between the weight of his book-laden pack and violin case. Harry watched in bemusement as he righted himself and strode away into the darkness between streetlamps, a gangly heron picking its way into the mirror-black night.

Tom Gaunt, Flitwick’s darling, who apparently spent Friday afternoons staring up at the twisted bodies of crows. He might find beauty in death, but Harry himself thought there was nothing more beautiful than strangeness. And god, if Tom wasn’t strange.

Harry felt himself falling already – and he hadn’t even gotten Tom’s number.

Chapter Text

Monday afternoon, Harry descended on the lunch table with great drama. “What do all of you know about Tom Gaunt?”

Hermione looked up from a biology text, frowning. “Is everything all right, Harry? You seem… out of sorts.”

“Tom Gaunt? The first violin?” Ron chewed thoughtfully on a bite of sandwich. “I’ve never liked him, personally. Strikes me as kind of an egomaniac.” He wrinkled his nose. “I think Gin knows him, though. Oi, Ginny! You had Tom Gaunt as a tutor at some point, yeah?”

Ginny looked up from a conversation with Luna. “Yeah, Tom was Binns’s teaching assistant for World History last year. He pretty much taught the class… why?”

“Harry’s asking,” Ron said.

“Ew, Ronald, chew,” Hermione told him, snorting.

“I think he’s evil,” Harry improvised, leaning in.

The others burst into laughter, then quieted as they saw Harry wasn’t joining in. “Oh, no,” said Ginny. “You’re serious.”

“The same way you thought Draco Malfoy was evil?” Ron said dubiously.

“Or Peter Pettigrew?” asked Neville.

“Or Snape?” Hermione closed her textbook with a frown. “Harry, I thought you got over your fixation on villainy back in sophomore year.”

“I still think Snape is evil,” Harry said. “And possibly a vampire. Actually, Tom might be a vampire, too… that would certainly explain a lot.”

“Did he do something?” Ginny asked. “Where is this all coming from?”

Harry hesitated. He had not thought this through very well at all. The conversation in the dark of the blackberry bush felt like a private thing – and he wasn’t the type to gossip about other people’s private dead animal fascinations and contraband knives. “Just, uh. Instinct,” he said. “Evildoer senses, y’know?”

To his surprise, Hermione nodded. “I admit, he’s always kind of rubbed me the wrong way.”

Neville snickered. “Wait, this is the same Tom from our Government class, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said.

“The one who tops the curve on every test?”

“Yeah…”

“Hermione, that’s why you don’t like him.” To Harry, Neville said, “Tom seems fine. A bit arrogant, like Ron said, but smart enough to make up for it. He doesn’t strike me as, y’know. Evil.”

Harry chuckled nervously. “I guess my instincts were wrong, then. The Pettigrew incident should have taught me not to listen to them.”

“Anyway,” Ron said, giving Harry a knowing look. “We were talking about the shit Michael Corner tried to pull on that Latin quiz last week. I mean, Morse code? That’s extra even for him.”

The others seemed happy enough with this fresh topic of conversation, leaving Harry with his new secrets. So, Tom was good at history, on top of a violin prodigy. What an unbearable nerd, he though fondly.

He spent his next period, Calculus, in a restless daze: his next class was Orchestra. He’d see Tom again, in his natural environment of the string section. Which Tom would he be faced with – the boy from the briar patch, or the prim violinist? How would Tom act toward him? Were they friends now?

It was becoming abundantly clear that Harry was developing a crush. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this: he’d never felt like this so soon after meeting someone. Well – he’d known Tom for three years, so perhaps not soon at all. But it felt quick. It felt like that moment in the wood – surrounded by spines, leaves falling around them, looking up and finding deep brown eyes staring back – had been the start of something wholly detached from their flimsy history, something electric and dangerous.

He’d spent the weekend stewing in these feelings, fending off Sirius’s probing questions, and making a token attempt at an essay for McGonagall.

Harry wanted to get Tom’s number. And take him out to eat at that pizza place by the school, and drive him home every Friday, and sit next to him on a carpet of moldering leaves while a crow decomposed over their heads –

The bell rang.

He rammed his things into his pack, moving out into the hall with badly-contained anticipation. The crowds of shuffling and shouting children felt like they were moving at the lethargic pace of a dying slug.

It was with great relief that he reached the orchestra room. Ron, fiddling with the reed of his bassoon, offered him a cheery wave in greeting.

Tom wasn’t in his seat, Harry noted. Muting his disappointment, he retrieved his horn from the instrument storage closet and bore it out to the brass section, exchanging a smile with fellow horns Cedric and Padma.

