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Great Hangleton was homey. Barely large enough to warrant its dingy little police station—it’s only building of note—the town consisted of little more than a main drag with its small shops huddling for warmth under the warm yellow glow of light posts, and residential streets lined with houses too far off of the roads to be seen. Its people, all 2,763 of them, were equally homey according to the executor who’d called; “Just the loveliest folks, you’ll see,” she’d said. Right. As if that would ever persuade Tom Riddle to become lucky number 2,764. He much preferred London, thank you.
But even then, he wouldn’t be Great Hangleton Resident #2,764. No, Tom’s new manor was in Little Hangleton, and if Great Hangleton was homey, then Little Hangleton was positively decrepit. Driving his rented sedan down those snowy dirt roads had been horrifying, frankly, and Tom could practically feel himself wasting away every second he spent in his new dilapidated house, itemizing and sorting through papers. Why had his grandparents owned so much stuff?
It hadn’t taken very long before he’d needed to escape the damned house. To make it worse, for all the junk they’d had, his grandparents had never invested in a proper coffee maker.
Which brought Tom here to the Ivory Flour in Great Hangleton. He’d gone the week before and found that the small bakery served a surprisingly decent cup of coffee, and quickly decided that if he was going to have to comb through his dead relatives' documents, he’d rather do it somewhere warm with coffee in hand. He’d gone back almost every day since.
The Ivory Flour really was a lovely bakery. Decorated for the holidays and smelling like sugar, with puns written in chalk on the menu for sweets like Mistledoughnuts and “Cherry-Christmas!” Pie, Tom would’ve expected obnoxious Christmas music to be blasting, but instead the owner opted for unobtrusive classical music. It made for a great place to sit down and work as he drank his coffee and tried out the various cookies offered to him.
“Not allergic to anything, are you?” the owner had asked him the first time he’d wandered over to Tom’s table. Looking to be about Tom’s age, the man had the messiest black hair and startlingly beautiful green eyes behind his round glasses.
Tom blinked. “Pardon?”
The man had a strange scar on his forehead. Looked like lightning. Interesting. “I asked if you had any allergies,” he repeated.
“Oh. No, I don’t.” Why? he thought.
“I’m trying out some new recipes,” the man said, answering the unspoken question. “You don’t mind being my taste-tester, do you?” Instead of answering, Tom eyed him warily. “Ahh, don’t look at me like that.” The man’s crooked grin was annoyingly endearing. “I’m a good baker, I swear. Got my own shop and everything, don’t I?”
Reluctantly charmed, Tom answered with a smile of his own. “Looks like I’ll be the judge of that, won’t I…” He eyed the nametag pinned to his apron, “Harry?”
“You will…” Harry let the question hang.
“Tom,” Tom said.
“Tom. Well, Tom, I’ll be expecting nothing but the truth from you,” Harry said mock-sternly. “Nothing’s for free, you know, I want proper market research out of you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of lying to you.”
And so Tom got to work somewhere warm with a steady supply of cookies away from that mess of a manor in exchange for his honesty. And Harry was right; he really was a very good baker.
It would’ve been perfect, if not for the “lovely folks” Tom had been warned about. At first they were just annoying, coming over to his table and nosing around, oozing a small-town charm that Tom discovered he was allergic to, but then… Well, after the third nosy person had gotten a solid look at his face and excused themselves looking like they’d smelled something foul, he’d gathered the Riddles weren’t very popular. At least they left him alone after.
It was about noon when the door to the Ivory Flour jingled merrily and an older woman shuffled in. Tom, who had been there for about half an hour so far, looked up and sighed. Great. He’d seen that woman before. She had been the first to look at him like he was dirt a couple days ago.
“I’m surprised you’re open,” the old woman called out as she approached the counter where Harry was working. “It’s supposed to come down hard this afternoon.”
“Mrs. Longbottom, hello! Yes, I heard,” Harry said with a broad smile. “I’m not too worried though, I’m planning on closing up a bit early.”
Tom’s gaze turned toward the window, continuing to eavesdrop as the old woman fussed over which cookies she thought her grandchildren would like most. It didn’t particularly look like it was going to snow. Everything was just very grey. Still, maybe he should head back to the manor he thought reluctantly. Tom glanced down at his papers and his near-full cup of coffee. In a bit, he decided.
“Thank you so much, Harry dear,” the woman crooned. “You’re too good to me.”
Tom watched as Harry shooed her simpering and finally the woman herself off with a joyful “Happy Christmas!” before shutting the door and making his way over to Tom’s table.
“How’re you doing over here, Tom?” Harry asked kindly.
Tom smiled up at him, tipping his coffee cup toward the baker in greeting, “Quite well, Harry, thank you.”
“Good, good. Well, I’m sure you’ve heard about the snow we’re supposed to be getting later.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.” He gestured to the window. “Doesn’t really look like it though.”
