Archive of Our Own ^beta

July 3, 1998

Harry stood in line—well, nominally a line; in reality it was more of a mob—at Florean Fortescue’s, feeling a little overwhelmed. Granted, he’d felt that way almost continuously since graduating secondary school and moving from his small village in Surrey, where his aunt and uncle had made it quite clear they would not house him a single day more, to a cramped flat in London with his two best friends. Exploring the city with his newfound freedom, doing his best to become a bit less of a country bumpkin before he started uni in September, had been thrilling, but also an exhausting sensory overload. After two weeks, he’d managed to land a job at a sporting-goods shop and could navigate the Underground without getting lost the majority of the time, and had thought to reward himself with a trip to the new ice cream parlor everyone was raving about. But every overheated jogger, hungry commuter, and schoolchild on holiday seemed to have the same idea, and “sensory overload” was an understatement when it came to the small shop tucked just a little ways off the high street. The walls were painted in vibrant pink and yellow, matching the pastel shirts worn by the staff. Speaking of the employees, there weren’t near enough of them, nor enough space in the room, to accommodate the influx of customers; the place was packed wall to wall, with snatches of a dozen different conversations echoing in the air conditioned chill. The pervasive, intoxicating scent of milk and sugar only seemed to rile everyone up further, straining their patience to the breaking point. Hence, the mob; the honor system had devolved into a general atmosphere of every man for themself, and Harry was quite certain that at least ten people who’d come in after him had been served by now, but was too nervous to speak up lest his accent and general demeanor gave him away as a hopeless suburban transplant.

He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he had just as much right to ice cream as everybody else, damnit, and vowed that this time he would hold his spot until he reached the counter. He’d never gain the confidence needed to fulfill his dream of being a teacher if he couldn’t even—

A hassled-looking mum and her three squealing children pushed past him, a day’s worth of shopping in tow.

Well, he couldn’t just call them out for cutting, the poor woman was clearly at the end of her rope and he didn’t have anywhere to be anyway…

Just then, he spotted an employee he hadn’t noticed before, a tall young man maybe a year or two older than him, moving through the crowd with an assured ease, almost like a ruler among his subjects. His pastel yellow polo shirt did nothing to diminish his regal bearing.

Harry suddenly experienced one of those random, wild notions that lived slightly uncomfortably alongside his usually quiet nature. If he could get this man to help him, he would have no problem advancing to the front of the line and getting the treat he by all rights should’ve had twenty minutes ago…

When the man (he couldn’t see his face properly, but he had thick, dark hair, wavy but not curly, just long enough to cover his ears without becoming a tangled nest like Harry’s own raven locks) passed near him, Harry didn’t let himself think too long before darting forward and tugging at his sleeve, not rudely (hopefully), but firmly enough to bring him to a halt.

“Er, excuse me, would you mind taking my order, I’ve been shunted aside a few times now…”

The man turned around, and Harry immediately felt like an idiot.

For one thing, viewed from the front he was obviously already busy; he was carrying one of those cardboard trays made to hold a dozen cones at once, fully loaded with a rainbow of colored scoops. For another, probably less important but far more salient to Harry, he was ridiculously handsome, with finely carved, perfectly symmetrical features and dark, thickly lashed eyes, made even more attractive by the soft swoop of hair that skimmed just above them.

”Oh! Sorry, I didn’t realize, I’ll just let you deliver those—“

But to his surprise, the man didn’t tell him to sod off and wait his turn, or even just ignore him and walk away. Instead he gave Harry a quick once-over, his eyes flashing with curiosity, and then parted his lips in a dashing smile, as straight and perfect as the rest of him.

”Nonsense. Another ten minutes won’t kill the people these are for. In fact, you can have one of them yourself, you look practically dead on your feet.”

“What? Oh no, those are someone else’s, I couldn’t possibly—“

But the other was already taking Harry by the elbow with his free hand, guiding him over to a small booth in the corner. With a gentle but insistent push on his shoulder, he eased Harry into the seat, then set his tray down on the table. “Which flavor would you like?”

It was then that Harry realized, much to his mortification, that in all the time he had spent waiting, he had not given a single second’s consideration to his actual order. Sure, it hadn’t helped that he was too short to see the menu board, but still…

”Er, wow, they all look great, I…” Lord, what was wrong with him? “Which would you recommend?” He at last asked stupidly, as if he were being offered wine on an evening at a fine restaurant, and not ice cream on a hot, sticky summer afternoon.

Instead of showing the slightest sign of impatience, the handsome staffer actually slid into the seat across from Harry, all the while looking carefully between his face and the ice creams, as if his question had been of great importance. After a moment, he said with utmost sincerity, “For you? I’d say the pistachio. Always delicious, yet frequently overlooked. …Not to mention, it complements your eyes.” He plucked a pale green cone topped with a sprinkling of roasted nuts from the cardboard tray, and offered it to Harry.

”Thanks,” he managed, taking the treat and concentrating all his energy on (a. Not stammering and (b. Ignoring the feel of the man’s long, pale fingers against his as it passed between their hands. He sat dumbly for another moment, wondering why the other was just sitting there, before he groaned and immediately reached into his pocket for his wallet, apologizing for what felt like the hundredth time. “Oh, right, how much do I owe you?”

Again, the response came without a hint of annoyance, and when Harry slid the money, along with a generous tip, across the table (he didn’t think he could handle their fingers brushing again), the other still showed no inclination to leave. He was wondering if he had missed some obvious step in etiquette that only Londoners knew when the dark-eyed man asked, “Won’t you try it? I’d like to see if my instincts were correct.”

Hesitatingly at first, and then more eagerly as the sight and smell of the churned cream, the color of mint but with a rich, nutty aroma, grew irresistible, Harry brought the cone to his lips and took a bite.

He couldn’t suppress a groan as the flavor hit his taste buds, stronger and yet more subtle than the smell alone, and enhanced a thousandfold by the smooth, creamy texture. He hadn’t gotten many chances to try ice cream in his life so far, but this far exceeded any prepackaged treat he’d bought from the truck that drove down Privet Drive in the summer with money scrounged from between the couch cushions, or leftovers nicked from Dudley’s bowl after his cousin passed out in front of the telly. It was…heavenly.

”Oh my God,” he gasped when the blissful coolness had slid down his throat. “That might just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. They were right, Fortescue is a genius. And you,” he added, pointed his finger at the other man, his elation making him bold, “your instincts are like a superpower, um…” Harry looked at the breast pocket of his yellow polo shirt, but the man wasn’t wearing a name tag like some of the other employees he’d seen around.

”Tom,” he supplied when he followed Harry’s gaze. “You can call me Tom. And I’m so glad you enjoyed it, ah…?” He left an answering pause at the end of his sentence, obviously waiting for Harry to reciprocate.

”Harry,” he answered promptly. And then, following another one of those wild instincts of his own: “And you’d better remember that name, because I’m coming back next week, same day, same time. I can’t just stop at one flavor now I’ve had a taste.” He turned his eyes hungrily to the remaining cones in the tray, even as he took another bite of the pistachio.

Tom smiled, even as the mention of the other cones seemed to remind him that there were at least a dozen people who had ordered them, and had been waiting for quite a while now. He got to his feet and swept the tray, and Harry’s crumpled money, into his hands in one smooth motion.

”Then I’ll see you around, Harry,” he said, turning and striding back into the crowd.

———————-

Florean Fortescue quirked an eyebrow at Tom when he returned to the counter, still holding the ice creams he’d left with a good quarter hour ago. “I thought there was a large group waiting on those?”

”I seem to have misplaced the pistachio,” Tom shrugged. “By the way, I’d say the opening’s an undisputed success. I heard at least one person out there say you were a genius.”

———————————

One week later, Tom checked himself in the mirror one last time before leaving his flat. The hideous yellow shirt was as offensive as ever, made worse by the name tag he’d been sure to remember this time. He didn’t want the young man with the lovely eyes (far greener than pistachio, no, they were more like hard candy or peridots) to forget his name, now that Tom had given it.

He wasn’t being stupid, he told himself as he leaned against the counter in the ice cream parlor, ignoring Fortescue’s amused glances and trying to look busy whenever a customer came near. Those eyes, and the face that contained them, weren’t just lovely (and kind, and open, and just the slightest bit mischievous), they were honest. All of Tom’s instincts told him that, and he had it on good authority his instincts were a superpower. The boy had meant it when he said he’d come back. He’d show up.

…And if he didn’t, well, Tom could just walk out of here and never again return to the place of his shame.

But he wouldn’t have to do that, because Harry was here, and remarkably close to the same time as last week, too. At least for someone who wasn’t wearing a watch either time he’d seen him. Tom strode forward quickly, before anyone else could get the idea of helping Harry into their head.

“Tom! Hi!” He didn’t even need to glance at the name tag. Oh, this was proceeding excellently.

“Hello, Harry. It’s good to see you again. It’s a gorgeous day, perhaps you’d like to sit outside this time?” he asked casually, feeling confined by the knowing smirks being sent his way by Fortescue and the other workers.

“Oh, yeah, that sounds good.” Harry honestly looked like he would have said the same to any suggestion of Tom’s, which was another promising sign. “Just lemme pick a flavor first. Unless…” He bit his lip, and that combined with the slight flush that rose to his cheeks made a very appealing picture. “Unless you wouldn’t mind using your superpower again?”

“It would be my pleasure. Go ahead and choose one of our al fresco tables, I’ll bring it out to you.” He resisted the urge to hold Harry’s hand for longer when the smaller man handed him a five-pound note. “Keep the change,” Harry said with a cheeky grin. “For your services as a…uh…what’s the word for an ice cream sommelier?”

Tom had no earthly idea, but if there was one, he was certainly going to find out. As Harry headed back outside, he was already planning to check out some books on it next time he went there to get a head start on the work for his third year of uni.

When Tom approached the counter, Fortescue took a step back, waving his arm generously over the array of flavor tubs. “Don’t let me get in your way,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve got powers to exercise, after all.”