“Had a good weekend?” Cedric asked, looking up from color coding a crumpled sheet of music.

“Mhmm,” Harry said noncommittally, sitting and assembling his instrument.

Padma honked happily into her mouthpiece. Harry honked back.

“That’s only a valid warm-up if you make the effort to produce different tones,” Cedric reminded them, rolling his eyes.

“But consider,” said Padma. “Instead of being valid, we could be ducks.”

Harry made his best agreement honk. It came out louder than he’d intended, cutting through the aimless roar of the gathering orchestra. A violin whirled around to give him a dirty look.

Narcissa, he recognized. The girl who had snitched on Tom. He smiled guilelessly back until she turned away, flipping a sheet of blond hair over her shoulder and turning to the boy sitting next to her, mouth twisted with spiteful whispers. The boy half-turned, unsmiling, the brown of his eyes visible even from the other side of the classroom.

Harry felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. He hadn’t noticed Tom enter.

Tom turned away, lifting his violin onto his shoulder and starting up a tuning ritual.

Harry stared, momentarily thrown. He hadn’t considered that Tom might just – ignore him. Not offer him so much as a smile in recognition.

“Harry, are you okay?” Ron was standing beside him, looking highly amused.

Jumping, Harry said, “yeah, I’m good! Nothing the matter here, just a couple of… uh, ducks doing duck things!”

“Right,” Ron said, eyes bright with restrained laughter. “Duck things. Like, for example, staring longingly at certain violins?”

Harry sputtered, sending a horrified glance Padma’s way.

“Longing stares?” said Padma, looking just as interested as Harry feared she might. “Do tell, Ronald. Does our dear Harry have a crush on a violin? Scandalous.”

“Star-crossed lovers,” Ron said seriously. “A French horn and a fiddler. Two households, both alike in dignity…”

Harry fitted his mouthpiece into his horn and started determinedly running through his scales, trying to drown them both out.

“Which one?” Padma said over the noise. “He’s not still hung up over Daphne Greengrass, is he?”

An unseemly squawk erupted from the bell of Harry’s horn.

“Nah,” Ron said. “Tom Gaunt, this time around.”

Harry put his horn down so he could properly glare. “Ronald,” he hissed. “You can’t just tell people stuff like that.”

“This is what happens when you’re this sickeningly obvious about your feelings, Harry,” Ron said smugly. “People gossip.”

“Can’t you at least do it behind my back?”

Padma giggled. “That’s not half so fun as teasing you in person.”

At the head of the classroom, Flitwick rapped impatiently at his podium with his conductor’s baton.

“Gotta go,” Ron said. “We’ll talk it through later, ‘kay, Harry?”

“I’ll have my revenge,” Harry told Ron’s retreating back.

“You know, we don’t agree on much,” Padma said thoughtfully. “But you have decent taste in men. Tom’s good-looking.”

“Hush,” Harry said. “Flitwick’s trying to start class.”

“I mean, he doesn’t seem much like your usual type,” Padma went on. “Too reserved, you know? But hot is hot. I get the appeal.”

Tom stood, bow sliding cleanly over the strings of his violin. After a beat, the rest of the strings joined in, tuning themselves against his pitch. He was wearing the same dark jacket from Friday, slightly oversized but professional. He looked bored.

Harry didn’t have a type. But if he did…

“Oh my god, are you blushing?” Padma asked, punching him lightly in the shoulder.

“Harry, Padma,” said Cedric. “I love you both dearly. But please shut up.”

The strings quieted. Neville, the first chair oboe, sounded out a steady B-flat for the winds and brass. Harry dutifully matched pitch, pretending he didn’t notice Padma’s energetic eyebrow-wiggling.

The next forty minutes were misery. Harry kept missing his entrances on the waltz they were rehearsing, so distracted was he by the back of Tom’s head. Tom didn’t turn around once.

“Hey, Harry, is everything good? Have you been getting enough sleep?” Cedric asked him as they cleaned their instruments after class. “You seem… scrambled. It’s not like you to lose track of where we are in the music like that.”

“He’s distracted,” Padma said with delight. “Weren’t you paying attention to what Ronald had to say?”

“I try not to eavesdrop,” Cedric said. “In a room this noisy –” two of the trumpet players started playing ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ in discordant unison “– it’s not difficult to just mind your own business.”

“Well –” Padma began.

“I’m fine,” Harry interjected desperately. “I’ll try harder tomorrow, Cedric, I promise. Sorry for letting the team down. It won’t happen again.”