“Oh, it never does,” Harry smiled. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, but I’m going to be closing up a bit early today.” He looked apologetic.
“Understood. I’ll be sure to get out of your hair.” Tom went to sweep his papers together only to be stopped by a hand lightly touching his shoulder. He looked up at Harry with a raised eyebrow.
“Please,” Harry said. “There’s no need to rush. Enjoy your coffee. I’ll bring you more of my RaspMerry Stars.”
There was a coaxing tune to those last words. Tom relaxed in his chair. “Those are my favorites.”
Harry’s smile grew, “I remember. Now, stay here. I’ll be back with your bribe.”
Fondness bloomed in Tom’s chest as the baker bustled off, and as he turned back to his work, he found it difficult to pick up where he’d left off. He could still feel the warmth of Harry’s hand on his shoulder. Distracting man, he thought irritably, but even in his head there was no bite to it.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Tom’s car wouldn’t start. It had been almost 30 minutes and Tom’s piece of shit, rented sedan wouldn’t start and it was fully snowing now, and he could actively see Harry across the street locking up the Ivory Flour from the inside, and Jesus Christ he was going to have to run over there and ask for a ride, wasn’t he?
Cursing, Tom climbed out and locked his car, heading back over to catch Harry while he could.
“Harry!” he called out. “Harry, wait!”
The man probably couldn’t hear him through the door, but he seemed to spot him as he fumbled with the door handle. Just to be sure, Tom waved at him as he carefully made his way across the street.
The door opened once Tom had made it across. “What’s going on?” Harry asked as he ushered Tom into the bakery.
“My car,” he explained, trying his best not to track too much snow in, “It’s not starting. I think the battery is dead.”
Harry grimaced sympathetically. “Well, shit. Where are you staying, I can either help jump your car or give you a ride depending on how far out you are.”
“Thank you,” Tom said, rubbing his cold hands together. “I’m in Little Hangleton. Do you know the, uh, the Riddle Manor?”
Thankfully, Harry didn’t seem to share the other Great Hangleton residents’ disdain for the infamous Riddle family. He did, however, look apologetic. Air hissed through his teeth. “I do, and between the snow and the state of Little’s roads, there’s no way we’re going to be able to make it there in time now in my car or yours.”
Suddenly exhausted, Tom rubbed his eyes. “Well isn’t that fantastic.”
A moment passed before Harry spoke. “Look, I’m sure it’s not ideal, and we barely know each other, but I do have a spare room upstairs in my flat. It’s only got a couch but it’ll do in a pinch.”
Tom looked over at him sharply. Harry looked entirely sincere. "You're sure?”
“Yes, of course. The snow is only going to get worse.” Tom looked out the window where it did indeed appear to be getting worse. At Tom’s reluctant expression, the baker went on to insist, “Look, I’m not kicking you out into the cold, Tom.”
“I know, I just hate to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding, and even if you were, there’s nothing to be done for it now,” Harry said, not unkindly. “C’mon.”
Resigned, Tom quickly shed his coat before following Harry past the counter and up a set of stairs he hadn’t noticed.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Tom said.
Harry waved him off as they reached the top of the stairs and flicked on a light. “Then don’t, it’s fine. Here, c’mon in,” he stepped aside. “Welcome to my home.”
An hour later found them on the couch as Harry flicked through the channels on the telly for a good movie.
“Why do they only have Christmas movies?” Harry griped.
“I would’ve thought you loved Christmas movies.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked. “Why is that?”
“‘Mistledoughnuts?’ ‘RaspMerry Stars?’ Please, Harry, you’re dripping with Christmas spirit.”
“That’s not ‘Christmas spirit,’ that’s good marketing,” Harry said, pointing at him with the remote. “Comes with the job. And speaking of jobs, I’ve been meaning to ask. What do you do?”
“I work in finance.”
Harry laughed. “Of course you do.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
The baker gave him a look. “You know.”
Humor tugged at Tom’s lips. “Yeah, alright. Fair enough.”
“City-slicker.”
“Country-bumpkin.”
“God, we’re a fucking Hallmark movie waiting to happen,” Harry snorted.
“Don’t even joke,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Have you seen what happens to the poor finance fiancés in these things?” Harry burst out laughing. “You’ll be fine,” Tom continued, “You’re the irresistible, messy baker who—”
“Irresistible?” Harry interrupted with a smirk.
“I said what I said,” Tom replied smoothly, smirking back. This seemed to catch Harry off guard. “But don’t let your head get too big, I also called you messy.”
Harry took the out, daring Tom to stay clean while doing his job, but Tom didn’t miss the soft blush on his cheeks.
In the end, they settled on the best Christmas movie of all: Die Hard.
By the time they’d eaten dinner and Harry had shown Tom where to find everything he’d need for the night, it looked positively glacial outside. Frost clung to the windows and they couldn’t even see the street through the blustering snow. Harry had turned up the thermostat and even pulled out a space heater to boot.