“Shut up,” Tom mumbled, reaching for the scooper.

—————————

By the time he rejoined Harry outside, at a two-person table with charming wicker chairs and a large, pink-and-yellow umbrella to provide shade, Tom was holding two heaping cones of butter pecan ice cream. “I thought you might enjoy this,” he said lightly, as if he had not spent the past week debating which flavor to offer Harry next in hopes of eliciting his ecstatic face and blissful sighs again. “Nutty and savory like the pistachio, but a tad more…decadent.”

Harry actually licked his lips. “I can’t wait! But, uh, I don’t think even I can eat two,” he said, looking between the identical golden-brown scoops. 

Tom smiled and moved into the next stage of his plan. “I’m not working right now, and as you gave me such a generous tip, I decided to treat myself as well.” He passed the first cone to Harry and adjusted his hold on the other, flicking his eyes to the empty seat for just a fraction of a second.

The response was better than he could have imagined, as Harry’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re on your break? I really did pick a good time then. Do you wanna sit with me? We could, er, compare tasting notes, I guess?” He stammered adorably.

Tom took the other chair, and by some mutual unspoken agreement, he and Harry tapped their cones together in a mock toast before simultaneously taking their first bite.

The initial taste was, as Tom had feared, a bit sweet for his liking, not the kind of thing he would normally choose for himself. But as it warmed and melted in his mouth, that first saccharine blast unfolded into layers of rich brown sugar and real vanilla bean, tempered with the unexpected crunch of the mixed in toasted pecans. And just when he thought he’d grown accustomed to it, the aftertaste hit, a haze of warm caramel that made him want to linger a while before taking a second bite. All together, it was a flavor not unlike what they were doing now: sitting outside on a summer day, enjoying the heat of the sun, but with the benefit of plentiful shade and a cold dessert. Maybe Tom really did have powers, because his intuition had once again been correct: it was, in a word, decadent.

“Mmmmm,” Harry groaned from across the table, eyes closed as he, too, savored the final note of caramel. “Okay, I was wrong—I think I really could eat two. You don’t hate it by any chance, do you?”

“I actually worried I might,” Tom admitted, taking another lick. “But the longer I sit with it, the more I want.”

——————————

Because he had so enjoyed his last two visits and had the day free (he had certainly not purposefully turned down three separate offers to go out from Ron, Hermione and Neville, not at all), Harry once again found himself at Fortescue’s late on Saturday afternoon, and it just so happened that Tom was about to go on break again, and once more brought two cones to the same table out on the pavement. 

This time, however, the handsome brunette had refused Harry’s “tip”, insisting on paying for his own scoop “at the very least” (what more would Tom do, Harry wondered, pay for both of them? Why would he do that?), so in return Harry had demanded the right to pick the flavor this time, “since I’m not paying for recommendations”. He’d chosen cookies and cream; a local football club was at the next table celebrating a victory, and they had ordered several bowls of the black and white ice cream in honor of their badger mascot. It looked too tempting for Harry to resist.

Now they were sitting in the shade of the umbrella, keeping up a stream of unbroken conversation. It had started with Harry reminiscing about how he hadn’t been allowed to eat Oreos like this as a child; the blue packages stacked in the cupboards had been reserved for Dudley. But he’d grown hopelessly addicted once he started going over to Ron’s house, devouring sleeve after sleeve of the sandwich cookies after school with the Weasley brothers.

”I’ve never had them at all,” Tom said, crunching thoughtfully on a particularly large chunk of cookie. “This is my first time. They’re quite good.”

”What!? How on earth have you never—“ Harry cut himself off, remembering that this was exactly what Fred had said when he came round the Burrow for the first time. Fred hadn’t known yet what Harry’s home life was like, just as Harry didn’t know anything about Tom’s upbringing. But still…Harry had only been twelve! Tom had to be at least nineteen, and he worked in a shop where Oreos were a regular topping!

”They only passed them out on special occasions, at the children’s home where I grew up,” Tom explained, making Harry feel even worse. “And some of the other kids would twist them apart and lick them. I was so disgusted I refused to touch them after that.”

And Harry laughed, because he might have only just met the man, but he could already tell that that was the most typically Tom thing ever. From there they’d moved on to happier stories from their childhoods, from Harry eventually finding a small but loyal circle of friends through sports, to Tom’s academic success at the prestigious academy he’d gone to on scholarship. He confirmed what Harry had already suspected from his confident and sophisticated air: he was a Londoner, born and bred, had barely even been outside the city except for the occasional trip to the seaside. 

“Well, I’d never left Surrey before last month,” Harry said, licking a melting stream of ice cream off the side of his cone before it hit the table. “The furthest I’d ever been was the local zoo when I was eleven, and I spent the whole time in the reptile house because my cousin was afraid of snakes.”

That started a whole new conversation about their surprising shared interest (really, what were the odds? Everyone liked ice cream, but snakes?), so that when one of the footballers approached their table and cleared his throat, Harry was genuinely surprised. He’d been so engrossed that he’d completely forgotten about the large group a few meters away, even though the team was quite boisterous.

”Excuse me,” said the football player, eyes scanning over Tom’s name tag, and Harry had a weird flashback to how he himself must have sounded two weeks ago. “Tom, is it? Would you mind getting me and my mates a round of refills?”

Tom leveled the other man with a stare that, if looks could kill, would have left him dead where he stood. The football player was tall, with a broad, well-muscled frame visible beneath his yellow and black uniform; three weeks ago, before meeting Tom, Harry would have thought he was quite fit. But he seemed to shrink under Tom’s withering glare, and his face paled a shade even in the bright sunlight.

”Do I look like I’m working right now?” Tom asked, in a tone that was the polar opposite of the one he’d just been using to tell Harry about the two grass snakes he’d once snuck into his childhood bedroom.

The question had clearly been rhetorical, but the footballer answered it anyway. “Er, maybe? I mean, you’re wearing the uniform, and you brought him an ice cream a minute ago—“

Tom looked a bit like a human serpent himself at that moment—a highly venomous one—so Harry jumped in before he could say something that might make Fortescue fire him. “He’s on his break,” he supplied, pointedly but not unkind. “We’re talking.”

”Oh! I didn’t realize,” the man in yellow said sincerely, already stepping back. “I’ll just go in and order some more, then. Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you and your boyfriend.” Harry searched his face for a trace of mockery, but found none; he seemed genuinely apologetic. 

Tom looked mollified, if barely. “No harm, no foul, I suppose,” he said evenly. They watched the footballer as he walked away, revealing the back of his jersey, which bore a stylized badger and the name DIGGORY. When the other man had disappeared inside the ice cream parlor, Tom turned back to Harry and huffed, “People can be so rude sometimes.”

“Can’t believe he thought I was your boyfriend though,” Harry blathered nonsensically, feeling his ears turn red now that Tom’s mahogany eyes were on him again. “Crazy, right, I mean we’re barely even friend-friends, ha-ha-ha—“

“Not to mention I don’t currently have a boyfriend,” Tom interrupted, his perfectly calm tone leaving Harry even more flustered. They had both finished their ice creams, but he showed no sign of getting up or going back to work, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his long legs under the table. “Although I certainly would not be averse to acquiring one. Now, where were we…?”

——————————

The next Friday, Harry stared at the phone in his flat, wondering if this was the stupidest thing he’d ever contemplated doing. 

It wasn’t as if Tom would actually be expecting him at Fortescue’s tomorrow. He and the gorgeous ice-cream scooper hadn’t made actual plans. All they had was one offhand remark Harry had made three weeks ago about coming back until he’d tried all the flavors.

And two long, enjoyable conversations out in the sunshine, the reckless part of his brain whispered. That he chose to spend with you, even though he was on his break. Plus that remark about being single—

“He said he wanted a boyfriend, not that he wanted me!” Harry hissed in a panic to no one in particular, but at the same time, his traitorous hand was already lifting the earpiece from the cradle and dialing the parlor’s number…which, coincidentally, he had memorized. Imagine that.

”Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, you’re speaking to the man himself, how may we delight you?” Harry smiled; even over the phone, Mr. Fortescue’s sunny disposition, like his shop’s food and decor, never failed to put him at ease.

”Hi. Er, this might be a weird question, but is Tom Riddle working today?”

Maybe he was just being paranoid, but Harry swore he could hear Fortescue’s muffled chuckle. “One moment. I’ll put him on the line.”

Harry almost dropped the phone in alarm. “What!? No, I don’t want to talk to him, I just—“ 

It was too late. There was a brief moment of dead air on the other end of the line, then a click and an unmistakable voice, smooth as slow-churned ice cream, said “Hello? Harry, is that actually you?”

How had Fortescue known who he was!? And why, oh why had he told Tom? He had only wanted to know if the man was in today, so he wouldn’t waste a trip downtown, but now all pretense of spontaneity was destroyed.

”Uh, yeah, Tom, it’s me. Sorry, I didn’t mean for him to actually go and get you! It’s just…well…I can’t make it to the parlor tomorrow, so I was thinking of coming today instead, but then I thought maybe you only worked weekends, but then I realized, hey, that’s why they invented telephones—“ With every word he rambled, Harry felt himself sinking further into his own cheap carpet.

This time there was definitely a chuckle. He knew Tom’s chuckle, which was only further proof of his own doom. “I can assure you, Harry, that if you were to come down to the shop today, I would be eager to greet you with a pair of cold scoops.”

Eager, he said. Eager! Speaking of which, no matter how happy he was, Harry had to be careful not to sound too—

“Yeah? That’s great! I’ll head down then, I hope our usual table’s free! See you then!” Oh God. His body—and mouth—had apparently become entirely disconnected from his higher brain functions.

Which must be why, in addition to his strong craving for cold sweets, he ran down the street to the Tube station faster than he’d ever done in his life.

