Work Text:
Harry jumps down the last of the flight, hand trailing over the railing as she rounds the corner, momentum building to power down this next set, before she realises there's a girl sitting on them. Bracing against the metal bannister, she pauses for a moment, before taking the steps slower.
"Hiya," she says, brightly.
The girl lifts her head slightly, looking at Harry, before ducking it again. "Hullo."
Harry passes her slowly before twisting and sinking onto a step a few below her. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
"Thomasine Riddle," the girl says. "I prefer Tom."
Tom is painting her toenails in a dark red — claret.
"Hey," Harry says, pointing at them and then at the badge of her jersey. "West Ham colours!"
Tom looks up again, eyes settling where Harry has pointed, before flickering to her face. Tom's lips twitch upwards, smirking slightly.
"The colour of blood," she corrects. "I bet they only chose it because of that."
"Hey!" Harry's face heats, embarrassed.
She's never really known how to talk to girls, and she feels even more awkward with Tom who is pretty and feminine in every way Harry is not. Tom has effortlessly straight hair while Harry has the most atrociously messy mullet in the history of mullets; Tom wears a cute skirt and tank top which emphasises her tits — (and Harry looks away, strange noise caught in her throat) — while Harry wears a West Ham jersey that's several sizes too big and dirty trainers; Tom is sitting on the steps of the estate, nonchalantly painting her toenails, looking like an American movie star, while Harry is heading down to the common to have a kickabout, looking like she's ten again.
Tom must take pity on her, because she hums and says, "I like your shirt."
"It's my favourite," Harry says, pulling it out and looking down at it — the large Dr. Martens sponsor in the middle, the PONY brand logo to her right and the West Ham badge to her left. "I got it for Christmas — a proper West Ham jersey. D'you follow football at all?"
Tom shrugs. "Not really," she admits, smiling slightly. "I guess I'll have to go with West Ham, though."
"They're good," Harry says, grinning. "I can teach you all about them. If you want."
"Alright. Do you want me to paint your nails?"
"Paint them claret? Er, alright. Sure."
"Blood," Tom corrects. "Give me your hand."
Tom's hand is cool, and she man-handles Harry's slightly clammy one onto her knee. Harry's fingers curl slightly, brushing the soft, unmarked skin that stretches over Tom's knee-cap as subtly as she can manage, and maybe it goes unnoticed. Or maybe Tom simply doesn't care. Either way, Tom adjusts it, then uncaps the nail polish bottle, spreading cool claret over Harry's finger nails.
"So they were founded in 1895 out of an Ironworks factory — which is why the logo looks like that, and they're the hammers — but like officially officially became West Ham in 1900 'cause they changed the name and everything," Harry explains.
Tom lifts Harry's hand to her mouth and blows, keeping eye-contact. Harry freezes, face heating.
"Keep going," Tom says, mouth upticking into a smirk.
"Erm, right. Er," Harry says stupidly. "Well, er, our best ever player was Bobby Moore, and he captained the English Football Team — like, the national one — in 1966 and we won. We won the league a couple of times around then too, but that was before the Prem."
"Cool," Tom says. "Well, you're done here. You might want to sit and wait for them to dry for a bit, though."
Harry spreads her hands out in front, looking at them. Tom's painted them well, and Harry loves them; she tells Tom this.
"I liked hearing about West Ham," Tom says.
"You could come and watch me play," Harry blurts out. She flushes, looking away shyly. "I mean, it's just a kickabout with me and my mates down the common, but we always go to the chippy after 'cause Cedric's mum works there and she gives us free cans."
Tom hums, mulling it over.
"Sure," she says, capping up the nail polish bottle and standing up. Harry gets a view up her skirt for a moment, and her face heats. "These are probably dry, but I need to get my trainers. I can meet you down there?"
Harry shakes her head. "No," she says solemnly. "I'll wait for you."
Tom smiles slightly. "Alright. Thanks."
Then, she turns and takes the stairs, long, perfect hair fanning out as she swings quickly around the turn.
