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To say Tom Riddle is not having a good day would be a gross understatement.
His bout of bad luck begins yesterday morning, when he receives a phone call from a stuttering Lucius about a serious accounting discrepancy at the branch company the blond man has been sent to supervise a few days ago. Tom spends far too much time interrogating Lucius, followed by several increasingly useless exchanges of emails, each one accompanied by another report or document supposedly demonstrating how the mistake has happened.
It quickly becomes apparent that trying to resolve whatever the hell has happened from headquarters is an exercise in futility. So Tom finally gives up and instructs Barty—his trusty PA—to book him a flight to the branch.
He needs to strangle Karkaroff and Lucius in person.
Granted, the accounting error is not technically Lucius's fault. Everyone working under Tom, however, knows that collective punishment is to be expected for a fuckup—excuse his language—of this magnitude. It is less about assigning blame and more about making absolutely certain that nobody is tempted to repeat the mistake.
The next piece of bad news arrives when Barty informs him that, due to the short notice and the fact that the holidays are fast approaching, there are no business-class seats left.
Only economy.
At the time, Tom thinks nothing of it. It is a seat. There are worse things in life to suffer, and the flight is barely two hours long.
How bad can it possibly be?
He is now learning that the answer is: quite bad.
He packs a light bag and leaves, spending the entirety of his time at the airport working on his laptop. He goes through the branch's financial reports from the past year, cross-referencing figures and highlighting discrepancies while enduring what can only generously be described as coffee in the airport lounge. The more he reads, the more murderous he becomes.
By the time he reaches the bottom of the fifth report, his mind has begun quietly suggesting increasingly creative ways to dismember Karkaroff and dispose of the pieces somewhere the sun doesn't shine.
Tom restrains himself.
Barely.
His therapist, an irritatingly twinkly old man by the name of Dumbledore, has advised him rather firmly against making important decisions while in the throes of anger. So Tom will give Karkaroff one more chance to explain himself before deciding whether the man deserves to be fed to the wolves.
Literally.
By the time he boards the plane, Tom has developed a headache that has less to do with the situation itself and more to do with the sheer number of murderous thoughts currently occupying his mind.
The lack of sleep the previous night certainly isn't helping. Neither is the fact that he has eaten almost nothing all day. Tom has a bad habit of forgetting meals whenever Barty isn't around to either put food directly in front of him or remind him to eat.
Now his headache has progressed into a dull, throbbing pressure behind his eyes. The overhead lights seem far too bright, almost dancing at the edges of his vision, while the steady murmur of the airport and boarding announcements has dissolved into an indistinct swarm of buzzing bees.
By the time he finally reaches his seat, Tom is beginning to regret every decision that has led him to this particular flight.
His ignorance of the hardships of economy class is now painfully apparent.
The legroom is atrocious. His knees are practically pressed against the seat in front of him, leaving him unable to stretch his legs properly. Somewhere farther down the cabin, a baby is shrieking like a banshee being murdered, the sound cutting through the cabin like divine punishment from the gods.
And then there are the pheromones.
The plane is a sealed metal tube packed with numerous people, most of whom apparently have no idea what public decency is, and the concentration of pheromones hanging in the recycled air is making his already unsettled stomach churn. Do people not bother using scent blockers anymore?
Tom closes his eyes. Pinches the bridge of his nose in irritation.
With a silent curse directed at the universe, he leans his head back against the headrest and tries to sleep.
Hopefully, by the time he wakes up, the plane will have landed already.
He drifts in and out of sleep for a while, never sinking deeply enough to feel properly rested. Eventually, the same baby from earlier starts shrieking again, and the sound pulls him reluctantly back to consciousness.
The lights are still dancing.
Tom simply sits there and blinks for a full minute, his eyes unfocused and unseeing, while his brain slowly attempts to remember where he is and why the banshee baby's still screaming.
“… Hello? Um, sir?”
A soft voice comes from somewhere to his right.
Tom turns his head, tilting it slightly in that direction. He cannot be bothered to move the rest of his body. Doing so would only make him more aware of the cramped space around him and, consequently, more irritable. Someone of slighter stature might find economy class perfectly tolerable, but Tom is tall even by alpha standards, with broad shoulders and long legs that seem determined to occupy considerably more space than the airline has generously allotted him.
“… Sir? Are you okay?”
The omega sitting beside him is still speaking, his pleasant pheromones carrying notes of concern. His voice is deliberately soft and slow, as though he has already noticed that Tom is feeling unwell and understands that a loud voice will only make matters worse.