————————-

When he arrived at Fortescue’s, Tom was indeed waiting outside, wiping down their “usual” table. He looked a bit flushed and disheveled—it was heading into late July, and that meant both hotter weather and more customers, Harry supposed—but somehow it only enhanced his attractiveness. A stray lock of his usually perfect hair was plastered to his forehead, and his crisp shirt was slightly rumpled, as if he’d just rolled out of bed.

No, no, do not think about that right now—

“Ah, Harry! Perfect timing. Please, have a seat before someone else takes it. I’ll just go grab our cones.” Harry nodded dumbly, vaguely registering an almost painfully wide smile on his own face, and dropped into a chair. The shade and rest were very welcome after his inexplicable speed-walk along the high street.

Just as he’d settled his speeding pulse somewhat, Tom reemerged from the parlor with two heaping helpings of a vibrantly purple ice cream. At the sight of both man and food, Harry perked up. “Ooh, thanks! What kind is this, some type of berry?” He asked, taking his cone and examining it with curious anticipation. The violet hue lacked any of the blue undertones of blackberry or blueberry, and it was nearly as smooth as soft-serve, lacking any chunks or bits of fruit.

”Ube,” Tom informed him, and for a moment Harry thought he had sneezed. “A Filipino flavor, made from a kind of tropical sweet potato.”

Harry didn’t want to be rude or close-minded, but his face must have done something at the word “potato”, because Tom laughed and said, “Just try it. I have superpowers, remember. Don’t you trust me, Harry?”

His dark eyes met Harry’s as he spoke, and it gave his words all the power of a compulsion. He lowered his mouth to the purple treat, though he had trouble tearing his gaze from those chocolate-brown depths.

Which made it all the more surprising when, instead of berry or potato or…chocolate, the ice cream tasted sweet and earthy, like the last bit of milk in a bowl of children’s breakfast cereal, but without the tang of artificial sugar. A sharp note of coconut reminded him of the flavor’s tropical origins, which was only reinforced by tantalizing, barely-there hints of fruit and flowers. When he managed to shake the curious sensation that he was lying in a hammock, he looked up to find Tom watching him smugly, licking his own cone in an unaffected manner.

“You did this on purpose,” Harry accused, though there was no heat in his voice. “You knew it’d do my head in.”

“Yes, because I felt the same when I had it for the first time,” Tom said easily, and it occurred to Harry that the other man was also probably relatively new to more unusual flavors. “A surprise, but of the absolute best kind. An unexpected delight. Incidentally…” his gaze turned inquiring, and Harry got the feeling that neither his next question, or anything at all Tom did, was really incidental, “What brings you here a day early?”

He abruptly remembered the reason he had been arguing with himself in front of the phone in the first place. “It’s nothing major. Just didn’t want to miss out this week—because there’s so many flavors to try, and all—but I’m going to a party tomorrow. My friend Neville’s birthday.”

“Sounds like a good time.”

Harry was suddenly struck by the irrational worry that it was rude to mention a party that Tom was not invited to, which was absurd, and worse led to persistent thoughts of how much fun it would be to go together and introduce Tom to all of his friends. When he finally remembered that the conversational ball was in his court, he overcompensated by babbling, “Oh yeah, it’ll be great. It’s his eighteenth, so we’ll have drinks of course, plus gifts and cake and—“

“And ice cream?” Tom asked with an arched eyebrow, clearly wondering why Harry was so eager to rearrange his schedule to eat cold desserts two days in a row.

He took another large bite of ube goodness to ease the heat in his cheeks, and explained, “Well, yeah, but not like this ice cream. We’ll probably just get a big party pail of vanilla from the store, nothing fancy. We always eat a ton, because him and me share a birthday and we celebrate together.”

Tom paused in licking his own cone, and frowned. “So it’s your birthday too? Why didn’t you say so?”

That one question unlocked a whole tangle of complexes Harry would really rather not get into, at least not outside of a therapist’s office. Because I didn’t get any party at all until I was twelve. Because all my parties were combined with Neville’s, and then only because his gran insisted. Because I always feel like I’m just being tacked on, even though I know that’s not true and my friends really do care.

Instead he just shrugged and said, “Well, Nev’s hosting, so it’s his party in that way.”

Tom looked like he could read all the thoughts Harry had left unspoken, but he only smiled and said simply, “Happy birthday, Harry.”

The sheer genuineness of it, as if Tom really wished, in that moment, for nothing more than for Harry to enjoy his special day, almost took his breath away. Suddenly unable to meet that open, sincere gaze, Harry glanced to the side and mumbled, “The actual day’s not ‘til the thirty-first. This is just the weekend everyone’s free.”

Tom looked strangely contemplative at his words, but they moved on to other subjects after that, and the awkwardness passed like a summer rain shower.

———————————

When Harry had left (walking unusually slowly down the street, stopping to look back one last time before turning the corner) and Tom went back inside to dispose of their napkins, Fortescue was meticulously cleaning an already-sparkling parfait glass, looking like the cat that got the cream.

“Shut up,” Tom said, even though the faint squeak of cloth on glass was the only sound to be heard.

Because today was apparently Opposite Day, the chipper man took that as an invitation to start talking. “Are you going to do any actual work while you’re here? Since you came all the way down here when it’s not your usual day, after all.”

“You clearly don’t even have enough work to keep yourself busy,” he snapped, and began readying himself for the long journey back home, where he’d been relaxing before Fortescue had called with “actionable information”.

——————————

Tom glanced back and forth between the cone in his hand and the shop window, through which he could see Harry relaxing under their usual umbrella, the sunlight bringing out highlights in his raven hair. What would the adorable green-eyed boy prefer? He needed to get this right.

The cake batter ice cream was a given; he’d had that planned since last Friday, when he’d calculated that Harry’s next visit would fall on his birthday. But…candle or no candle? He wouldn’t be lighting it, of course; it would be for symbolism only. Would the bright, green-striped birthday candle be too much, on top of a flavor that was already drowning in a childish amount of rainbow sprinkles? This was not about Tom’s opinion, though, it was about Harry’s, and he seemed like the type to cherish a bit of childhood whimsy in his life…

“Best get a wiggle on before it melts,” said Fortescue, sticking a different, red-striped candle into the scoop as he swept by Tom on the way to the freezer.

“Hey! I hadn’t made up my mind yet!” Tom yelled, outraged. And I picked that green one out specially, he added silently.

“It’s the obvious choice,” Fortescue replied, raising his voice to be heard over his shifting of cartons. “You need a candle to complete the aesthetic. Otherwise the mood will be completely wrong when you sing to him.”

“I am not going to—“

“Chop, chop, now, your break won’t last forever!” he trilled, hip-checking Tom as he bustled back by with a frosty tub of Neapolitan in one arm and a massive sack of bananas in the other.

Tom did not sing “Happy Birthday” when he brought out the cones. It wasn’t an actual cake, and the candle was unlit. He might have hummed a little, though, and Harry’s face lit up brighter than any flame.

—————————————-

“You didn’t have to do this,” Harry said for the third time, as they enjoyed their ice creams on a bench in the small nearby park. A short distance away, children shrieked as the backs of their legs met the hot metal slides of the playground.

And for the third time, Tom raged inwardly at whoever had made Harry feel that a free dessert and short walk was too much to ask on his birthday, for God’s sake. He wanted to do more for this special boy that he had chosen, much more, but that would come in time; it was a sure thing at this point. As they always said, everything moves much more quickly once your target agrees to accompany you to the second location. Tom had read that in a book of dating advice. Or somewhere, anyway.

“Do what, exactly?” he chided gently. “Take you for a stroll? Pay for our cones? It was the least I could do. I chose this flavor, and they charge an unfair premium for the sprinkles.”

“Should you really be slagging off the place your paycheck comes from?” Harry asked, and Tom congratulated himself on successfully distracting him. “Besides, sprinkles are worth the extra money.”

“They taste no better than that wax candle, and I don’t see you eating that.”

Harry smiled to himself and curled his fingers around the candle, which he’d removed from the ice cream but refused to throw in the bin, insisting he wanted to keep it as a memento of the day (how nonsensical. And cute. Also, Fortescue was right, damn him). “They are like the candle, but not because of the taste. Because they make you happier just by being there.” He licked a particularly sprinkle-laden spot on his cone.

Tom never backed down in an argument, especially not when he was so obviously right. “If I were to blindfold you and have you taste one cone with sprinkles and one without—“

Harry flushed for some reason—was it the mention of blindfolds? Oh my—but insisted stubbornly, “But I’m not blindfolded. And neither are you, Tom. Your ice-cream experience is about more than the taste. It’s about everything around you. Why else would you have asked me to come to this park in the first place?”

Momentarily stunned by the combination of an impressive philosophical point and the term “ice-cream experience”, which was not a thing, Tom took the opportunity to admire the enticing way that Harry’s whole face transformed when he set his jaw like that.

“When you take your next bite,” Harry continued sagely, “take it all in. The sprinkles, the smell of the grass, the sight and sound of those kids having fun.” His green eyes flicked wistfully to a mum pushing her toddler on a swing, and Tom was so unexpectedly touched by the sight (of Harry’s longing gaze, not the grubby ankle-biter) that he could only say “…Alright.”

And he really did. Before his next mouthful, he took a moment to really appreciate the butter-yellow ice cream (the same color as the ridiculous polo shirt Tom had to wear on these days with Harry) and how it backgrounded the scattering of sprinkles. As he savored the sweet taste of boxed cake mix (and its accompanying bitter memories of being told “Only good little boys and girls get cake” by the matron at the children’s home, and subsequently sneaking into the kitchen to lick the spatula and spit in the batter), he concentrated on his favorite parts of their surroundings; the soothing sound of the wind through the trees, the warmth of the wooden bench and Harry’s nearby body, the clever squirrel expertly robbing the bird feeder for all it was worth. It was…pleasant.

Although he still would’ve preferred a blindfold when he spotted the old man power-walking in a periwinkle sweatsuit.

