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Tom opened the door to his office without paying attention. He re-read his student’s letter, which detailed the need for an extra counseling session.
Two days before Christmas.
He sighed, putting down the parchment on his desk. Being the Head of Slytherin was more fulfilling than any other job he could’ve chosen at the Ministry, but heavens, some days the need to strangle his snakes was overwhelming.
“Careful Professor, you’re beginning to look your age.”
Tom straightened, twirling around to find the owner of the voice looking at him with amusement.
“Potter,” he said, annoyed by how shaky his own voice sounded.
Potter.
Harry James Potter.
The boy was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Even half hidden in the shadows, Tom was able to see the outline of his arms and chest underneath his red robes.
Not much of a boy now.
Potter smiled crookedly, lifting himself off the wall and walking towards him. Tom held his breath, sighing with relief when he stopped a few feet away from him.
Pathetic. Flustered by a man twenty years his junior.
“Professor.”
Tom arranged his robes and stepped back, going to the chair behind his desk. He sat down and looked up to Potter, feeling more prepared to confront him now that there was some space between them.
The boy cocked his head to the side, amusement shining on his eyes—like he knew exactly why Tom had stepped back: Worse, like he was up to the challenge.
It reminded Tom of the years when the little devil ran through the hallways, wrecking havoc everywhere he went.
Gryffindor’s golden boy. DADA prodigy.
Tom’s Achilles Heel.
“Potter. What are you doing here? I didn’t know the Auror Department had deployed staff to watch over Hogwarts.”
“You’re right, I’m just running a quick errand.”
He took a seat in the chair in front of him, lifting his legs up and putting them on Tom’s desk.
“Potter,” he hissed, sending a quick stinging hex at him. “Get your feet off my table.”
His laugh filled the room. It warmed the frigid stone of the dungeons in the way the fireplace hadn’t managed, not since he’d first taken Slughorn's office.
Tom couldn’t help but focus on the small crinkle in the corner of Potter’s eyes, or the way his shoulders and belly trembled when he laughed.
He had always noticed his laugh. Whether it was from the Professor’s table, or the front of the classroom, the boy’s joy had a way of catching Tom’s eyes. Every single time.
“I think life’s a bit easier when you laugh, don’t you think, Professor? I bet you have a lovely smile.”
It was as infectious as it was dangerous.
“Merlin, I missed you.”
Tom clenched his jaw, bringing down his Occlumency walls with the same force one slammed a door close, but he wasn’t quick enough: He knew Potter had seen the blush on his cheeks.
“Almost like old times. I could swear you were going to take 50 points from Gryffindor.”
“I would, if I had any assurance that it would stop your abhorrent behavior. Alas, the other professors and I stopped trying a long time ago.”
Two dimples appeared in the boy’s cheeks. Tom felt warmth spread through his belly.
“Is that so? I thought there were no lost causes for Hogwarts’ teachers.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Consider yourself an exception.”
Potter’s eyes softened, and his smile dissolved into something more tender.
The flames from the fireplace danced in his green irises.
“Why did you write that recommendation, Professor?”
The papers at his desk caught Tom’s attention. He took some seconds to answer while he dusted off Flint’s essay with meticulous efficiency.
“Professor?”
Tom didn’t lift his eyes from the papers. “I haven’t been your professor in a long time, Potter, there’s no need to call me that.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Tom sighed.
“There is nothing to answer. I wrote it because you are a brilliant dueler, an honest man, and you’re more prepared to assume the position than any of the other dunderheads in the DMLE.”
The fire tsked, filling the silence that followed Tom’s words.
“I didn’t request a recommendation.”
Tom leaned against his chair, feeling the beginnings of a headache creep in. “I’m well aware.”
Potter sputtered, and Tom was suddenly assaulted with the memory of fifteen year old him looking up at Tom while he scolded him, eyes filled with childish indignation.
“B-but, Professor! You’re not being fair! Malfoy started it!”
An unpleasant sensation wrapped a hand around his throat. It had taken him many years to put a name to it, and even then, he struggled to think it aloud.
Yearning
“So just like that? You heard that I was applying for Head Auror and decided to write to the Minister himself?”
Tom tapped his fingertips over the desk. “Do you want me to rescind my letter, Potter? Is that it?”
The boy snorted, seeming at loss of words. “Merlin, no. I’m just—” He ran a hand through his hair, in that endearing way of his. Tom wanted to murder him. “I guess I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“What is there to figure out?”
Potter watched him like he was one of his criminals, and he was the one in charge of deciphering his motives. He even furrowed his eyebrows in concentration.
“The reason you’d do something nice for me.”
Tom didn’t answer, so Harry spoke again.
“You know, after that day, after graduation…I didn’t think I would speak to you again.”
Potter’s skin glistened against the sun, the birth of every sinful fantasy Tom had had over the past three years.
“Please, Professor. I can’t—I’m—I’m going mad,” he whispered, resting his forehead against his. “Please.”
Tom scoffed. “You were a child, and a stupid one at that. It wouldn’t be fair to hold it against you.”
Potter’s nostrils flared. “I was seventeen.”
“A child.”
“Well, good thing I’m not one right now,” he growled.
Tom’s stomach fell to his feet. “Excuse me?”
Potter’s eyes narrowed, pinning him down. “You heard me.”
Tom tried to swallow the dry saliva sticking to the roof of his mouth. “I take it back. You’re not a child anymore, but the same can’t be said about your stupidity.”
“I would rather be stupid than a coward.”
Tom pushed his chair back, ignoring the shriek the wooden foot made when it scratched the floor. Potter stood up immediately after him.