“You don't look very well.”
Tom blinks.
It takes him several seconds longer than usual to properly process his surroundings. The seats are full. The cabin is dim. The plane is moving.
Apparently, he has missed someone sitting down beside him.
He has also missed the plane taking off.
At his continued lack of response—and perhaps because he must look considerably more brain-dead than he feels—the lovely omega beside him frowns and reaches over to touch his arm lightly.
Oh.
Right.
An answer.
“I'm all right, thank you.”
His voice comes out scratchy and hoarse. Tom clears his throat and tries again.
“Just a bad headache.”
Normally, Tom would never admit weakness to a stranger, least of all over something as plebeian as a headache. His instinct would be to brush off the concern and make it clear that he would prefer to be left alone.
But the concerned young man beside him has the prettiest green eyes Tom has ever seen. And, for some inexplicable reason, those eyes make him want to tell the truth—anything, really, if it means keeping their attention on him a little longer.
… but why?
The omega smiles, looking a little sheepish.
He isn’t a classic beauty, the sort who draws stolen glances the moment he walks into a room. There is nothing particularly polished or striking about him, especially dressed as plainly as he is in jeans and a flannel shirt. And yet, there is an incredibly warm and approachable quality to his presence; an innocent, omega-next-door sort of charm that alphas will find themselves inexplicably drawn to.
“Sorry. I know it's none of my business, but you really don't look well, and I wanted to make sure you're okay.”
He hesitates, then smiles again.
“I'm Harry, by the way. Harry Potter.”
He says it in a whisper, like he doesn’t want to bother the other passengers, and then grins.
It transforms his entire face. Bright and warm and startlingly genuine, lighting him from within like a sunflower suddenly turning toward the sun.
Tom stares.
He has always considered himself above such frivolous things as romantic entanglements and sexual attraction. He has never understood why people willingly surrender perfectly good judgment to hormones and sentiment.
Evidently, he has simply been waiting to meet his type.
His type, it seems, is a small, bright-eyed, kind-hearted omega who makes a habit of worrying about complete strangers on airplanes.
How fascinating.
“Tom Riddle.”
On impulse, Tom smiles.
Not his usual charming smile honed to perfection. That would be too deliberate. Instead, he tones it down, allowing just enough tiredness to soften the edges, adding precisely the right amount of vulnerability to appeal to the maternal instincts of any omega between the ages of eight and eighty.
Just to see what happens.
And there it is.
Harry blushes.
He looks away for a moment, suddenly fascinated by something outside the window, before glancing back at Tom as though he cannot quite help himself.
Tom knows exactly what sort of face he has. He has known since he was very young, and long since learned what effect his smile can have on people.
Apparently, severe exhaustion doesn’t prevent him from being effective.
“I—um, I have ibuprofen if you want some?” Harry offers. “But it's better if you eat something first. When was the last time you ate?”
Lovely Harry is fretting again.
Tom's tired brain is considerably more interested in watching those worried green eyes remain fixed on him than in producing a coherent answer.
When was the last time he ate?
He only drank a coffee immediately before boarding this evening flight, so…
This morning?
Or was that last night?
Tom frowns, genuinely unsure.
Harry's expression changes.
First, horror.
Then exasperation.
He mutters something under his breath about alphas before rummaging through his backpack. After a moment, he produces two small tupperware containers. One contains neatly prepared sandwiches; the other is filled with an assortment of cookies.
He hands both to Tom.
“Here. You really need to eat something. The snacks they provide here aren't very good, so I usually bring my own.”
Tom stares at him again.
He is beginning to suspect that he has died somewhere between the airport lounge and this airplane and is currently experiencing some elaborate afterlife designed specifically to torment him with an impossibly enchanting omega.
When Harry gives him an encouraging little nod, quietly urging him to eat, Tom finally takes a sandwich and bites into it.
He chews.
His brain begins, very slowly, to restart.
While he is still eating, Harry politely catches the attention of a passing flight attendant and asks for a cup of water. When it arrives, Harry lowers his own tray table and places the cup there, presumably because he has noticed that Tom's available space is already almost entirely occupied by Tom himself.
Then he rummages through his backpack again and pulls out a blister pack of ibuprofen, placing it neatly beside the water.
“Here. Take one after you've finished eating.”
Tom looks at him in amazement.
Harry looks back.
For several seconds, neither of them says anything.