————————-

Emboldened by their maybe, sort-of, mini-date on his birthday, Harry arrived at Fortescue’s on the first Saturday in August with the beginnings of a plan coalescing in his mind.

“Do you cater?” he asked Tom, as the tall brunette adjusted a sign in the window and determinedly ignored a family of four trying to flag him down.

“Only to your every whim, darling.”

Very thankful that Tom was still fixing the corner of a SUNDAYS ARE FOR SUNDAES poster and couldn’t see him blush, Harry continued in a voice just slightly higher than usual, “Ha ha, I meant for parties. My friend’s birthday is next weekend, see, and I’ve seen your ice cream cakes…” His eyes strayed automatically to the large display freezer stocked with the tempting confections. 

Tom turned around and gave him an appraising look. “If you’re asking me to deliver a one-of-a-kind Fortescue Birthday Creation to the location of your choosing, I can most certainly make that happen. How many people are coming to this party?”

“Well, Ginny, the birthday girl, has six brothers,” Harry started, ticking off the guests on his fingers. Catching the vaguely alarmed expression that appeared on Tom’s face, he quickly added, “only around four will probably come, though. Most of their girlfriends are friends with Ginny too, plus there’s Luna, Neville and Demelza…” he took a deep breath, reminded himself that Tom had just said ‘darling’ even if he was only teasing, and added as if he’d just thought of it this very moment, “…and you! I mean, if you’re free after dropping off the cake. And want to stick around, of course. There’ll be cake! …Which you already know, obviously.” At that point, he clamped his mouth shut before he could botch this up any further, and forced his hands to lie casually at his sides while crossing his toes inside his shoes for luck.

Tom hummed quietly, carved-marble face unreadable for a moment. Finally he said, “It sounds as if you’ll be needing the jumbo size.”

Harry wilted inwardly. A professional, all-business answer, one that politely ignored his fumbling attempt at an invitation. And he couldn’t even make a rapid exit, because he’d already ordered the blasted cake—

“After all,” one corner of Tom’s perfect mouth quirked up just the slightest bit, “I will be very displeased if the cake runs out before I can have a slice of my own.”

Fireworks went off inside Harry’s head, and he nearly tripped when his crossed toes started going numb.

——————————

After they’d finalized the cake order and Tom was ready to take his break (the hungry family had been waited on by Fortescue himself, as Harry decided on a style of buttercream), he finally presented his latest flavor selection with a flourish of his wrist.

“Candied ginger,” he explained, as Harry accepted the pale cone the color of a lemon ice, studded with chunks of crystallized root like little jewels, “is a traditional remedy for an upset stomach. I thought it apropos for a man who eats ice cream every week, and is preparing for his second birthday party in a month.”

In all honesty, Harry had a good-sized second stomach for sweets, and probably a third for ones served by Tom, but it was still nice to know someone was thinking of you. “I can’t help if my friend group’s a regular lion’s den,” he said cheerfully. And then, when Tom looked at him uncomprehendingly, “You know, because there’s so many Leos.”

“…I have no idea what that means.”

“Me neither!” The idea of bringing Tom to Ginny’s party had put Harry in an incredibly good mood, as if there was a balloon of happiness inside his heart, expanding to near the bursting point. “It’s just something Luna says all the time. You’ll see what I mean when you meet her next week.”

A small, secret smile bloomed on Tom’s face. “I have a feeling I’ll like her very much.”

Harry was suddenly assaulted by an image of the regal Tom wearing one of Luna’s bottle-cap necklaces like a livery collar, and hid his grin by biting into his ice cream.

Between his distraction and the flavor’s unassuming color, he was unprepared for the sharp, refreshing snap when it hit his tongue. The hint of spice, which he’d previously associated with the holidays, brought a welcome reminder of winter to relieve the August humidity, and the chewy candied bits varied the texture and encouraged him to eat more slowly. He hadn’t realized until now how indulgent the past five weeks had been, with their rich, sweet flavors; in contrast to their lazy days in the sun, this felt like a brisk walk through the woods. Tom’s instincts, Harry mused, had been correct yet again; without this reprieve, he might well have been sick to all three of his stomachs by the time he got to try Ginny’s cake.

“Wow,” he said once his mouth was no longer full, feeling like he’d just shut the window on a chill breeze.

Tom sucked contentedly on a piece of ginger. “Good?”

“Better than,” Harry replied, trying to think of a way to put it into words. “It was…” More than just thoughtful. What did Hermione always say when she was lecturing Ron about healthy relationships? ‘Preemptive consideration’? “It was the best thing I didn’t know I needed.”

——————————

“We don’t actually cater, you know,” Fortescue informed Tom, as he squirreled away an extra scoop of candied ginger for the coming week. He wasn’t used to this much sugar; his choice today had been as much for himself as for sweet-toothed little Harry. “It’s not profitable at scale.”

“Just have the cake made by Saturday,” Tom said, slipping the little cellophane bag into his pocket. “I have a portable cooler.”

——————————

The twenty-minute Tube ride from Fortescue’s to Harry’s neighborhood with the precious cake clutched to his chest in a fifty-quart Coleman cooler left Tom sweaty, bedraggled, and mildly traumatized by extended contact with the vilest denizens London had to offer, but the sight of Harry leaning out the window of the fourth-floor flat, beaming from ear to ear, made it all worth it.

“You made it! Wait right there, I’ll come help you. Damn, you weren’t kidding about ‘jumbo’!”

With Harry holding up his end of the cooler, his huffing breaths falling into perfect sync with Tom’s, the three flights of steep, narrow stairs felt like an escalator ride. They grinned at each other outside the door of 4B, and Tom was on top of the world.

Then Harry flung open the door on a scene of sheer chaos.

Every square foot of the little flat (and there was no way it was more than 500) was crammed with people, from the small common area they were standing in to the tiny “balcony” that Tom could see straight from the door. And it was all currently draped in varying shades of red; crimson streamers, bunting, and homemade banners hung from every surface, and a significant proportion of the guests sported hair more ginger than the ice cream he’d fed to Harry last week. A boom box was blasting pop hits too obnoxious even for the ice cream parlor, a redhead was attempting to launch a lit firework out the window, and an innocent-looking boy with chubby cheeks was passing around rolling papers and a very non-innocent looking baggie. From a tiny room that Tom could only assume was the kitchen, there simultaneously emerged a plume of smoke, a smell of something just on the verge of burning, and a girl wearing a paper crown with BIRTHDAY QUEEN written on it in glitter.

Tom was already worrying that the mysterious Luna (dear God, which one was she?) had meant her “lion’s den” remark literally when an orange cat the size of a teacup poodle streaked toward the open door, followed closely by a woman hollering, “Harry—Crookshanks—the door—!”

Without missing a beat, Harry lifted a foot and slammed the door shut, just in time for the cat to run into it headlong with a sickening thud. It stood there for a moment, dazed, then stalked off with its tail held high, as if it had meant to do that all along.

“Thank you so much, Harry!” the woman cheered, swooping down and lifting the cat into her arms in a blur of bushy fur and equally bushy hair. “Oh Crookshanks, how could you, you know the mean neighbors don’t like you…”

“They’re not the only ones,” yet another red-haired man muttered as he came up behind her, before spotting the cooler and saying more loudly, “Is what’s in there edible?”

Tom clung more tightly to his precious cargo, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the animal now purring like a motorbike against the girl’s chest. He didn’t understand why she wasn’t more concerned about it; its collision with the door had, by all appearances, done serious damage.

“Your cat,” he said faintly, indicating it with his chin. “Its face…”

“What?” the girl asked absently, scratching her pet’s ears, and then followed Tom’s line of sight. “Oh, Crookshanks came home from the shelter that way, didn’t you, Crooks? So squooshy!” Her voice dipped into a singsong at the end, then went back to normal as she finally seemed to register Tom’s presence. “Are you Harry’s date? Is that the cake?”

The redheaded man perked up at the mention of the word “cake”.

This was a mistake, Tom thought with a creeping dread. Why on earth had he assumed that a party hosted by Harry—sweet, happy-go-lucky Harry, who ate unknown ice cream flavors offered by virtual strangers and found screeching children charming—would be anything like the elegant soirées he’d so expertly navigated as a teen, when his only imperative had been to blend in with his posh schoolmates? These rabid hooligans wouldn’t stop at the cake, they were going to eat him alive, nothing left for his darling Harry to remember him by but the buttons from the goddamn collared shirt he’d so carefully picked out for this auspicious occasion, the first time the object of his affections would be seeing him out of pastel yellow…

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by none other than Harry himself, who promptly stuck two fingers in his mouth and, from where he stood near Tom’s shoulder, emitted a sound shriller than a football whistle and louder than anything he had ever heard from the relatively small man, or indeed believed him capable of.

The cacophonous din of the party lessened, for a moment, to a dull roar. The other occupants of the flat did not seem as surprised as Tom by Harry’s whistle; rather, they all turned to him as if this was a semi-regular occurrence, and when he followed it up with a shouted “HEY!” they went entirely silent, awaiting his next pronouncement.

Tom felt something stirring in his heart as he watched Harry’s performance. Until now, he had adored the emerald-eyed boy for all the qualities he had in abundance, and that Tom had never fully understood: kindness, patience, a sense of wonder that had miraculously survived contact with a harsh world. He had seen Harry as the yin to his yang, something to protect and treasure. But to see him command the room like this, to seize everyone’s attention in a way Tom had previously only accomplished himself…

Well. There was certainly something to be said for a partnership of equals, as well.

“This is Tom,” Harry announced when he was sure everyone was listening, oblivious to the way he was shattering all Tom’s preconceptions, “and he brought the cake!”

And with that, the crowd, which Tom would have previously deemed ‘dangerously hostile’, turned to him and Harry as if greeting their Lord and savior.

———————————

The cake (red velvet with strawberry ice cream, a combination appropriate for this Study in Scarlet of a party, if for no other respectable event) was a big hit, and it made Tom popular by association. Which was fortunate for him, since he wasn’t about to bond with these people over their passion for football or pedestrian taste in music.