Cedric looked pleased with him calling them a ‘team’. “You could never let us down, Harry! I won’t pry into this distraction of yours. Just so long as you’re trying your best and taking care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, touched. “I will.”

When he next looked up at the front of the classroom, Tom was gone.

“That was the polar opposite of a bro move back there,” Harry told Ron at football practice that afternoon, volleying a vengeful ball at the goal.

Ron caught the shot with apparent ease. “What, telling Padma about your little crush?”

“She’s gonna tell Lavender. And Lavender’s gonna tell everyone, Ron. Everyone.”

“Give Padma some credit,” Ron said, hurling the ball back. “She’s less of a gossip than her sister, at least.”

“Ugh,” said Harry. A raindrop splattered on the top of his head. “Ugh.”

“I thought you liked rain,” Ron laughed.

Harry took a new shot. This one, at least, made it into the goal.

The rain turned into a veritable downpour. By the time practice ended, everyone was soaked and miserable.

“Harry,” Wood called through the wet. “I don’t suppose you ever tracked down that ball?”

A pebble of guilt fell into Harry’s stomach. He had completely forgotten about the missing ball in the midst of – well. In the midst of Tom. “No, I couldn’t find it. Sorry, Oliver.”

“No worries,” Wood said. He sounded very worried.

Ron elbowed Harry. “Hey, don’t look so glum. It’s no one’s fault but Cormac’s if we’re short a ball.”

Harry laughed. “We can’t go on blaming poor Cormac for everything that goes wrong.”

“Sure, we can,” said Ron. “At least until he learns how to take responsibility for his mistakes…”

“Which we both know will never happen,” Harry finished, grinning despite himself.

Cormac McLaggen was as arrogant as Tom and a quarter as brainy. He’d tripped Ron and called him a ‘carrot-top’ in freshman year, and Harry and Ron had never found it in themselves to forgive him.

“Well, I should head out,” Ron said, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I’m sorry for telling Padma. I got a bit too excited about teasing you and I didn’t think things through.”

“No worries,” said Harry, slapping his best friend on the back. “We both know I’d do the same for you.”

Ron laughed barkingly and dashed off, lost in the gray blur of falling rain. Harry stood for a moment, listening to the patter of droplets colliding with turf and the dwindling murmur of his teammates bidding each other farewell.

He felt displaced from himself. The woods loomed on the edges of his vision, a smear of darker black through the damp air.

His feet carried him to the threshold of the briar-choked stand of trees, but for all he strained his eyes, there was no Tom staring back at him from the thorny shadows.

Tom hadn’t even looked at him in orchestra. It had hurt, that lack of attention. Harry was embarrassed by how much it still stung.

He returned to his truck and just sat, letting droplets fall from the curling tips of his hair to land on his thighs and shoulders. His clothes were saturated with rainwater, seeping into the driver’s seat and pooling on the floor under him.

After a while, he clicked on the radio and pulled the reluctant engine to grumbling life.

Harry didn’t plan to find himself in front of Tom’s house. Still, being there felt inevitable. He stopped in the middle of the street, letting the truck idle.

The house was shabby. It looked as though it had once been painted a cheerful pastel pink, but time and dirt had rendered the walls peeling and grayed. The yard was overgrown, spilling over with dandelions gone to seed and, to Harry’s amusement, nightshade. Lacy white curtains pulled shut over the front window, obscuring the inside from view.

Still, Harry found himself charmed by the house: by the rooster-topped wind vane crowning the roof, the large brown boots on the porch, the wilderness of bent sunflowers spilling out of an untended flowerbed.

The rain moved away, leaving Harry feeling exposed in the street. What would Tom think, if he looked out to see Harry’s old chipped-red truck idling outside his house? Harry himself wasn’t sure how to explain his presence here.

Damp and confused, he drove home.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Padma asked him the next day, watching him watch Tom.

“No,” Harry said glumly. Tom ran a hand through his hair, fluffing the curls. “Maybe.”

“This is a new thing, right? What brought it on?”

“We had a conversation outside of school. I kind of… I dunno, Padma, I felt like he was flirting with me. But he hasn’t even looked at me since then.”

“Oh, Harry.”

“Like, maybe I was just imagining things. I really don’t think I was, though. I mean… oh, I don’t know.”

“That’s nothing to do with you, then. If this kid doesn’t have the guts to talk to you, he doesn’t deserve you.” Padma sniffed. “Stupid violins. Think they’re better than everyone else. Even if he is hot, he’s not worth losing sleep over.”

Tom turned his head to say something to Bellatrix Black. He looked as enormously bored as ever.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’m not sure if I have it in me to not lose sleep over him.”