“You’re playing with fire, Potter,” he hissed, walking over to his bookshelf. He grabbed one of the books and ran his fingertips over the leather cover, trying to keep his hands occupied.
“Harry.”
Tom turned around so quickly he forgot to put the book back. “What?”
“It’s Harry. I’m Harry.”
The boy, the foolish, foolish boy walked towards him, taking his copy of Jane Eyre from his hands and closing it gently. His arm grazed Tom’s torso, staying obscenely close seconds after he’d put the book back on the shelf.
“It’s always been Harry. It was Harry back then, it’s Harry right now, and it will continue being Harry ten years down the line.”
Tom pressed his back against the shelf, trying to control his breathing. “I’m well aware of your name.”
Soft lips ghosted his ear. “Say it then.”
Tom closed his eyes, gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles hurt. “You’re ridiculous.”
“We’ve covered that already.”
Potter’s breath was warm against his neck.
“I’m over two decades older than you. You’ve just begun your career. There are a million other men or women that would give their left kidney to play house with you, or better yet, to spend a night in your bed.”
Tom put a hand on his chest and pushed, but the boy stayed in place. It didn’t even occur to him to just use his wand.
“So yes, you are being completely, moronically, incredibly bloody stupid if you think having an affair with your old professor is worth compr—”
“Nineteen.”
Tom snapped his eyes open. “What?”
Harry smiled, looking at him with so much tenderness it momentarily sizzled out any thought in Tom’s head.
“You’re nineteen years older than me. Over two decades seemed a bit of a stretch.” He leaned over, rubbing his nose against Tom’s cheek. “Say it.”
“Potter—”
He placed one kiss in the corner of his mouth, and another under his jaw. “Please.”
Tom’s Achilles Heel.
“Harry.”
Harry’s hands tightened against his waist. He kissed his throat, biting softly and then licking his skin in apology.
“Harry.”
His nose nuzzled his cheek again, lifting one hand to trace Tom’s cheekbone. He ran his thumb in small circles, caressing his jaw, his lips, his hair.
“Harry.”
He smelled Tom’s hair, almost like he wanted to remind himself that he was real.
“Tom.”
Their lips met halfway in. It was a disastrous combination of anger and longing and lust and relief. So much relief.
Harry cupped his jaw, tilting his head sideways to give himself more space.
Tom was tempted to snap at him, to tell him he had many years of experience on him and that he was more than capable of leading the kiss. But well. Harry coaxed his lips open and let his tongue explore the insides of Tom’s mouth, making any complaint disappear from his mind with alarming speed.
He brought a hand to Harry’s neck and back, enjoying how firm they felt under his fingertips.
Not a boy, a voice chanted.
Not a boy, not a boy, not a boy anymore.
It was a different kind of relief, tasting Harry. It was the kind of relief that only came after years of unaltered longing and hours staring at the same pair of lips. Whether they were pursed in concentration or curved in a cheeky smile, or whether they were biting his muggle pen while he pondered the answer of a test or twisted in an angry frown.
Tom wondered if there was a special place in Hell reserved for him.
Harry broke away, gasping for air. “Merlin, fuck.” He placed another kiss in the corner of his mouth. “I’m mad about you.”
Tom couldn’t contain the soft moan that left his throat when he heard those words.
Harry went on. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid my eyes on you.”
“At eleven? That seems intense.”
Harry chuckled, dropping his weight against him. Tom hummed in contentment, running a hand through his wild mane of hair.
“Yep. It’s kind of a Potter trait, you see.”
Tom pressed his cheek against Harry’s temple. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Mom can tell you the whole story when you go over for dinner.”
Tom’s hand froze. “Harry…”
The boy lifted his head, eyes narrowing when he saw the expression on Tom’s face. “Don’t start now, Tom. I’m bloody fucking mad about you, in case I haven’t made it clear. Now or during the first two times I tried to tell you how I felt.” Tom tried to slip away, but Harry tightened his grip on him. “Am fuck me, I’m pretty sure you’re mad about me too.”
“You’re as arrogant as ever, Potter.”
Deft fingers curled around his jaw. “Harry.”
“Harry.”
Harry shoulders dropped, all the fight draining out of him. “Listen, I won’t beg. God knows I’ve done more than enough of it for a lifetime. If all you want is a quick shag, I’ll complay.”
He took a step back, leaving Tom reeling from the loss of his body heat.
“But I think we could be really damn great, if you were brave enough to try.”
“Gryffindor foolishness. This has nothing to do with bravery,” Tom sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“What is it then? The press? My parents? Cause I can assure you they won’t give a flying fuck.”
Tom doubted it very much, but he decided to skirt around that last comment. “The Ministry will eat you alive.”
“The Ministry can rot in hell.”
Tom snorted, unprepared as he was to hear the fervent honesty in Harry’s voice.
Gryffindors, honestly.
“The Ministry pays your salary, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Harry shrugged, walking forward and wrapping his arms around him again. He was graceful enough to not comment on Tom’s pathetic sigh of relief. “I can take some vacations in the weeks it takes them to pull their head out of their arse and rehire me.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
Tom felt Harry’s grin on his neck. “As you said before, I’m a pretty brilliant Auror.”
“Ridiculous,” Tom whispered, destangling himself from Harry enough so he could properly look at him. He pushed back a curl that had fallen over his tan forehead, relishing the way he closed his eyes and leaned into his touch. “Completely ridiculous.”
“I’m actually a pretty well-adjusted adult,” Harry chuckled. “You just bring it out in me.”
Tom kissed him again.