But Tom wasn’t here to make friends—he had never felt much need for those anyway. He was here for Harry, and the younger man’s happy flush as he introduced Tom to an endless parade of excitable guests (and also Hermione, who had mildly intriguing opinions on politics) was one shade of red he’d never tire of. 

The flaming hair of the ubiquitous Weasleys was a different matter, however, which was why, after Ginny’s third attempt to get him to dance had ended with Tom nearly going face-first into the twins’ bowl of spiked fruit punch, he’d stepped out onto the postage stamp-sized balcony for some “fresh air”, at Harry’s diplomatic suggestion. The sun had gone down in the hours since he’d arrived, and the evening was cool and mild. 

“Tom Riddle,” said a lilting voice from behind him, and he turned, startled, to see a blonde, barefoot girl he could have sworn was not there a second ago. “You came here because of Harry Potter.”

Something about her awkward phrasing made the statement much more accurate than if she’d simply said Harry invited you. Tom wondered briefly why she’d used Harry’s full name—and then, more seriously, how she’d even known his surname of Riddle; he couldn’t remember mentioning it to anyone tonight. His usual eloquence abandoned him, and he could only manage a belated “…Yes.”

“Venus is bright tonight,” she switched topics abruptly, turning her large, silvery eyes back toward the sky. 

Tom was debating which would be more rude, asking how she could see any celestial body at all amid all the city lights, or pointing out that she had yet to tell him her name, when Harry came to the rescue, holding two plates high above his head.

“Hey Tom, I didn’t mean to leave you out here, I just wanted to grab the last of the cake for us—oh, hi, Luna!”

Ah, of course this was Luna. “We were just discussing Venus,” he offered, but Luna seemed to have already moved on again. “Hello Harry,” she said, and then, in the exact same dreamy tone, “Hello, lovely red cake. Do you taste like radishes?”

While Tom wondered if he’d gotten a contact high off Neville and was missing every other sentence, Harry just looked concerned and said, “It’s strawberry, Luna. Didn’t you get a slice?”

“Oh yes, but I gave it to Nargles, you see.”

Apparently this meant something to Harry, because he immediately said “Of course! I should’ve given you two. Here, take mine,” and without a second thought, passed her his plate with its untouched slice of the cake he’d bought and paid for.

“Thank you. I’ll treasure this,” she replied, and without any more explanation than when she’d arrived, disappeared back into the flat.

Harry smiled fondly after her, then turned back to Tom. “Yeah, so that’s Luna,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “And here’s your cake,” he added, holding out the other plate.

Tom took it to free up Harry’s hands, but didn’t pick up his fork yet. “Who is Nargles?” 

Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, um, that’s her name for the unhoused guy who stays outside the building on warm nights,” he explained. “She always saves something for him.” He seemed to become nervous at Tom’s continued silence, because he then said in a rush, “So! I think you’ve met everyone now. Look, I know they can be, er, a lot—“

Realizing that his quiet admiration was being taken for awkwardness by the perpetually insecure boy (Tom would not rest until he had thoroughly fixed that), he interrupted his rambling with a soft smile. “They suit you, Harry.”

Harry looked like he wished he was still holding something, his hands fidgeting uselessly in front of him. “Yeah? Thanks. Although I’m not totally sure if that was a compliment—“

“Oh, it is, I assure you. When you’re around your friends, you…glow.”

Ah, there was Tom’s favorite shade of crimson again.

“Er. You gonna try that cake?”

Tom eyed his plate. “While my gracious host stands there empty-handed? What kind of rogue do you take me for?”

Slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time, Harry reached over to the railing and grabbed a party cracker someone had left behind earlier. “There. Now I’m not empty-handed anymore. Eat your cake.”

“You’ve had nothing to eat all evening,” Tom purred, warming to the challenge. “I’d never forgive myself if you fainted.”

“That’s my own fault for letting Seamus use my kitchen and burn all the food. I accept my fate.”

“Harry, my dear, when has one of us ever consumed ice cream of a Saturday without the other?”

Harry’s green eyes blazed in victory. “The very first day, Tommy-boy! When you gave me the pistachio someone else ordered. I still owe you for that, so now you have to eat the cake. Ha!”

Tom had to admit, he was impressed to be caught out like that. But even if Harry’s argument had been rubbish, his voice had that strong, commanding air again, and Tom found it very persuasive. “Fine. I surrender.” With one last smirk to show Harry he was only doing this to please him, he crossed his legs and leaned back against the railing, then plucked up the fork, neatly sheared off the tip of the cake slice, and popped it into his mouth.

It was surprising, how different ice cream tasted in this new context. Firmer and harder, but cushioned between the soft, fluffy layers of cake. No cone, and no possibility of letting it slowly melt on your tongue; the only option was to take a full bite of multiple textures and temperatures, topped off with a coating of frosting that was just sugar overkill at that point.

And the flavors…

Tom had assumed Fortescue dreamed up this pink-and-red combination to separate fools from their money on Valentine’s Day, but once again the wily man proved himself more clever than that. The red velvet was not, as he’d expected, just chocolate with food coloring; there was cocoa, yes, but not enough to overwhelm, and underneath was a unique sort of tang, almost lemony, that left him searching his mind and palate for the proper label.

(Years later, Tom would discover that this elusive taste was known as buttermilk.)

That tangy undertone blended perfectly with the tartness of the strawberry, complete with juicy pops of real fruit mixed into the ice cream. Four heavy layers, transmuted into a breezy symphony; it was nothing less than alchemy.

He felt the smirk drop from his face, replaced with what was likely some sort of undignified wide-eyed goggling. While at the same time, Harry took on a smug look of his own. Well, more fool him, he was the one who’d passed up this fucking amazing cake—

“Well?” the smaller boy asked expectantly. Of course he’d make Tom say it, the cheeky thing.

“It’s delicious,” Tom conceded, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Consider your debt paid in full.”

Harry raised the cracker overhead triumphantly and yanked the ends, showering them both with confetti, a cheap sheet of stickers, and a plastic whistle.

Tom chased the flavor with another forkful, all the while plotting ways to put Harry back in his debt as soon as possible.

—————————-

After he had seen Tom downstairs and out the front door at the end of the night, Harry bolted back up the steps two at a time, then raced to the window to get one last glimpse of his tall figure retreating down the street.

“Somebody’s got it ba-aaad,” Ginny singsonged drunkenly, as she made up the foldout couch for her overnight stay.

“Shut up,” Harry mumbled, eyes still glued to the fading white glow of that damn collared shirt that made Tom look fit as hell. 

“Hey, maybe he’ll come back if you blow that whistle.”

“I’m never buying you cake again,” he said, chucking a pillow at her.

————————————

“If you just try it, you’ll love it.”

Harry frowned. Tom was really giving him the hard sell this week, both his charm and the magnetic power of his eyes turned up to full blast. But he would stand strong! “I draw the line at black ice cream.”

“Black sesame,” Tom corrected, enunciating the last word. “And it’s divine, I’ve tried it myself—“

“Where, at a concert for a grunge band called the Death Devourers?”

“At sophisticated parties,” Tom shot back, as if Harry cared one whit about such things. “It’s like a far superior version of peanut butter.”

“Great, I love peanut butter!” Harry clapped his hands, just enjoying messing with his serious friend at this point. “Let’s have that instead. With Reese’s Pieces.”

“Harry, darling, you need to stop resisting and just let me—fuck.” 

Harry could feel his face do an odd thing. There was no mirror nearby, though, so he had no way of telling if it had turned the color of a maraschino cherry or drained of blood entirely. “Wha—“

But Tom was not giving him the bedroom eyes that had accompanied those words in an embarrassing number of Harry’s fantasies. In fact, the taller man was now staring past him at something over his shoulder, looking genuinely distressed. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he repeated. “No time—we need to go—“

And as if Harry weren’t already flustered enough, Tom proceeded to grab him by the wrist and drag him into the bathroom, where he then rounded on him in the cramped space and hissed, “I need a favor.”

“Excuse me?” Harry might have a hopeless crush but he also had his pride, he could not be bought for the price of a few scoops of poncey black ice cream—

For the first time since he started muttering expletives, Tom seemed to realize what this situation looked like. He let go of Harry’s wrist and took a hurried step back, his eyes widening for a moment before he recovered his usual cool.

“I apologize, Harry, I didn’t mean to sound untoward,” he said with only a slight hitch in his voice, running his fingers through his hair. “I can assure you, I court my prospective partners first. With flowers and candlelit dinners—and, occasionally, with red velvet cake.”

Harry made an involuntary choking sound, and covered it up by asking loudly, “Oh yeah? So what is the favor then?”

Tom leaned against the sink and crossed his arms. “A man walked into the shop just now,” he said, then added with a long-suffering sigh, “His name is Draco Malfoy.”

This time Harry didn’t bother to hide his snort—seriously, who named their kid that?—and Tom smirked and said, “Exactly, and he more than deserves it. He’s in my year at uni, and we also work together. On weekdays,” he clarified, “interning at his father’s law firm.”

Harry thought he was starting to get the picture—not just about the dreaded Malfoy, who Tom talked about the way Harry himself spoke of Dudley, but the situation as a whole. Of course Fortescue’s wasn’t Tom’s full-time job. He was working toward a career, one suited for his prodigious brilliance and ambition.

…Damn, Ginny might have had a point about Harry being down bad.

Anyway. “Let me guess,” he said. “He doesn’t know that you also work here?”

”And I’d like to keep it that way,” Tom confirmed. “He’s enough of a wanker over being outclassed last year by a scholarship student.” He sneered. “If he sees me in this,” he gestured at his polo with its large name tag, which in Harry’s opinion still looked more flattering on his body than a bespoke suit would on most men, “the prat’ll have it spread all over campus by the time term starts in September.”

Harry nodded. He was mostly following along fine—he knew all too well about being gossiped about by privileged gits. What he didn’t understand was how he could do anything to help. 