Padma squinted at him. “This is a lot worse than your thing for Daphne, isn’t it.”

Harry sighed. “I never had a thing for Daphne.”

“Sure,” Padma said disbelievingly. “But Harry, even if he wasn’t being like this, you don’t want to start a relationship in senior year. That’s just asking for heartbreak.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry admitted, blowing a mournful A-minor scale out on his horn.

Still, it was hard to tear his eyes away from the string section.

Harry’s determination to stop dwelling on Tom lasted barely forty-eight hours.

“You want to go grab ice cream?” Ron asked after Thursday practice. “I’ll pay.”

“Are you still guilty over the Padma thing? Ron, it wasn’t a big deal. You were right – she hasn’t told anyone.”

“Nah,” Ron said. “I already apologized, didn’t I? You just seem down today. I thought a treat might cheer you up. What do you say?”

“I –” Harry trailed off, distracted. Was that the silhouette of a person in the woods, or a trick of the light?

“Harry?”

“I can’t today, Ron, sorry. I’ve got to – to check on something. Yeah.”

“Right,” Ron said uncertainly. “You want some company?”

“No, not today. I, uh, I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow, okay?”

“Of course.” Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “You know I’m here for you if you ever want to talk about it, right?”

Harry blinked. “Of course. Thanks, Ron. You’re a good friend.”

“I do my best,” said Ron gently, throwing his school bag over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

The shifting shadows of the wood drew Harry closer. He strained to see through the briars, but glimpsed only thorns and ivy-strangled trees, mud left over from the morning’s rain.

“Hello?” he called softly, ducking under a trailing bramble. “Tom, are you in here somewhere?”

A bird squawked in alarm, bursting out of the brush and through the canopy. Harry took a step backwards. His heart thundered in his chest, so loudly that he was distracted from the woods in front of him –

A figure unfolded from the forest floor, crisp against the dusky shadows. “Harry?”

“Ngahh!” Harry shrieked, falling into a defensive position.

“Hi,” Tom said, amusement in his dark eyes. “That was an impressive scream.”

“I’ve been practicing it just for you,” Harry grumbled, mussing his hair in irritation.

“I’m flattered.”

Now that they were here, talking, Harry wasn’t sure what to say. “Uh, so, how have you been?”

“Good.” Tom grinned mockingly, seemingly delighted by the attempt at small talk. “And you?”

“Also good. I suppose. Some weather we’ve been having, yeah?”

Tom hummed, smile growing. “Are you here looking for me?”

“No,” Harry said quickly, then bit his tongue. “I mean, yes. You never waved back at me in class. I wanted to… check on you?”

“Waved back? You never waved at me in the first place.”

“I smiled at you and made meaningful eye contact,” Harry said. “That’s basically a wave.”

Tom frowned.

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I kind of thought we could be friends, that’s all. Was that wrong? I – I can leave you alone, if that’s what you prefer.”

“No!” Tom said, looking alarmed. He cleared his throat. “I mean, you weren’t wrong. Please don’t leave.”

Harry furrowed his brows, confused but pleased. He began making his way through the brambles, into Tom’s little study clearing.

“I rather tipped my hand to you last week,” Tom said. “It was impulsive and foolish for me to have said as much as I did. I think I convinced myself that you were a stranger – it’s easy to use another person as a confessional, if part of you feels like you’ll never see them again.”

“That makes sense.” Harry poked around for an unmuddied patch of ground to sit. “Though, you can always just murder me. That way you really wouldn’t have to see me again. If I’m dead from your little bleach scheme, I can’t tell anyone that you were probably the one who killed me.”

Tom eyed him speculatively. “I don’t want to poison you. It’s easier to just… keep you away from my friends and pretend we don’t know each other.”

“Oh,” Harry said quietly, sitting back on his haunches. “So, you were doing it on purpose. Tom, I hate to say this, but that’s not exactly a solid foundation for a friendship.”

“I… I see.”

“If I promise not to tell anyone how eccentric you are, will you agree to make eye contact with me in public?”

Tom considered this for a moment. “Okay.”

“It’s a deal, then,” Harry said, extending his hand for a shake.

Tom took it with a hesitant smile. “Deal.”

“You want to continue this conversation in my truck? It’s too wet out here for my comfort.”

Tom grimaced at the mud under his feet – he was sitting, Harry saw, on his black coat. “Good idea.” He pulled his jacket out of the muck and wandered over to the nearby tree where his backpack hung.

“What were you doing out here, anyway?” Harry asked as they filed out of the woods. “I mean, when I came looking for you I thought it was kind of a long shot.”