“This has got to be the worst I've ever seen it here,” Harry said as he pulled out some sheets for Tom from the closet in the spare room which served as a library/desk area with a comfortable looking couch.
“Oh yeah? How long have you been here?” Tom asked.
“Four and half years come January.” Harry smiled contentedly as he hugged the sheets. “Feels longer though.”
“Do you like living up here?” Tom asked, genuinely curious.
“Yeah,” Harry said simply. When Tom didn’t reply, he elaborated. “It’s quiet here. I know everyone and everyone knows me. But they don’t ask questions, not any real ones.”
Tom wasn’t sure how to respond. “And that’s…?”
“I prefer it.”
Nodding, Tom reached out and gestured to help take the sheets from Harry. “Would it be an overstep, then, if I asked if you had any Christmas plans this year?”
The corners of Harry’s eyes crinkled in the loveliest way when he smiled. “Not at all.” He handed over the sheets. “I don’t have plans really, no. The weeks leading up to Christmas will be hell enough with all the orders I’ll be getting in the bakery. You?”
Tom laughed shortly. “No. Unless you count cleaning and itemizing my dead grandparents’ house a celebration.”
Harry, who had just started busying himself with wrestling a pillow into its case, faltered. “Ahh, I see. Were you close?”
“No, not at all.” Tom turned to go set the sheets down on the couch for later. “I barely knew they existed.”
“Mm.”
A moment passed.
“The Christmas orders would be ‘Hell enough,’ you said,” Tom said quietly. “Not anxious to visit the family then, I take it?”
Harry paused, and Tom wondered if this would be one of those ‘real’ questions the baker didn’t like. In the end, he replied. “Haven’t got any worth visiting. Makes two of us?”
Tom hummed in agreement. “That it would.”
It wasn’t often Tom felt the urge to share so much of himself so quickly to another. And here he was handing out information to this man like, well, cookies. It felt good. It made him feel impulsive.
“Harry,” Tom said suddenly. “Not to be forward, but if you find yourself needing company come Christmas, I’m going to be sticking around here 'til New Years at the very least to get the Riddle Manor sorted. And I won’t be busy.”
Harry looked stunned. “That is forward, Tom.”
Fuck. Time to backpedal. “My apologies. I shouldn’t’ve—Hey!”
Without warning, Harry had chucked the pillow he was holding at Tom, hitting him square in the chest. It fell to the floor with a muffled thump.
The baker was pointing an accusing finger at him. “Don’t you apologize,” he said irritably. “I hadn’t thought of a response yet. Give a man time to think.”
It was Tom’s turn to look stunned, he thought. He certainly felt stunned. “What is there to think about?”
Harry waved him off. “Don’t you mind!”
A little furl of excitement uncurled in Tom’s gut. “Do you need persuading, Harry?” he flirted. “I can provide.”
The man’s cheeks flushed red in an instant even as he bristled. “Oh my god, are you always such a flirt, or do you only do this with people you’re freeloading off of?”
The words shocked a laugh out of Tom. “Just you,” he lied.
“Ugh you’re such a liar, fine, yes,” Harry blurted.
“Yes?”
Harry looked pained. “Yes, Tom, I’ll go out with you for Christmas, okay? Now go to bed, I’ve got to get up at four.”
“Jesus, that’s early.”
Harry pointed at himself. “Baker.” He pointed at Tom. “Freeloader.” Tom laughed again. “Just be out of here or at least downstairs by seven, okay?”
“Yessir,” Tom joked as Harry turned on his heel and made toward the door. “Sleep well, Harry.”
All he got was a gruff “You too, Tom,” before the door was shut and Tom was left alone for the night.
Tom couldn’t sleep. Harry it seemed, couldn’t either.
“What time is it?” Tom croaked as Harry slipped into the room. In the dark, he was barely more than a silhouette.
“Dunno, don’t care,” Harry replied as he walked over to the couch and reached out unseeingly for Tom. “C’mon, get up.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s too cold for you to sleep alone,” Harry said and then faltered. “Unless you’d rather—“
“Nope, I’m coming,” Tom interrupted, immediately pushing himself up off of the couch. “It’s much too cold.”
“Yes, so cold.”
Tom allowed Harry to grab his wrist and lead him through the darkness. “Just to be clear—“
“I just want you to hold me,” Harry confessed, and Tom mourned the loss of seeing the man’s face as he whispered those sweet words to him.
“I will,” Tom promised as Harry led them to his bed. Harry climbed under the sheets first, and Tom followed, slotting behind him and wrapping the man in his arms.
It felt like relief, like slipping into a hot bath. Tom could barely remember the last time he’d been touched like this, the last time he’d fallen asleep next to someone. The solid weight and warmth of Harry was a bone-deep comfort, and he sighed, relaxing in a way he hadn’t done in months.
“I‘ll keep you warm, Harry,” Tom murmured. “Sleep now.”
Moments later they were both fast asleep.