…Or why Tom was now eyeing his torso as if sizing him up, after he’d explicitly stated he had no indecent intentions.

“Harry,” Tom continued, affecting an innocent expression that was comically out of place on his handsome face, “May I ask what size shirt you’re wearing?”

Oh no, the upper part of his brain yelped in alarm, while another, less evolved lobe cheered Yes, yes, yes!

From outside the bathroom door, a pinched, nasal voice called, “Excuse me? What do I have to do to get some service in this place?”, followed by several consecutive rings of the bell on the front counter.

“I will switch shirts with you,” Harry said slowly, reconciling the two warring sides of his mind like a boxing referee, “but only on one condition.”

Tom was already undoing his buttons. “Name it, dearest.”

”You have to ask me again, only this time you have to say ‘I need a flavor.’”

—————————-

Harry emerged from the bathroom wearing Tom’s shirt (he had stuffed the Hi! My Name Is TOM name tag in his pocket), practically drenched in the man’s intoxicating scent, the image of his smooth, planed bare chest still dancing behind his eyes. He wanted to burn it into his memory forever, but he was quickly assaulted by the much-less-appealing sight of a pale blonde man with a pinched, pointy face, standing at the counter and scowling at the bell, which he was now pressing on to make one long, continuous ring. 

“Finally,” he said when he spotted Harry, his voice even more grating without the buffer of a door between them. “Everyone raves about this little hole in the wall, but the service is terrible. Wait till my mother hears about this, she knows people who write for the culture section…”

Well, Tom hadn’t been lying about the man more than deserving his atrocious name. Harry plastered on his fake, practiced customer-service smile and rattled off, “Sorry for the wait! Welcome to Fortescue’s. What can I get for you today?”

Malfoy startled as if this was some kind of gotcha question, and turned to study the menu board for what appeared to be the first time. Harry took the chance to slip behind the counter, trying his best to look as if he belonged there.

”These flavors all seem very basic to me,” he sniffed, obviously stalling.

Harry rolled his eyes and looked around for a pair of rubber gloves. Tom, of course, chose that moment to exit the bathroom himself. The sight of him in Harry’s simple plaid shirt—it had been a thrift shop find, two sizes too big, but Tom wore it like he’d just stepped out of a magazine—elicited another involuntary noise from his throat, and Malfoy looked up.

”Riddle?” He scrunched his face as if he’d just spotted a cockroach, but Harry didn’t miss how he also stood up straight to make himself appear taller. “What are you doing here?”

”Supporting an excellent local small business,” Tom said smoothly, giving Harry a pleasant smile that bore no hint that they had just been inches from each other, hastily undressing—

No, Harry! Bad thoughts!

“I had thought to do the same,” Malfoy drawled, “but so far it’s been a struggle to find anything worth my trouble on this menu…”

”Perhaps I should order first then,” Tom offered. “Give you some extra time, like you needed last week on the Lestrange case? I, after all,” he continued, catching Harry’s eye for a fraction of a second as Malfoy bristled, “know exactly what I came here for.”

Honestly, how the hell did Tom expect him to pull this off when he kept messing with him like this? Harry wasn’t a great actor even under the best of circumstances!

”Oh, here we are,” the blonde said suddenly, apparently unwilling to cede so much as a place in line to Tom Riddle. “Black sesame, that’s rather sophisticated for a place like this, isn’t it?”

Harry decided that, right now at least, he much preferred Tom’s sudden look of consternation to his sexy smirk.

”Yes, I’ll have a scoop of that,” Malfoy tossed over his shoulder at Harry, before turning back to Tom. “You probably haven’t heard of it, Riddle, it was served at the last Ministry gala. Like peanut butter, but far superior, to put it in terms someone like you would understand.”

Harry ducked down to fetch a waffle cone, sure that he’d burst out laughing if he looked at Tom’s face right now, but the older man’s voice betrayed nothing as he casually replied, “Oh, I had it last year at the Knights of Walpurgis Halloween party. I’d assumed you were there too—weren’t your father and grandfather members?”

While Malfoy sputtered, Harry took the opportunity to make a hole in his cone and place the ice cream on it at a precarious angle, before getting his attention again with a chipper “Here you go, sir!” He took it without so much as a thank you, and then proceeded to make a show out of paying with a no-limit black credit card.

“You enjoy that,” Harry couldn’t help but call after the blonde as he walked away with a terse See you Monday in Tom’s general direction. “I hear the flavor’s divine.”

The front door had barely swung closed—regretfully, it didn’t hit Malfoy in the arse on the way out—before Harry snuck a glance back over at Tom. It was better than he could have hoped—one look at his scrunched nose and furrowed brow, and Harry started laughing like a madman.

“You have to admit I didn’t sound like near so much of a twat—“ Tom tried, as Harry gasped out, “What the fuck is the Knights of Walpurgis?“

“It’s a very prestigious secret society, and it destroyed him when they turned him down—“

The utter seriousness of his voice when he said that made Harry start outright howling, and Tom’s growing frustration only set him off more. And then, something even better happened: the corners of those intense eyes crinkled with mirth, and two perfect dimples appeared on his flushed cheeks as he first broke into a chuckle, before joining Harry in a full-on cackle.

They carried on like that for a bit, near doubled over at some points, catching each other’s eyes and starting the cycle again whenever one of them came close to stopping. It occurred to Harry that this was the first time he was seeing Tom not just laugh at himself, but truly let his guard down. It was…glorious, and he had the odd feeling of being a bit privileged himself.

Finally, the brunette straightened up and brushed a stray curl off his forehead—it seemed that adjusting his hair was his personal way of regaining his gravitas—and said, “Fine, give me back my shirt and I’ll get us two scoops of the peanut butter.”

“No way,” Harry shook his head with a grin. “I have to try the black sesame now. The best bloke and the biggest wanker I’ve met in the city so far both love it, after all. Besides, I think I’ve got a knack for this.” He twirled the scooper in a complicated motion, just barely caught it before it fell on the floor, and quickly prepared two more cones of the thick, greyish-black ice cream, this time perfectly balanced and proportioned.

Just as he was finishing up, Fortescue wandered in from where he’d been sorting inventory in the back and looked between the two of them, Harry in the boxy uniform shirt and Tom in casual plaid.

“Oh, have you brought on a new employee?” He asked Tom brightly, receiving only an unrepentant glare in return. “I must have forgotten giving you hiring power.”

Harry dropped the scooper as if it were a murder weapon, and stepped out from behind the counter with his hands in the air. He’d never forgive himself if he got Tom fired, even if this was only his side gig. “This is my fault, sir, I can explain—“

“No need,” Fortescue said with a wink, at the same time as Tom rolled his eyes and said “Don’t worry about it, Harry.” Apparently, this was a very casual work environment. Not for the first time, Harry regretted not applying here instead of at Fabulous Football Supply.

“Just be sure to wear a name tag next time,” the shop owner told him cheerfully as they made their way outside to their usual table. Harry’s hands were full now, and he couldn’t very well let the ice cream melt; he’d have to wear Tom’s shirt for at least a little while longer. Oh well.

—————————-

Tom was right about black sesame, which was only to be expected; the problem was that meant Malfoy was correct as well.

Like peanut butter, but—if not exactly superior—toastier, more complex. Bitter, but in the way dark chocolate was bitter—sharp and rich, enhancing the sweetness. Dark yet divine, with the feeling of a secret only for a select few. Sophisticated.

“It’s amazing,” Harry said softly, a hint of melancholy stealing over him. “But you already knew that, of course.” From tasting it at fancy parties, his doubting inner voice whispered. At prestigious clubs full of people far more interesting than you—

“No,” Tom murmured, and something about his face made Harry wonder if he said that last part out loud after all. “No, this is a new experience for me as well.”

“Oh. First time trying Fortescue’s version?”

“Hmm, yes actually, but not what I meant.” He leaned his forearms on the table, and the thought He should really wear plaid more often flitted through Harry’s head. “It’s my first time tasting it in such pleasurable company. It has…greatly enhanced the experience.” He took another bite of edible darkness, his eyes never leaving Harry. “And on the topic of your company…”

Harry tilted forward slightly himself, ears pricked as he almost literally hung on Tom’s every word—

“Excuse me, I’d like to demand a refund. My cone had a hole in it and I didn’t even get to eat half the ice cream!”

The focused, heated look on Tom’s face disappeared, replaced by something absolutely murderous. Harry twisted around to see none other than Malfoy, back again like a bad penny, clutching his own much-depleted black cone with a scowl. Faced with both of their glares, the blonde faltered for a moment, then rallied and added, “And what I did get to taste was very subpar!”

Now very pleased to still be wearing the shirt (there was absolutely no other reason), Harry forced his face into stony composure and said, “You should probably inquire inside. I’m on my break.”

————————

That night, as he prepared for bed, Tom paused in the process of putting his clothes in the laundry, and held onto the shirt. The shirt, for its part, held onto Harry’s scent. Grass and fresh air and that ineffable whiff of the outdoors, with just a hint of sweetness underneath. So different from the expensive colognes that he practically gagged on every weekday at Malfoy, Black & Associates. 

It would fade in the wash, of course. But the memories that also clung to the fabric—of tanned skin glimpsed as they swapped clothes in the bathroom, Harry’s infectious laughter, the flick of his wrist as he wielded the scooper, the way he’d let slip that Tom was the best bloke he’d met in London so far…those would last for years to come.

Besides, even if that imbecile Draco had delayed his plans slightly, Tom would soon be making Harry his, and then he would be able to breathe in that delectable aroma whenever he wished. 

—————————

Tom was not anxious in the least—he never was, was in fact temperamentally incapable of it—but he was, undoubtedly, feeling a degree of uncomfortable pressure. It was now the weekend of the Summer Bank Holiday; after this, he and Harry would both be heading back to school, and the weather would be turning colder besides. There would be no more convenient meetings here at Fortescue’s, no more excuses to spend time together casually. Tom needed to make his intentions very clear, and quickly.