“Hence the screaming?”

Harry snorted. “I mean, yeah.”

“Would you believe me if I said I was hoping you’d show up?”

“Were you?” Harry said cautiously.

“A little bit, I think. I wouldn’t dirty my favorite jacket for just anyone, you know.”

Harry ducked his head, feeling bashful as they crossed the wide-open football pitch. “I gave up free ice cream to come check if you were there.”

Harry sneaked a glance at Tom and caught him smiling at the ground. A moment later, he was rolling his eyes, saying, “You must be experiencing terrible regret.”

“I’m not,” Harry said.

Tom broke into that covert smile again. This time, when he saw Harry looking, he didn’t bother to hide it.

Harry unlocked the truck and Tom, like last week, put his bag in the back and sat his violin case in his lap. It felt like routine; it felt simultaneously novel.

Tom, this contradiction of a boy, turned his deep brown eyes on Harry, and all the oxygen felt drained from the front seat.

“So,” Tom said softly. “Where were we?”

Harry tried in vain not to look at his lips. Tom was leaning over the stick shift towards him, face angled perfectly to catch the fading sunlight. Was it calculated, that expression? The tiny, crooked smile, the exposed neck, the way the sun picked his lashes out in gold?

Tom’s eyebrows arched. To his mild horror, Harry realized he was attracted to Tom’s forehead wrinkles. Yeah, that expression was definitely calculated. Fuck.

Clearing his throat, Harry turned his key in the ignition. The sudden noise snapped Tom’s face from expectant to startled. “Why is it so loud?”

“It’s old,” Harry said, chuckling. “You get used to it after a bit.” He threw his arm over the back of Tom’s seat, watching behind them as he backed the truck out of its parking space.

“You’re not bringing me home already, are you?” Tom asked, a hint of a pout in his voice.

“I have calculus homework,” Harry said. “So as much as I’d love to waste more time with you –”

“Rude.”

“I’m giving you a free ride. Stop complaining.”

He caught Tom’s knife-sharp smile out of the corner of his eye.

“Tell me about yourself,” Harry said impulsively as he turned onto the road.

“Why? I mean, I already gave you my entire tragic backstory. What more do you want?”

“What do you want to do after high school?” Harry asked. “You said university, but what else?”

“I’ll study business, probably,” Tom said. “Or history. That’s what I’m interested in – but I want to go into a profession that I can make a living off of. Historians don’t have the kind of… influence I plan to accrue.”

“Historians aren’t influential?” Harry scoffs. “Hermione would have a thing or two to say about that.”

“Oh?”

“Historians are the bridge between the ancient and modern worlds,” Harry said. “Or something. Sounds pretty influential to me.”

“Look at you, spouting poetry. You’re still claiming to be a dumb jock?”

“Don’t make fun.”

“Hmm.”

Harry tapped a beat into the leather of the steering wheel. “You didn’t respond to my point.”

For a long moment, Tom stayed silent. “I don’t mean that kind of… academic influence. I want influence over people.”

“Money?”

“I guess.”

“Oh,” said Harry, thinking of the shabby house and its wilderness of sunflowers. “You do seem… uncommonly concerned with keeping up appearances. I guess it makes sense that you’d want to do something with people.”

Tom let out a laugh so sudden and jagged that it startled Harry. “You can say what you really mean. I know you’re judging me.”

“Fine,” Harry said lightly. “I think that’s a really superficial reason to pursue a profession, and you’d be happier in the long run if you decided to follow your passions instead.”

“See, this is why I’m so reserved.” Tom made a fake-sounding sigh. “Whenever I confess to people that I secretly dream of ruling the world with a cold, capitalist fist, they judge me! What’s a man to do?”

Harry snickered. “Shut up.”

“You know, you’re the first person who’s had that reaction to my plans,” said Tom. “Most people respect my passion for ordering others around.”

“Do you actually have ‘a passion for ordering people around’, though, or is that just part of your persona?”

“Persona?”

“You know. The kid with a violin and perfect grades, the kid who never dreams of poisoning his friends. Someone who wouldn’t be caught dead in the blackberry patch behind the school. He seems like the power-hungry type.”

Tom was watching him. Harry could feel his gaze burning into the side of his face. “I don’t think you understand me at all if you think most of that is an act.”

“Maybe not,” Harry admitted, trying not to betray his hurt. “We’ve been acquainted for under a week.”

A silence expanded between them. Harry left it for Tom to fill, and indeed, barely a minute later: “Even if some of it really is an act, I do like to boss people around. The guidance counselor told me to look into business.”