“What—what is it?” Harry asks finally, his cheeks turning pink beneath Tom's undivided attention.
“Oh, nothing.”
Tom genuinely has no idea why he is staring at an omega he has just met like an idiot; he is rarely curious about other people, much less curious enough to want to know more about them.
His brain must be considerably more fried than he thought if his silver tongue had abandoned him, leaving him reduced to monosyllabic caveman responses.
“Thank you, Harry.” Harry, Harry, Harry, his mind sings—a common name, yet it sounds so sweet on his tongue.
Harry's blush deepens.
It is, Tom decides, an excellent color on him.
It isn't until he has finished the egg sandwiches and is halfway through a matcha cookie that his brain finally comes fully back online.
He freezes.
He is eating through Harry's food.
Food Harry packed for himself.
Tom looks down at the half-empty containers in dawning disbelief.
“What are you going to eat if you're giving me all your food?”
Harry giggles.
“You can have it. I'm not really hungry. I just brought them because I like having something to nibble on.”
Then he lowers his voice, leans a little closer, and whispers conspiratorially, “The cookies usually work wonders on the screaming children on board.”
Tom glances toward the banshee baby.
Then he looks at the cookie in his hand.
Well.
Apparently, they work wonders on full-grown alphas, too.
He places the container of cookies back on Harry’s tray table and reaches for the ibuprofen instead.
“Let's share the cookies, at least.”
Harry grins.
“Okay.”
His round cheeks puff slightly with the smile, his glasses slipping a fraction lower on his nose. He has freckles.
Tom stares again.
This is becoming a problem.
A very serious problem.
Because Harry Potter, with his messy hair, ridiculous glasses, soft voice, green eyes, round cheeks, and suspiciously generous supply of cookies, is beginning to look less and less like a stranger sitting beside him on an inconvenient economy flight and more and more like the answer to a question Tom has never thought to ask.
How utterly ridiculous.
He sighs and takes the ibuprofen; Harry, perfectly lovely creature that he is, immediately hands him the water.
They spend the rest of the flight sharing the cookies and talking.
It is surprisingly easy.
Tom makes a point of telling Harry that the sandwiches are delicious, because they are, and because he suspects Harry will appreciate hearing it. The omega lights up at the compliment, looking absurdly pleased that someone likes the food he has prepared and brought along.
Conversation naturally drifts from food to work.
Tom learns that Harry has graduated from art school and is now working for an interior design firm. According to Harry, the job itself is wonderful.
His boss, unfortunately, is not.
“Snape,” Harry says darkly, popping another cookie into his mouth. “His name is Severus Snape, and I swear he was put on this earth specifically to make my life miserable.”
Tom raises an eyebrow.
“That sounds rather personal.”
“It is personal.”
Harry lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“He always gives me the horrible assignments. Everyone else gets these beautiful residential projects, and I get the clients who want to put twelve different types of marble in a room the size of a cupboard. Or someone wants me to somehow make a room with no windows feel ‘airy and inviting.’ Once he made me redo an entire concept because he said the curtains were ‘offensively red.’”
“And you continued working there?”
Harry gives him a look over the rim of his glasses.
“I need the experience.”
“Surely not that much?”
Harry laughs, and Tom finds himself smiling along with him, watching the corners of his eyes crinkle adorably.
He genuinely has trouble imagining anyone having it out for Harry that badly.
The omega is so kind and thoughtful that it seems almost impossible for him to inspire genuine dislike—and this is coming from Tom, who dislikes most people on principle. Even when complaining, Harry cannot seem to bring himself to say anything truly cruel about Snape. He merely sounds vexed, with just enough theatrical indignation to make Tom suspect he is enjoying the opportunity to complain to a sympathetic audience.
“You're very patient,” Tom says.
Harry glances at him.
“And kinder than most people I've met.”
The compliment catches Harry off guard. Clearly he hasn’t received enough of them to gain immunity; a shame, that.
A faint flush blooms sweetly across his cheeks beneath Tom’s watchful gaze, soft and warm as the color of ripened peaches; his teeth itch with the sudden urge to bite them.
“Oh.”
Harry looks down at the cookie in his hands, then peeks back at Tom from beneath his lashes, clearly embarrassed by the attention and yet, judging by the way he lingers on Tom's face, apparently wanting to hear more.
Tom's chest gives an unfamiliar little squeeze.
In return, Tom tells Harry about his own work—or, more accurately, about the catastrophic incompetence of the people currently employed beneath him.