…Which was why he had planned to do this last week, to give himself room for error (not that he needed it!), before Draco fucking Malfoy had interrupted at the crucial moment not once but twice—

Tom took a deep breath and refocused on the menu board. A flavor, he needed a flavor that would pair perfectly with his culminating request to take Harry on an actual,official date. And yet he was no closer to the answer than last week, when his chance with the sinfully delicious black sesame had been snatched from before his very eyes.

Raspberry was uninspired, “rocky road” practically a jinx, chocolate strawberry hopelessly cliched. He needed something special and distinctive, suited to the unique bond he and Harry had developed over the summer—

“Your break starts earlier every week, it seems,” Fortescue said, coming in through the front entrance and nearly startling Tom out of his wits.

“Very funny. Now really isn’t the time, he’ll be here any minute and I would appreciate your silence if you aren’t going to be helpful.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What were you doing outside, anyway?”

“Rearranging the outdoor seating,” Florean said airily. “And I’m afraid that ship’s already sailed—it seems your sweetheart’s early as well!”

Sure enough, Tom turned around to the sight of Harry already pushing through the door, which had barely closed after Fortescue’s entrance. He was radiant as ever, cheeks flushed and hair mussed by the wind. And he fairly beamed when he spotted Tom.

“Hi! Hope I’m not too early, I was, er, doing some shopping in the area,” he greeted, his voice trailing off slightly as he glanced down at his hands, conspicuously empty of any bags or packages. Adorable.

“Hello, Harry. I was just—“ before Tom could get any further, Fortescue, who was for some reason still standing there, butted in with a swift, “It’s no trouble, Tom here is already on his break! I’ll tell you what—both of you go outside and grab a table, and I’ll bring your ice cream to you.”

What the hell was he playing at now? “Actually, I’m afraid I haven’t even told you our order yet,” Tom said tightly, at the same time as Harry reached for his wallet and said “Oh, but I haven’t paid!”

“Nonsense. I’m experimenting with a new recipe, and I’d like my two most loyal companions this summer to try it out, free of charge!” He placed a surprisingly strong hand on Tom’s shoulder and steered him toward Harry, who gamely turned around and opened the door yet again.

As Harry’s mop of raven hair disappeared ahead of him, Tom hissed over his shoulder, “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but—“

“Relax, lover boy,” Florean replied in a soft whisper undergirded with steel. “I know very well you hadn’t even chosen a flavor yet. Let an old hand take care of the matchmaking this time, hmm?”

And with that, he pushed Tom over the threshold and pulled the door shut in a rush of air.

————————

Harry had been briefly worried—between his early arrival and Fortescue’s insistence, Tom had seemed almost flustered for a moment there—but things had quickly smoothed over. Now they were chatting with their usual easy rhythms as they waited for the proprietor to bring out his mysterious new flavor, comparing the required courses for their school majors. As Tom told him a funny story from his own first year at uni, Harry drank in the other man’s face and voice—and at a much closer range than he was used to, at that. Someone had moved the chairs at their usual table, leaving them side by side instead of across from each other. He would have felt weird dragging them apart again, and Tom didn’t seem perturbed, so they had sat down next to each other, only inches between them. It was—to borrow one of Tom’s elegant phrases—greatly enhancing the experience.

In what felt like no time at all, Fortescue was approaching their table with a single white bowl, filled with a few scoops of ice cream Harry couldn’t quite see from this angle.

“Behold—my finest creation! I call it ‘Worlds Change When Eyes Meet’—a flavor that captures the sensory experience of love at first sight!” With a great deal of theatrical reverence, he lowered the bowl to rest between them. Harry quickly peered over to get a look at this groundbreaking new achievement in ice cream.

As he was still staring into the bowl five full seconds later, trying to figure out what he was missing, Tom vocalized what Harry’s brain was stubbornly, dumbly repeating on a loop:

“…It’s mint chocolate.”

Harry struggled to identify anything he could point out that differentiated the supposedly world-changing flavor from the standard mint chocolate you could find in any shop, but it really did seem to be—

“The harmonious union of two forces, seemingly different but in truth perfectly complementary!” Fortescue rhapsodized, ignoring Tom’s statement and Harry’s baffled stare. “Chocolate’s richness, tempered by mint’s herbal zing! Classic elegance enlivened by bold, refreshing energy! Deep, warm brown meeting vibrant green—“ he paused for a moment—maybe to catch his breath—and gave them a very significant-seeming look, although Harry could not for the life of him divine the significance. “…Work with me here,” he finished, voice dropping back to its normal register.

He then shifted his attention off of Harry entirely and entered into a kind of prolonged staring contest/silent conversation with Tom, punctuated by minuscule shifts in both of their expressions. Fortescue wiggled his brows and widened his eyes; Tom narrowed his own. Unable to bear the weirdness, Harry decided to speak up about an entirely separate issue.

“There’s only one bowl,” he pointed out helpfully.

“What?” Tom broke eye contact and turned back to the ice cream, seeming to notice the bowl’s lonely status for the first time. Fortescue just smiled beatifically.

“Ah, yes, it was the only clean one left I’m afraid. I’ve given you an extra scoop to compensate—and two spoons, of course! I’m sure you’ll manage just fine.”

Harry was, if anything, more confused, but in the seat next to him, a slow, satisfied smile began to spread across Tom’s face as his eyes flicked over two silver utensils in question. He met Fortescue’s eyes again, looking noticeably warmer than before.

“…I see. Thank you very much, Florean.” His gratitude seemed genuine, but at the same time, his words were a clear dismissal—one that the other man actually obeyed, retreating back into the shop with a final “Enjoy yourselves.”

Harry wondered if Tom had a special kind of rapport with his boss, or if it was just his natural aura of authority. Oliver, Harry’s manager at the sporting goods store, would’ve given him an hourlong lecture if he’d spoken to him that way.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clink of Tom’s spoon against the bowl. When he looked up, the brunette still had a smile like warm honey, this time for Harry alone.

“No cones this time,” he said, raising his spoon between them questioningly. “So…shall we?”

It only took Harry a moment to pick up on his meaning, and then he grinned back and picked up his own utensil. “Yeah,” he said, tapping it against Tom’s. It made a pleasing, resonant sound, like a tuning fork. “Yeah, we shall!”

They both went for a spoonful at the same time, in the same general area of the bowl. Their hands brushed, and Harry was quickly reminded that—for him, anyway—a lot more flowed between them than good conversation. He flushed, but Tom just smirked, his amusement only increasing as the same thing happened the next two times they tried to take a bite. God, it was almost like he was doing it on purpose!

Finally, they each dug into opposite sides of the little sundae, and Tom slowly closed his lips around his spoon while Harry happily posted in a whole mouthful.

It was, indeed, just ordinary mint chocolate ice cream—although nothing made with Fortescue’s golden touch could ever truly be called “ordinary”. Indeed, the first bite really could be accurately described by the man’s dramatic proclamations—energy and elegance, luxury and vibrancy.

Or, in Harry’s less flowery vocabulary…

“Yum,” he sighed, already very grateful for that extra third scoop. “It tastes like grasshopper pie! Best. Spoonful. Ever.”

“Mmm, I agree,” Tom said, and as Harry watched him, he couldn’t decide whether he was very lucky or very unlucky that they had always used cones before this—what that man’s mouth did with a spoon was obscene, at least to Harry’s hopelessly besotted brain. “In fact…” something playful flared to life beneath the surface of his warm brown eyes, “I am quite certain that the bite I took just now was the best spoonful ever. Better than yours, even. This side of the bowl must have been scooped with superior technique.”

“No way,” Harry shot back, his competitive side flaring to life even at this mildest of provocations. “Yours can’t possibly beat mine. The left side of the bowl has supremacy!” He took another large spoonful to emphasize his point.

But Tom was already shaking his head as if this were a very serious debate, though his eyes still glinted where they met Harry’s. “No. My side is unparalleled—and I can prove it.” He took another bite of his own, deliberately small and slow, as if to maximize his contrariness, 

Rising to the nonsensical challenge, Harry reached out to rotate the bowl so they could “compare” their identical scoops of ice cream, only for Tom to snatch his wrist, pull him across those last few centimeters separating them, and breathe, “Here. Have a taste,” into his ear, before crushing their lips together.

In that moment, all the distinctions between flavors—nutty or fruity, creamy or chunky, decadent or refreshing—blended into near-meaninglessness in Harry’s mind. Every cone or cup he’d had up until this point might as well have been the same plain vanilla, for how they all paled in comparison to the taste of sweet, cold ice cream on Tom’s lips, his mouth, his tongue as it pushed, gently but insistently, for entry past Harry’s own lips. He opened eagerly, unable to resist even if he’d wanted to, which he very much didn’t; he craved more, more, more like a sugar addict, and if the way Tom was holding him, drawing him closer while further exploring his mouth as if intending to devour, was any indication, the other man felt similarly. Harry’s eyes were closed, the better to focus entirely on taste and touch, and he experienced a strange tipping sensation; at first he thought it might be dizziness from the combination of euphoria and lack of air, but he soon realized that his center of gravity had shifted, and he was suddenly sitting more in Tom’s lap than in his chair. Beyond just kissing, their entire bodies were pressed together now, melting into each other in the summer sun. He felt Tom’s fingers run through and gently tug at his hair, sending delicious shivers over his scalp, and he clutched at Tom’s shirt with his own hands, gripping more tightly as he felt the increasing urge breathe, as if it could delay his need for oxygen just that little bit more.