“You told the guidance counselor that your greatest ambition… was to be in charge of other people?” Harry asked, trying to imagine how that conversation might have played out.

“Not in so few words,” Tom said. “The counseling department has more than enough dirt on me already.”

Harry laughed, turning onto Tom’s street. “Why did you tell Narcissa about your nightshade-in-a-water bottle plot, anyway? I don’t mean to presume, but the two of you don’t seem particularly close.”

“I’m not quite sure,” Tom said. “I suppose – you called it my ‘persona’? – it’s exhausting to keep it up all the time. It was a relief to let it slip, if only a little. Same reason I’m talking about this stuff to you.”

“I really am just a confessional to you, then,” Harry said, voice flat.

“No,” Tom said. “Not just a confessional.”

They had arrived at Tom’s house, flaking, pink, and hunched. Harry stopped the truck and met Tom’s dark, intent eyes.

“What do you want to do with yourself, Harry Potter?” Tom asked, contorting to lean against the dashboard. “Where do your passions lie?”

Harry scratched his chin, suddenly bashful. “I’ve always liked maths, so I think I’ll pursue that for a while. See where it takes me.”

“I see.”

“I know, I know. It’s boring, or whatever.”

“I don’t think that at all,” Tom said. He was making that horrible, beautiful expression again.

Harry swallowed. “Hey, uh, Tom. Can I give you my cell number?”

The expression softened.

Ah, a distant part of Harry noted. We’ve reached the butterflies-in-the-stomach phase. Proceed with caution.

“I’d like that,” Tom said, pulling his phone out from his back pocket.

Harry took it carefully. The phone was in a minimalist black case; its screen was scratched, but not cracked; it was unsmudged in a way that indicated routine polishing. It suited Tom, Harry thought. He typed in his number, leaving the contact name open.

“Thanks for the lift,” Tom said, taking his phone with a smile. “I’ll be in touch.”

“You’ll return my meaningful eye contact, you mean?”

“I mean that I’ll text.” Tom grinned. “But the eye contact, too.”

Harry smiled back. “In that case, I’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

Tom clambered out of the truck, pulling his violin out after him.

“Tom,” Harry found himself saying. “It’s okay to not be perfect. You know that, right?”

Tom stilled. “I know that.”

“It’s okay to be weird, and creepy, and whatever else you’re worried about. It’s okay to be interested in poison and dead animals and, like, string instruments. I still like you.”

“I feel like you’re trying to insult me,” Tom said stiffly, gripping the open door of the truck.

“I mean it,” Harry said. “I really like you, Tom. At least, I like this version of you.”

“The one that returns eye contact?”

“Exactly,” Harry said softly, meeting his eyes. Dark as a dead crow’s feathers, hopeful as the first star in the night sky. 

Tom looked away. The tips of his ears had gone red. “I’ll see you soon, Harry.”

“Goodnight,” Harry whispered to the shut passenger door.

Chapter Text

“Sirius,” Harry said late Thursday night, flopping down on the living room sofa. “Would it be a bad idea to pursue a relationship in senior year?”

Sirius whistled lowly, clicking off the television. “No, I don’t think it would be. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah,” Harry decided. “Yeah, I do. There’s this boy in the orchestra who I’ve been talking with, and I really like him.”

“Is this someone I know?”

“Maybe. Tom Gaunt? He’s the first violin.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “The prodigy? Huh. I wouldn’t have pegged him as someone you’d get along with. Is he the one I’ve heard Hermione complaining about?”

“Hermione’s not even part of the orchestra,” Harry said defensively. “She doesn’t know him very well.”

“You’re pretty far gone, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“You must be pretty infatuated if you’re ignoring Hermione’s advice.”

Harry ducked his head. “Whatever. I don’t know why I came to you, anyway –”

Sirius ruffled his hair, grinning. “You needed someone to help you gain some courage, kiddo. Are you going to ask him out?”

“Yeah,” Harry decided. “I am.”

“There’s my boy,” Sirius said fondly. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Harry stood, embarrassed. “I’ll leave you with your television, then.”

He climbed upstairs and closed himself away in his room, leaning against the window. He looked up to the sky, but couldn’t make out the stars through the glow of the city.

There was a new message on his phone: Hello, Harry. This is Tom.

A car passed by on the road below. Its rear lights reflected crimson off the windows of the houses across the street. Harry passed his thumb over the back of his phone, letting the quiet of the moment settle on his tongue. Perhaps this path led to heartbreak – but he was willing to take that risk.

hey tom :)

Friday orchestra rehearsals were always more casual than usual, much to Flitwick’s chagrin. Harry hadn’t pulled out his music yet; he was too busy making duck noises at Padma.