He explains the accounting disaster, the branch office, Lucius's stuttering phone call, the useless reports, and the increasingly alarming figures that had eventually forced him onto a plane so near the holiday season.
Harry listens with sympathetic little noises, his expression growing more concerned with every detail.
“Oh, that sounds awful.”
“It is.”
“And you haven't slept properly?”
“Not much.”
“And you haven't eaten?”
Tom pauses.
Harry narrows his eyes.
“You haven't, have you?”
Tom decides that he rather likes being fussed over.
“No.”
Harry makes an exasperated sound and pushes the cookie container a little closer to him.
“You really need to take better care of yourself. It doesn't matter how busy you are. You have to eat.”
Tom gives him an indecipherable look.
“I always remember to eat when there's someone around to remind me.”
He says it lightly, but he makes certain to look directly into Harry's eyes as he does.
Harry's mouth falls slightly open.
Then he blushes down his neck.
Tom smiles into his cookie.
His headache isn't quite as terrible anymore.
Harry clears his throat and hurriedly looks toward the window, changing the subject.
“So… you’re definitely not used to traveling economy class.”
Tom arches an eyebrow.
“Is it so apparent?”
“You look miserable.”
“I am miserable.”
Harry laughs.
By the time the plane begins its descent, Tom has learned considerably more about Harry than he expected to learn about a stranger during a two-hour flight.
Harry is traveling to visit his best friend, who lives in the city they're flying into. His mother is a nurse, which explains the emergency pharmacy Harry apparently carries around in his backpack at all times.
“My mum says you should always be prepared,” Harry explains, tapping the blister pack of ibuprofen. “She puts things in my bag whenever I visit. Painkillers, bandages, cold medicine, antacids…”
His father and godfather are both police officers, which explains the next piece of information Harry drops almost casually.
He is single.
Apparently, his romantic prospects have a remarkably short lifespan.
“My dad and godfather scare everyone away,” Harry explains, looking vaguely embarrassed. “They always decide the person isn't good enough for me.”
Tom looks at him, smiling obliquely.
“So you're still single because your overprotective family scares away everyone who tries to date you?”
“Pretty much.”
There is a brief pause.
Tom studies his profile, chin resting thoughtfully in his palm.
Harry's cheeks are pink again.
He looks down at his hands, then back up through his lashes.
Tom is not oblivious, despite never quite knowing how to human properly most of the time.
He may have anger issues. He may have the emotional communication skills of a particularly well-dressed brick wall. He may have absolutely no idea what to do with the unfamiliar warmth that has been steadily growing in his chest since Harry Potter first smiled at him.
But Tom knows attraction when it is quite literally staring him in the face—and there is attraction here; he knows he isn’t imagining it.
He’s fairly certain he isn’t imagining that shy little look, either, nor the sweet, distinctly omegan pheromones curling through the air around them like a heady perfume.
The plane lands soon afterward.
They gather their things and make their way off the plane with the rest of the passengers. Tom follows Harry through the terminal, listening to him chatter about his best friend and the plans they have for the weekend.
Then they reach the point where they have to part.
Harry adjusts the strap of his backpack.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Tom.”
Tom looks at him.
He could let him walk away.
Instead, Tom reaches out and catches Harry's hand.
Harry stops.
He looks down at their joined hands, then back up at Tom, eyes wide and hopeful behind his glasses.
“Have dinner with me.”
Harry blinks.
“What?”
“A late dinner. Or breakfast tomorrow, if you’d prefer.”
Tom keeps a firm hold of his hand, apparently having decided that letting go is no longer an option.
“As thanks for taking such good care of me on the plane.”
Harry's lips twitch.
“You really don’t have to thank me.”
Tom smiles. Sure. Roguish.
“But I want to.”
Harry looks at him for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether Tom is serious. Then his cheeks slowly turn pink again, and he gives a small, shy nod.
“Okay. Dinner, breakfast, whatever you want.”
Just like that, the lovely omega says yes.
Something bright and ridiculous blooms in Tom's chest once again; he suspects it will become a regular occurrence from now on.
The day may have started with accounting errors, murderous thoughts, barely passable coffee, an economy-class seat, and a splitting headache, but it ends with Harry Potter's hand warm in his own and a late-night dinner waiting for them somewhere beyond the airport.
Perhaps, Tom decides, today isn't quite such a bad day after all.
In fact, it ends on a perfect note.