Finally, when it seemed his lungs would burst if he lingered any longer in the endless sunlit idyll of Tom’s kiss, he pulled back slightly, and Tom released him, withdrawing his mouth and shifting his hands to Harry’s back, supporting him so he wouldn’t fall. Unwilling to separate too much now that he was finally so close, Harry leaned forward and rested his forehead against Tom’s, keeping their lips only millimeters apart. Though he could still smell it faintly on their mingled breath, all traces of mint chocolate had fled from Harry’s mouth, chased away by the inimitable taste of Tom Tom Tom. And wouldn’t that be a flavor, he thought through his haze, that really would be the best spoonful ever, if it could somehow be captured in a scoop of ice cream…

“Well?” Tom said, and Harry didn’t just hear it; he felt it in the vibrations of Tom’s chest, in the puff of air against his cheek. “Was I not right yet again, darling?”

Harry huffed out a laugh, because of course that’s what Tom would care about most. But he forgave it the minute he heard darling again, and he also knew that wasn’t really about settling a made-up debate.

“Yes,” he said with a grin, sliding his hands up to rest more comfortably on Tom’s shoulders, hoping that would serve as an answer to Tom’s unspoken questions as well; from the smug smile he got in return, he’d succeeded. “Yes, definitely. I guess I’ll just have to trust you from here on out.”

“Good.” Tom’s voice was husky, and his dark-chocolate eyes grew even darker as they were swallowed by his blown-wide pupils. “Because I can assure you, Harry my dear, that I am not even close to finished introducing you to new experiences.”

———————————————————-

Several hours later, as the sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, Tom strode back into the parlor like a victorious general. In his hands, he carried the ice cream bowl, now long empty (while he and Harry had certainly taken their time finishing it, they’d spent the vast majority of the afternoon exploring…other flavors); tucked safely in his pocket was Harry’s phone number, scrawled on the back of a YOUR TENTH CONE IS FREE punchcard. And lingering on his tongue was the taste of Harry, rich and sweet enough to make a millionaire of even the most mediocre dessert purveyor. Not that that would ever happen, of course. If Tom got his way—and he always did—that particular flavor would be reserved for him alone from now on.

Fortescue looked up from where he was counting the money in the till, preparing to close for the evening.

“It seems my new flavor was a success,” he remarked, apparently determined to maintain the pretense that he had invented mint chocolate ice cream. “The two of you practically licked that bowl clean! Not to mention a few other things as well,” he added with a wink.

Tom blanched, his grip on the bowl tightening. “Were you spying on us, you pervert!?”

“Taking in the view from the front window of a shop one owns is hardly spying,” Fortescue said breezily. “Besides, I’ve been a spectator to all your other dates so far too, and I even paid for this one. I’ve become invested!”

“Those weren’t dates,” Tom scoffed, setting the bowl on the counter. While his hours with Harry this summer had been some of the most enjoyable that he’d ever spent in the company of others, those Saturday meetings had been a mere laying of the foundations. He hadn’t been lying to Harry in the last week; when Tom Riddle was serious about someone, he took them out properly. Now that they had firmly established mutual romantic interest, he couldn’t wait to start truly showing Harry a good time, starting with some establishments that cost more than five quid and actually served entrees. After that might come a romantic walk in a park actually deserving of the name, not to mention the possibilities offered by a darkened cinema…

“I assume I won’t be seeing you every week anymore?” Fortescue asked, interrupting Tom’s pleasant reverie.

“You assume correctly,” Tom agreed, his mood improved further at the prospect. “I have a boyfriend now. Not to mention university starting up again,” he added as an afterthought; really, preparing for the LNAT was relatively straightforward, compared to the fascinating puzzle that unraveling Harry was sure to be.

“And it goes without saying that I won’t get a word of thanks,” the shopkeep sighed dramatically, as if he were some kind of martyred saint.

Tom felt his nose scrunch involuntarily, a childhood tic he had never quite managed to shake. Honestly, he would never understand how this man’s mind worked. “What on earth for? Being a busybody and a voyeur?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Choosing the perfect flavor today when you’d been dithering for thirty minutes, perhaps? Toiling for hours on a one-of-a-kind cake, even though I knew it was to be unceremoniously forced into an undersized cooler? Or maybe,” he continued, his tone shifting and his usually blithe expression turning sly, “allowing you to swan in and out of my shop all summer, confusing the customers and occasionally mishandling my equipment, despite the fact that you don’t work here and never have?”

Oh, yes. That. Of course Fortescue would be the type of petty little man to hold something so insignificant over Tom’s head. He made it sound almost sinister, when in fact it was really nothing more than an extended misunderstanding.

After all, it wasn’t Tom’s fault that some overeager and possibly colorblind HR rep at the law firm had come up with the idea of making all the interns wear insipid matching shirts their first week to “inspire camaraderie”. It certainly wasn’t his fault that the entitled nepo-babies he was forced to work alongside conspired (back in those early days, at least, before he had taught them the harsh consequences of fucking with Tom Riddle) to send him on multiple pointless snack runs, including that fateful one to Fortescue’s on a crowded day in July. Assuming that a man in a yellow polo carrying a dozen ice creams was an employee was a perfectly reasonable mistake on dear Harry’s part. And once Tom got a glimpse of those sweet emerald eyes…well, how could he not assist him to the best of his ability?

As for the eight weeks after that…there was no law on the books saying that Tom couldn’t visit the shop at the same time every Saturday, wearing whatever he damn well pleased. It was a free country.

“I never outright misrepresented myself,” he said now, eyes daring Fortescue to contradict him. “Phrases such as ‘I am not working right now’ and ‘I’ll go inside and get us some scoops’ have multiple interpretations. And I paid you fairly for all the ice cream.”

The man just laughed good-naturedly. “And that, Tom, is why you’re working in a law office and not serving ice cream. Relax, son; if I weren’t already rooting for you two lovebirds, I’d have barred you from my shop months ago. Just mention my name the next time your posh friends need a party catered, and your wide-eyed young beau will never find out that he was the only customer you ever served.”

Tom crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “What happened to catering being ‘unprofitable at scale?’”

Fortescue shrugged and tossed up his hands in a what-can-I-say? gesture. “The cold-sweets market is evolving rapidly. New opportunities arise every day.”

Tom rolled his eyes, once again thankful that this frivolous man was, quite literally, not the boss of him. ‘New opportunities’, indeed. He would still recommend him to the Knights for their next Halloween party, though—not because he had any fear of Harry discovering his secrets, but because Florean really did churn exquisite black sesame.

After that, he quickly  said his goodbyes to Fortescue and walked out the door into a rainbow-sherbet sunset, eager to get home and preserve Harry’s phone number more permanently—perhaps in the expensive black leather diary he’d bought himself as a graduation gift. He’d still be keeping the punchcard with his handwriting, though, along with the scratchy yellow shirt, even if he never put it on again. Thanks to his Harry, Tom had just about come around to the idea of keeping mementos.

————————————

By the time the next Saturday rolled around, bringing with it their first (official, evening-out, dinner-and-a-movie) date, Harry still couldn’t quite believe that Tom had really asked him out. It seemed far more in keeping with his life so far that he had hallucinated their first kiss (and their second, and third, and fourth and—), dreamed it up under the influence of brain freeze and a hectic first week at uni. Tom himself, however, had not been inclined to let Harry forget about it, if his phone call on Wednesday (which started with an inquiry into Harry’s restaurant preference and turned into a rambling two-hour chat) was any indication.

It had been stupidly thrilling to talk with Tom while lounging on his own bed, the phone cord stretched to its breaking point from the kitchen to his room. That, plus some of the expensive places Tom had been considering for dinner, was enough to have Harry spending all of Saturday afternoon choosing an outfit, attempting to tame his hair, deciding the shirt wasn’t nice enough after all, ruining his hair again in the process of changing it, and repeating this cycle until the clock struck seven and he was out of time. He found himself feeling very grateful that Hermione had taken pity on him and arranged for her and Ron to be out of the flat that day; he’d have never lived it down, especially if Ron blabbed to Ginny.

“Are you sure you don’t want us here when he shows up?” the redhead had asked one last time before they left after lunch. “Just to make sure he doesn’t, y’know, try anything?”

“Honestly, Ronald, I’ve already told you, he’s not going to bring another cake,” Hermione huffed, herding Ron out the door before he could open his mouth to protest.

And she was right. When Tom buzzed the doorbell at seven on the dot, forcing Harry to settle on the maroon jumper he’d tried on last, his hands were full not with a jumbo-sized cooler but a bouquet of a dozen fluffy pink-and-white flowers, so large Harry had taken them for peonies before Tom explained that they were a rare variety of tulip. Harry invited him in, and by the time he’d gotten the gift into a vase of water, Tom had managed to give him a thorough refresher on the very non-hallucinatory things that had happened the last time they were together—and also undo every single one of his attempts to fix his hair.

“Flowers, check,” Harry said breathlessly, as they hurried down the stairs to make their dinner reservation on time. “Red velvet cake, already checked off last month. I’d say you’re doing pretty well so far on the courtship front.”

“I’m very pleased to see you were paying attention,” Tom hummed, lacing his fingers through Harry’s, “and that you plan to hold me to account. Rest assured, I have no intention of disappointing you.”

Sure enough, when they arrived at the restaurant and were escorted to their candlelit table for two, Tom pulled out Harry’s chair for him and, once he was seated, leaned forward and murmured against the shell of his ear, “Candlelit dinner, check.”

It was more than just a romantic cliche, Harry thought as they settled in and opened their menus. The low lighting did wonders to highlight Tom’s sharp cheekbones and jawline—not to mention his body in another perfectly-fitted collared shirt, in malachite green this time.

When the server came back around, Harry kept to his word, and trusted Tom to order them the perfect pairing of food and wine; he had, after all, more than proven his palate by now. The spaghetti carbonara was like spun silk, mixed with salty guanciale tender as butter ; the Chardonnay worthy of a toast in itself. As they ate and talked, he could feel more heat between them than just that of the candle’s flame, and he found himself longing to learn what these smoky, peppery new flavors tasted like on Tom’s lips.

But Harry had always had an extra stomach for sweets. And so when they were asked about dessert, he ignored Tom’s affectionate eye roll and asked that the tiramisu be served a la mode.