“Nice one,” Padma said, grinning as Harry hit his highest honk yet.

Cedric winced. “I wish you’d put that much effort into the pieces we’re playing, Harry.”

“So you’re impressed?” Harry asked smugly, but obligingly plugged his mouthpiece back into his horn and adjusted the instrument.

“A little,” Cedric laughed.

“Hey,” said a new voice, one that was becoming steadily more familiar.

Harry looked up, biting down a smile. “Tom! Hi.”

Tom stood beside Harry’s empty music stand, hands stuck in the pockets of a new red jacket. “I didn’t know a horn could make a noise like that.”

“Only in the hands of the most skilled musicians,” Harry said, puffing his chest up with exaggerated pride.

“Hey there, Tom,” said Padma brightly. “What brings you all the way to the back of the classroom?”

“Padma,” Tom said warmly. Harry wondered if they knew each other. “I’m trying to make Harry feel more secure in our relationship.”

Across the room, Ron was giving Harry a very enthusiastic thumbs-up. Neville, beside him, wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Harry felt very glad that the two of them couldn’t hear this conversation.

“Relationship?” Padma was saying. “So, like, are you two…?”

Panicked, Harry met Tom’s eyes.

Tom smirked. “We’ll see.”

On cue, Flitwick started tapping impatiently at his podium. “Everyone get out that new waltz, please!”

“Oh dear,” Tom said, eyes dancing with humor. “Bye, then, Harry. It was good to see you, Padma.”

Harry frowned at Tom’s retreating back as he glided back to his seat, dutifully leading the strings in their tuning exercises. The butterflies – or were they crows? – from yesterday were back in full force. He felt thick with fluttering, feathery anticipation. “That bastard.”

“Oh my god,” Padma said. “Harry.”

Harry sunk down in his seat, burying his head in his hands. “I hate him.”

“He certainly doesn’t hate you. I mean, ‘we’ll see’? Wow.”

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking,” Harry said. “I’m trying to be a better member of Team French Horn, and I can’t do that if my stand partner is distracting me.”

Padma chuckled. “Hear that, Cedric? If we want Harry to be responsible, all we have to do is tease him about his love life.”

Cedric frowned, fiddling intently with his mouthpiece. “Didn’t catch that, Padma, sorry. Can this conversation wait until after class?”

“You’re hopeless,” said Padma.

Harry did his very best not to be distracted by the way Tom’s elbows moved as he performed his solo for the new piece, the shape of the hair on the back of his neck, the tap of his right foot counting out rests. After a few stern glances from Cedric, he managed to turn his attention back to the music. Still, the buzzing aftertaste of Tom’s words – we’ll see – lingered at the back of his mind.

After class, he found Tom was waiting for him in the hallway, unruffled and darkly handsome. Seeing Harry, he stood up tall, features alight with something tense and joyous.

“Hey,” Harry said. He gripped the straps of his backpack to steel himself. “What class do you have next?”

“Just English Composition,” Tom said.

“You want to skip sixth period with me?”

Tom blinked, lips parting. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Harry beamed.

They peeled off from the crowds of students going to class and slipped out the back doors. As they stepped out into the soft afternoon sunlight, Harry stretched expansively. “Nothing like stolen time on a Friday,” he said.

“I suppose,” said Tom. “So… now that we’ve successfully evaded our academic obligations, what now?”

“Whatever we want!” Harry said, striding toward the parking lot. “I dunno, what do you usually do when you skip?”

Tom was silent. He looked hunched and awkward in his new sweater.

“Oh, hell – don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve skipped class.”

“I’ve skipped class to do homework a couple of times,” Tom said shiftily. “Well. Once.”

Harry groaned. “You are such a teacher’s pet. I can’t believe I li–”

“Yeah?” Tom asked, eyes bright.

“Oh, shut up,” Harry said, flushing. “How about this: I’ll take you downtown. We can go to my and Luna’s favorite bakery.”

“You know, I’m beginning to understand the appeal of skipping,” Tom said. “That sounds delightful.”

Harry snickered, unlocking the truck. “It’s almost like ignoring rules is more fun than sitting in class like a good boy.”

“Rules are important,” Tom protested as he climbed into the passenger seat. “Except for the stupid ones.”

“Stupid ones?” Harry started the engine. This time, Tom didn’t jump.

“You know. ‘Don’t install Minecraft on the school computers.’ ‘Don’t cheat on Umbridge’s pop quizzes.’”

“‘Don’t bring knives to class’?”

“Exactly! See, you’re getting it.”

Harry grinned, pulling onto the main road. “So, you were the one who got around the firewall to get us all Minecraft? I always wondered who I had to thank for that. You’re a hero, Tom.”

“I live to serve,” Tom said smugly, rolling down his window.

Harry snuck a glance at him, vibrant in the sunlight, curls flying in the wind, hand outstretched as if to catch the breeze. A heady fascination curdled in his gut, and he wanted nothing more than to touch.

Did this count as intoxicated driving? He tore his eyes back to the road, struggling to maintain focus. “How is the decomposition going? Of your crow, I mean. It seemed pretty far along last Friday.”

“Oh,” Tom said. “You hadn’t noticed? It’s gone. Got washed away in Monday’s rainstorm, I think, and carried off by some scavenger.”

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry.”

“I think,” Tom said slowly, “that I would have been upset if it had been washed away a week ago. But I’m not now.”

“It was beautiful while it lasted,” Harry said, thinking of what Padma had said earlier that week. The futility of a relationship started in senior year, the inevitable divergence of his path from Tom’s.

Tom laughed, a little bitterly.

“Besides, it’ll live on in my artwork,” Harry said. “I’ve immortalized it in paper.”

“You scribbled a blob onto a sheet of paper I tore out of my chemistry notebook,” Tom protested. “Hardly a dignified way for it to remain in the world. Not only dead and gone, but its memory desecrated?”

“Neville tells me that I’m a pretty good artist.”

“Neville Longbottom? Kid’s a pushover. I bet he’d compliment a rock if he felt it needed a pick-me-up.”

Harry laughed. Tom was right, of course – Neville was kind to a fault, and Harry’s art had never been exceptional. “We’re here. Help me find a parking spot?”

They parked near a flower store. The window display was lush with deep red roses, a domesticated imitation of the briar patch behind the school.

As they walked, their hands brushed, and Harry felt so light and free that he could fly. Possessed by a surge of courage, he reached out to take Tom’s hand in his. Tom accepted his hand, squeezed it.

“This is the place?” Tom asked, stopping in front of the bakery.

Crammed between a post office and a Thai restaurant, painted a fierce yellow, the bakery wasn’t much to look at. Tom certainly didn’t seem impressed. Still, Harry dragged him inside, beaming at the jangle of the bell on the door. He exhaled, reveling in the warmth and yeast smell that pervaded the bakery.

Tom, surveying the neat rows of pastries on display, looked far less skeptical now.

“I’ll pay,” Harry said quietly, offering the clerk a small smile. “Anything you like.”

They left with a blackberry tart and a chocolate muffin packed away in waxy brown bags. Tom was holding his muffin bag in a loose grip, using it to gesture excitedly – he was talking about Bach, eyes shining, undeterred by Harry’s vacant expression.

“How does a picnic in Regent’s Park sound?” Harry asked as they hauled themselves back into the truck.

“Heavenly,” Tom said, peeling open his bag to take a whiff of his muffin. He was more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him, all long eyelashes and sprawling limbs and lazy smile.

Harry took the long way to the park, driving them through tree-lined boulevards, past the ostentatious façade of city hall, over the bascule bridge.

The slight chill to the afternoon air had warded away most park visitors, leaving the parking lot a mostly-empty stretch of concrete. Fiery leaves blew down the road, chasing each other in an intricate, spiraling dance. Harry could hear the muted shrieks of children on a distant play structure.

Tom was watching him, expression soft.

Harry stared back, puzzled. He had met three Toms, now: the thorn-sharp stranger in the briar patch, the precise soloist, the boy who blushed at the admission that he’d never skipped class. All of those versions of him were real, in their own way – and all of them were people Harry knew he could fall in love with.

As they piled out of the truck and curled up together in the flatbed, as Harry bit into the sweet crust of his tart, as Tom threw his head back in a violently sudden laugh, Harry thought of the perfect silhouette of the crow.

“You never told me,” Harry said thoughtfully. “Why you don’t feel so bad, now, about the crow washing away. You said that a week ago it would have disappointed you.”

“Yes.” Tom looked at him with a smile in his cheeks, his hair blown into an elegant mess. “I was going to say – well, now I have something more interesting to observe.”

“Creepy,” Harry said.

Tom pursed his lips, eyes passing into shade.

“Not in a bad way,” Harry said gently. He leaned forward, let himself finally touch Tom’s face –

And then they were kissing, in the eyes of the world, sharing the taste of chocolate and blackberries.